She Didn't Suffer

She Didn't Suffer
Rachael

The door to Marty’s office slammed behind us, rattling the thin glass in the frame. My pulse was still up from the argument. Roman walked at my side, calm as ever, while I tried to rub the tension out of my temples.
“Does he always bark like that?” Roman asked, voice low enough that the rest of the squad room couldn’t hear.
“Only when the mayor’s breathing down his neck, I guess,” I muttered.
Roman smirked, hands tucked into his pockets like none of it had fazed him. “Relax. He’ll come around. They usually do once the FBI lays down the ground rules.”
I shot him a look. “You didn’t lay down rules. You practically ordered him to keep quiet.”
He shrugged, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. “And he listened.”

I didn’t answer. My boots carried me down the hall toward my desk, each step heavier than the last. The air outside Marty’s office seemed thick with nerves, like everyone else in the station could feel when he was riled up. And with the bodies stacking up, tension was practically wallpaper now.
I had just pulled my chair back when Marty stormed out again, cell phone clutched in his hand. He looked wired, red blotches on his cheeks, sweat at his temple.

“Sinclair. Hanshaw.” He waved the phone like it was burning his palm. “State ME just called back. New update on victim one. Toxicology. Sit your asses down.”
I sank into my chair. Roman leaned on the corner of my desk like he owned it, arms folded, steady gaze fixed on Marty.
Marty slapped the phone on speaker, voice rough. “You’re live with Dr. Greer. Repeat what you told me.”
The line crackled, and a woman’s voice came through, crisp and professional. “This is Dr. Greer, state medical examiner. I’ve got toxicology results back on your Jane Doe—the first victim.”
I flipped my notebook open, pen ready. “Go ahead.”
“History of substance use,” Greer said. “Trace metabolites consistent with narcotics, older usage, not fatal in this instance. More importantly, we identified high levels of a sedative in her system. Concentrations were significant enough to depress respiration and induce cardiac arrest. Cause of death was the sedative, not trauma.”
My pen stilled mid-word.

Dr. Greer’s voice went on, clinical, steady. “In plain terms: she was unconscious when she died. She didn’t suffer. I’ll send the full report electronically.”
The silence that followed was a weight.
“She didn’t… suffer?” My own voice didn’t sound like mine. Thin, raw.
“That’s correct,” Greer confirmed. “COD is respiratory failure secondary to sedative overdose. Any questions?”
Roman leaned in, professional and smooth. “Do you have a timeline for DNA?”
“Still processing. We’ll notify as soon as results are in.”
“Thank you,” Roman said, and Marty ended the call without another word.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. My stomach twisted.
“She didn’t suffer,” I repeated under my breath.
Marty’s frown carved deep into his face. “Don’t paint this like it’s mercy. He knocked her out so she wouldn’t fight back. Makes it easier to butcher her.”
Roman, calm as ever, countered, “It shows control. He didn’t want chaos. That matters.”
I stared at the notepad in front of me, ink smeared from my hand. “Or…” The word scraped out of me. “…he didn’t want her to feel it.”
Both men turned toward me. Roman’s expression was unreadable, steady, while Marty looked like I’d just spat on the badge.

“That’s not mercy,” Marty snapped. “That’s cold-blooded efficiency. Like putting a dog down before you gut it.” He slammed his palm against the wall, rattling a map of the county pinned there.
Roman didn’t flinch. “It changes the profile. He planned it. He had access to the drugs. Maybe medical training. That narrows a field.”
“It doesn’t narrow anything,” Marty barked. “We don’t know where he got it, we don’t know who he is, and now I have to figure out how to keep this out of the damn paper.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sinclair. Both of you.....don’t breathe a word about sedatives. Not to Jake, not to anyone.”
“Understood,” Roman said easily.
Marty pointed at me next, his eyes bloodshot, then stormed off again.
The quiet that followed was worse than his yelling.

Roman leaned against my desk again, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “You okay?”
My hand was still clenched around the pen, knuckles white. I forced it to the desk. “Fine.”
“Sinclair.” His voice was softer now, careful. “You don’t look fine.”
I let out a brittle laugh. “What do you want me to say? That I’m glad she didn’t feel it? That it makes it better somehow?”
“Doesn’t make it better,” he said evenly. “But it makes him predictable. Sedatives mean access, planning. He’s not improvising.”
“Predictable killers are still killers,” I muttered.
Roman’s mouth quirked like he almost agreed. “True. But they’re easier to catch.”

I didn’t answer. My father never cared if his victims suffered....he wanted them to. Wanted every scream, every sob to echo. The idea of someone taking that away, of numbing it out… it didn’t fit my profile.
Roman must’ve seen something in my face because he let it drop, moving toward the computer instead. “I’ll log the report.”
I stared at my notes, pen still hovering over the page. She didn’t suffer. The words looped until my head hurt.

The station hummed with low chatter and phones ringing, but at my desk, the air felt thick, pressing. Roman typed steadily, calm as if the morning hadn’t shaken him at all. I was still stuck on the sedative.
Jake slowed as he passed down the hall, that smug curl already forming on his mouth. “How’s life as the Fed’s shadow, Sinclair? You taking notes on how real cops work?”
My jaw locked. I kept my eyes on my report, pen digging into the page hard enough to nearly tear it.
He leaned closer, voice dropping so only I could hear. “Careful, or people might start thinking you’re earning your keep in other ways.”
The pen snapped in my hand. Ink bled across the paper.
Roman finally looked up, voice low but sharp enough to slice the air. “That was a mistake.”
Jake straightened, eyes flicking between us. “Just a joke.”
Roman didn’t move, didn’t blink. His tone didn’t rise above a calm warning, but it carried more weight than any shout. “Not a joke. A mistake. And I don’t need a badge to handle you.”

Jake’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He muttered something under his breath and kept walking, pace a little too quick.
I sat frozen, staring at the ink spreading over my notes, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.
Roman went back to the monitor like nothing had happened, his posture relaxed, expression unreadable. But the air still buzzed from the tension he’d left behind.

I wiped my ink-stained fingers on a scrap of paper, trying to steady my breath. Part of me wanted to thank him. Another part wanted to tell him I didn’t need saving.
But mostly, I couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d said it. Quiet, controlled, like he hadn’t been bluffing at all.

By the time I finished writing my report, my head ached worse than it had that morning. I stared at the sentence I’d rewritten five times: Cause of death: sedative-induced respiratory failure.
I couldn’t make it sound less cruel. Couldn’t make it sound merciful either.
Roman shut down the computer and stood, expression unreadable, then grabbed his coat.
I stared at the paper in front of me long after he left, the words swimming.
She didn’t suffer.
And I didn’t know if that made the killer more terrifying, or less human.