Chapter 22: Corpse
The days bled together in the prison, each one a gray carbon copy of the last, marked only by shifts in the weather overhead and the rhythms of contained violence within the walls. For Officer Johnson, the knowledge he’d gained in the break room had become a filter through which he saw everything. The yard wasn’t just a yard; it was a potential buffet. Angel wasn’t just a delicate Omega; he was a walking, talking biohazard with pretty curls.
He was on perimeter patrol with Sergeant O’Leary, the older man’s boots scraping a steady rhythm on the worn concrete path that traced the inside of the fence. The autumn air was cold and carried the smell of wet stone and distant rain.
“The trick,” O’Leary was saying, his breath forming little puffs in the air, “is to never let ‘em see you thinkin’. Your face should be like a slab of ham. Nothing going on behind it. Confuses ‘em. They’re all looking for a reaction, a crack. You give ‘em nothing, they get bored and move on to someone who’ll provide the entertainment.”
Johnson nodded, trying to make his own face ham-like. He was looking at a cluster of inmates by the weight benches. Dominic Ricciardi was there, a dark pillar of calm, supervising as the mountain known as Silas ‘Crusher’ Wooledge demonstrated a lift to a younger man. It looked like a father teaching a son to change a tire, if the tire weighed three hundred pounds and the father had killed people with his bare hands.
“Reaper runs a tight ship,” O’Leary grunted, following his gaze. “Keeps the real chaos down. We’ve had fewer stabbings in Gen Pop since he consolidated his little family. They police themselves. It’s… administrative efficiency.”
“So we just let him?” Johnson asked, his voice low.
“We utilize him,” O’Leary corrected. “There’s a difference. You pick your battles. A calm Reaper means a calm block. A pissed-off Reaper means we’re pulling bodies out of the showers for a week. It’s calculus, kid. Ugly calculus.”
Dominic turned from the group and began walking towards them, his stride long and measured. Johnson felt a instinctual tightness in his shoulders. The Alpha’s presence was a physical thing, a low-frequency hum of controlled power.
“Sergeant,” Dominic said as he reached the fence line. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone, respectful but without a hint of subservience. “Afternoon.”
“Reaper,” O’Leary nodded. “Everything square?”
“For now. Wanted to ask about commissary. Angel’s birthday is coming up.” Dominic said it with the same earnestness any father might use discussing a child’s party. “The forms for the special order chocolate cake. The last one got ‘lost’.”
O’Leary sighed, pulling a small notepad from his pocket. “I’ll chase it down. Baker on second shift’s a lazy bastard. What’s the kid want this year? Same as last time? The one with the pink frosting?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Dominic’s lips. It was startling on his severe face. “The pink frosting. Yes. And the sprinkles. He calls them ‘happy dots’. He’ll want to share it with the others.” He said it with a mix of pride and fond exasperation.
Johnson just listened, the surrealism of the conversation—a mafia boss ordering a pink birthday cake for his cannibal protégé—making his head spin.
“Consider it handled,” O’Leary said, jotting a note. “As long as things stay…”
He didn’t get to finish.
A sharp, carrying voice cut across the yard, tinged with playful panic. “Reap! Hey, Reap! A little assistance, maybe?”
It was Jaxon ‘Spark’ Halloway. He was jogging towards them from near the bleachers, but he wasn’t looking at Dominic. He was looking back over his shoulder, a wide, chaotic grin on his face. He wasn’t scared. He was amused.
Around the bleachers, a circle of inmates had formed, a silent, gathered mass. No shouting. No commotion. Just a focused, attentive ring of men.
Dominic’s face hardened, the paternal softness vanishing instantly, replaced by the cold focus of a field commander. O’Leary swore under his breath.
“What now?” the sergeant muttered, hand dropping to his radio.
Without another word, Dominic was moving, cutting across the yard with a speed that belied his size. O’Leary and Johnson fell into step behind him, Johnson’s heart starting a rapid thump against his ribs. The calculus was changing.
As they neared the crowd, the other members of Dominic’s group materialized from its edges. Matteo ‘Brick’ Santori stood like a bulwark at one side, his massive arms crossed, eyes scanning. Rafael ‘Ghost’ Villareal slipped through the bodies soundlessly, coming to Dominic’s side and murmuring something too low to hear. Conrad ‘Doc’ Wexler was already there, kneeling at the inner edge of the circle, his medical bag open beside him.
The inmates parted for Dominic without a word, a silent, respectful wave.
The scene in the center was one of stark, almost artistic horror.
A man Johnson recognized as Inmate Fowler lay on his back on the concrete, eyes open and glazed with the dull film of death. His throat was a ruined mess of red, the obvious cause of death. The air smelled of copper and open meat.
