to agree. “I’d love to know where the hell this kid learned to make krokodil.” He pronounced it like “crocodile.”
Kit looked at Grif.
Ott motioned to the door behind him. “Come with me.”
“Should someone look that laid-back about death?” Kit whispered, edging close to Grif as they followed the coroner into the autopsy room.
“Not on this side of the Everlast,” Grif muttered, and drew her even closer.
“Excuse the mess,” Ott said, leading the way to a sheet-covered body in the room’s center. “Nobody around here cleans up after themselves.”
Har, har, thought Kit, swallowing hard as she neared the body. She averted her eyes, as if staring at the dead would be rude, her gaze scanning the long counter opposite them, and the sink rising in its middle. It was as cold and unwelcoming as Kit would’ve thought, if she’d ever really given thought to the workings of a morgue. Though the drains beneath the autopsy table were scrubbed clean, and the scale next to the body gleamed under the bright lights, Kit shuddered. Feeling her tremble, Grif gave her hand a little squeeze.
The doctor checked his hanging clipboard. “Jeap Yang . . . what kind of name is that anyway?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Age nineteen, sixty-eight inches tall, and he’s a featherweight. You know anything else about him?”
Kit looked at Grif, who shook his head, so she said, “He wanted to be a chef.”
“Well, the only thing he’s been cooking lately is poison. There are traces of heroin in his system, probably the gateway drug for this one, and a quick-and-dirty hair sample shows residual cannabis, but any cash he had lately, and I guarantee there wasn’t a lot of it, went into this drug. He’d have died even without the last few doses.” Niceties over, Ott yanked back the sheet, and pushed at Jeap’s white, mutilated arm with his fingertips. “Blood poisoning had already set in. Gangrene in several areas—the arm is only the most obvious. His groin, probably his first and most oft-used injection site, is the worst.” He rolled the sheet back even more. Kit cringed. “The drug certainly lives up to its name. It’s a fucking beast.”
“What the hell is it, Doc?” Grif stared at the infection site, his voice tight, and his face so pale that his freckles stood out like constellations against his skin. Kit gave his hand a squeeze this time, and he glanced at her gratefully.
“Don’t feel bad,” Ott said, seeing it. “Even I haven’t seen a green scaly groin before.”
Kit blew out a hard breath. “I had an infected hangnail once, and that alone had me screaming for antibiotics.” She couldn’t imagine having an open wound on her body. Or in it.
“It’s called desomorphine,” Ott said, pushing the rotted flesh aside with his thumb. “The street name is krokodil, or ‘crocodile’ to us English speakers. It’s a Russian street drug.”
Kit drew back. “Russian?”
“I know,” he said, shaking his head. His hair bloomed like a troll doll’s. “I never thought I’d see it in my life, certainly not stateside. It’s incredibly powerful and brutally addictive.”
Kit’s own vices didn’t extend past caffeine and smokes, but she had friends who’d tried to shake off addictions before, some more successfully than others. “More powerful than heroin?”
The doctor scoffed. “A heroin substitute, but it makes powder look like a sugar high.”
“No kidding.” Grif’s mutter made him sound more like himself.
Ott shoved his fingers someplace they shouldn’t be, and the fetid smell of rot bloomed in the room. “It’s not just the symptoms, though. Necrotic skin is bad, but the withdrawal is what ambushes the user. One hit and you’re hooked, but try to quit and that’s when it really takes hold.” He glanced up. “Ever experiment with drugs?”
“No,” Grif said.
Kit shook her head. “I don’t like the feeling of being out of control.”
“Big surprise,” Grif muttered. She elbowed him.
“Well, I did,” Ott said, bending to peer at places not meant for the human gaze. He was so intent on his search that he missed Kit’s surprised frown. “Started popping pills right after med school, then gradually moved on to X, coke, heroin, meth. That’s why they don’t let me work on the living anymore, and it’s how I got into this business. Personally, I know what it’s like to be addicted. Professionally, I know what the chemicals are doing to the addict.”
“You’re very lucky to have that sort of perspective,” Kit said softly.
“You’re lucky you’re still alive,” Grif said, and Kit caught him studying