FFM/17 A day in the life of a forensic necromancer
The call came at 3:20. A.M., mind. Sometimes Laurent really questioned whether he shouldn’t have chosen a different profession.
He slipped out of bed, threw on his suit - technically the suit was not required, but it always felt appropriate, as a gesture of respect - grabbed the keys, and got into the car.
Ten minutes later he was in the university, in front of a professor’s office. He routinely checked with the crime scene unit where he could stand, asked the policemen to step back from the body - not a pretty sight, the head was detached from the rest - and reached out.
Oh, hello. Am - am I dead?
I’m afraid so, Sir. Laurent had long gotten used to the fact that the spirits of the dead usually weren’t as shocked, scared, or grieved by their state as was commonly assumed - death seemed to come with a degree of emotional detachment that really made his job easier. May I ask what happened?