But that wasn’t what held the crowd’s attention.
Cross-legged beside the body, like a child at a particularly messy picnic, sat Angel.
His long platinum curls were tied back in a messy ponytail, a few strands sticking to his blood-smeared cheek. He was utterly focused, his small, delicate hands working with surprising precision. In his right hand was a crude shiv, a sharpened piece of plastic handle wrapped in tape. With it, he had carefully flayed a section of skin and subcutaneous fat from Fowler’s ribcage, peeling it back like rind from a fruit.
The exposed, dark red meat beneath gleamed wetly in the weak sunlight.
Angel had already cut several thin, neat slices. They lay on a piece of clean-ish brown paper towel beside his thigh. He picked one up between thumb and forefinger, brought it to his mouth, and took a small, thoughtful bite. He chewed slowly, his expression one of serene contemplation. Blood smeared his lips, his chin, and coated his fingers in a sticky, dark glaze.
Johnson’s stomach clenched violently. He tasted bile. This was the theory from the break room made devastating, vibrant flesh.
Doc Wexler spoke, his voice calm and low, as if talking someone off a ledge. “Angel, piccolo, you know the rules. Not in the open. Not where the guards have to see.”
Angel didn’t look up, his attention on selecting his next slice. “But he’s fresh, Doc. And he was being so loud. Jaxon said he was annoying everyone. He tastes… spicy.” He took another bite, a tiny, bloody canine visible.
“Spicy, huh?” Jaxon said, squatting down a few feet away, his grin manic. “Told you the guy was full of shit. Must’ve marinated in it.”
“Jaxon, shut up,” Rafael murmured, his eyes never leaving the approaching guards.
It was then that Angel looked up. His dark blue eyes, so often wide and guileless, scanned past Doc, past the ring of inmates, and landed on Dominic. And they lit up with pure, unadulterated joy.
He beamed, a brilliant, sun-like smile that transformed his gore-streaked face into something heartbreakingly beautiful and monstrously wrong.
“Daddy!” he chirped, his voice soft and sweet as always. He held up a slice of the meat, offering it like a toddler sharing a cookie. “You wanna try? It’s really good today. It’s loud.”
Dominic stopped at the edge of the circle. He looked from the dead man, to the shiv, to the slices on the paper towel, to his son’s beaming, bloody face. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look shocked. He closed his eyes for a single, long-suffering second, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opened them, his expression was one of profound, exhausted exasperation, edged with a dark thread of amusement.
“Amore mio,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “What did we talk about?”
Angel’s smile faltered just a fraction. He lowered the offered meat. “About sharing?”
“Before that.”
“About… not starting the meals myself?”
“And?”
Angel’s brow furrowed in thought. Blood dripped from his chin onto his orange jumpsuit. “And… to wait for you or Brick or Doc to check it’s okay?”
“And is this,” Dominic gestured slowly at the entire scene, “okay?”
Angel looked down at Fowler, then at his shiv, then at his own bloody hands. His lower lip pushed out in a pout. “He was already dead, Daddy. I didn’t kill him. Someone else did the noisy part. I was just… cleaning up. And it’s wasteful to leave it. You always say not to waste food.” He said this with the absolute conviction of a child quoting scripture.
From behind Dominic, O’Leary let out a strangled sound that was half cough, half laugh. Johnson just stared, his training, his sense of reality, completely dissolved.
“Who?” Dominic asked, the single word dropping into the silence.
A man from the circle, thin and wiry with nervous eyes, spoke up. “Was me, Reaper. He was gonna shank Spark over a debt. Got the jump on him. Wasn’t planning on the kid… joining for dinner.”
Dominic glanced at Jaxon, who gave a slight, confirming nod. “He was,” Jaxon said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Blade was out. I was handling it, but Rico was faster. Saved me a stitch or two.”
Dominic processed this, his gaze returning to Angel. The calculus. A justified kill. A removed problem. And now, his son treating the result like a convenient groceries.
“Angel,” Dominic said, his voice softening a fraction. “The rule is also about the mess. Look at this. Look at your face, topolino.”
Angel instinctively reached a bloody hand to touch his cheek, only smearing it more. “Is it messy?”
The sheer innocence of the question hung in the air. Johnson felt a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest and choked it down.
“Yeah, baby,” Dominic sighed, stepping fully into the circle. He walked over, the inmates giving him a wide berth, and knelt beside Angel, heedless of the blood on the concrete. He pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from his pocket—a fastidious habit that seemed absurdly out of place. He spat on it neatly. “It’s messy. The guards are here now. They have to do paperwork because of this mess. Sergeant O’Leary is a busy man.”
He began, with shocking tenderness, to wipe the blood from Angel’s mouth and chin. Angel leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, a contented sigh escaping him. It was a scene of intimate care, grotesquely superimposed on a butcher’s yard.
“Sorry, Sergeant O’Leary,” Angel murmured, his eyes still closed as Dominic worked.
O’Leary cleared his throat. “Right. Well. The… consumption of evidence is… a procedural complication, Reaper.”
“Understood,” Dominic said, not looking up. He finished with Angel’s face and took the shiv from his limp fingers. He examined it, then handed it wordlessly to Doc Wexler, who placed it in a plastic bag from his medical kit. Evidence management. “The body is yours. We were just… securing the area until you arrived.”
Angel opened his eyes. “But Daddy, the rest of it…”
“Is not ours today, cucciolo,” Dominic said firmly, standing and pulling Angel up with him. The Omega came easily, clinging to Dominic’s side, leaving a bloody handprint on his sleeve. Dominic didn’t seem to notice. “You’ve had your snack. You spoiled your dinner.”
Angel pouted again, looking longingly at the remains. “Doc said it was spicy.”
“I’ll see if commissary has any chorizo,” Doc said, closing his bag and standing. He looked at O’Leary. “Cause of death is obvious. No weapons on anyone here. Apart from the… culinary modifications, the scene is intact.”
O’Leary rubbed his forehead. “Right. Johnson, call it in. Deceased inmate, yard, bleacher section. Apparent homicide. No suspects in custody.” The rote recital was a lifeline back to a recognizable world.
Johnson fumbled for his radio, his voice trembling slightly as he relayed the information. He watched as Dominic gently but firmly turned Angel away from the body, steering him towards Matteo. The giant Alpha put a heavy hand on Angel’s slender shoulder, guiding him back towards the main block.
“Come on, kid,” Matteo rumbled, his voice like stones grinding. “Let’s get you washed up. You got… stuff in your hair.”
Angel reached up, trying to feel. “I do?”
“Yep.”
As they walked away, Angel’s soft voice carried back. “Uncle Brick? Do you think the spicy taste was ‘cause he was scared? Jaxon says fear makes it taste different.”
“Could be, kid. Could be.”
Dominic stayed behind with Rafael and Jaxon, speaking quietly to O’Leary as the other guards arrived to tape off the area. Johnson stood frozen, watching the retreating figures. Angel, clinging to Matteo’s arm, skipping slightly, a child who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—if the jar was a human corpse and the cookies were strips of its flesh.
Jaxon caught Johnson staring and winked, his earlier chaotic energy restored. “Kids, right? Always getting into something.”
The backup guards, two men Johnson didn’t know well, arrived. They glanced at the body, at the flayed section, at the neat slices on the ground. One of them, a veteran named Callahan, snorted.
“Emberly’s work?” he asked O’Leary, almost casually.
“What gave it away? The surgical precision or the fact he left the gristle?” O’Leary replied, deadpan.
Callahan shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “Little freak. At least he’s tidy about it. Remember that mess with Hodges last year? That was a fucking biohazard scene.”
The other guard nodded in agreement. They began stringing the tape, discussing shift rotations as if they were cordoning off a broken water main.
Johnson finally found his voice, low and directed at O’Leary. “They’re just… talking about it. Like it’s… normal.”
O’Leary lit a cigarette, the smoke weaving into the cold air. He offered the pack to Johnson, who shook his head. “It is normal,” O’Leary said, exhaling slowly. “For here. That’s what you gotta get, kid. Your normal doesn’t live here. This,” he pointed the cigarette at the taped-off circle, at the retreating form of Dominic Ricciardi, “this is the local fauna. You don’t get mad at a shark for biting. You just don’t go swimming in its tank without a big fucking stick.” He took another drag. “And Reaper? He’s the biggest stick we’ve got. Even if his kid likes his meat rare and conversational.”
Johnson looked at the bloody slices still lying on the paper towel. One of the evidence techs was finally bagging them, his face bored. Spicy, Angel had said.
The chapter of his life that had started in the break room was now written in blood on the yard concrete. The horror wasn’t in the scream; it was in the soft, forgiving laughter that followed it. It was in the pink birthday cake order and the bloody handkerchief. It was in the way the world didn’t end, but just carried on, absorbing the atrocity into the daily grind.
He took the cigarette O’Leary offered after all. His hands only shook a little as he lit it. The smoke tasted bitter, but it was a taste he understood. It was a taste of his old world. He inhaled deeply, holding it in, trying to burn the scent of copper and raw, loud meat out of his sinuses.