Knitting The Pieces Together

The man waited in the living room of his doctor’s office. Patients waited in silence, some children for their pediatrician, some teenagers, and an elderly couple, the man comforting the woman. She was sobbing into his shoulders. The sobbing was the only sound in the fog of silence at the doctors’ living room. A few experts practiced out of this place. They each had their own offices, but found that it was cheaper in this city to work out of a shared space. A collaborative space. Plus, they could send business to one another.

The air smelled sterile, too clean. The walls were muted, as if to keep them from talking, professional. The only color came from the impressionist paintings splashed on the walls. He observed that they were real, or at least very good copies. His line of work had trained him in the skills required to tell. And these were, at the very least, incredible copies. Either way, it seemed the doctors were doing well.

Nurses scurried around, smiles on their faces, not in their eyes, he observed. Eyes darting around. He had seen the cameras as he had walked in, far too many for this place. And if it were that all, he might have left it alone, though given his stubborn nature, probably not. To add insult to injury, there was a hidden camera squared away in one of the black, shining bookshelves that stood guard leaning against the walls. Something was wrong. He was glad his regular doctor was on vacation. He was glad the man had recommended a colleague who worked out of this space. Something was off here.

He filed quick mental notes. One camera in the corner, standard, the hidden one in the bookshelf, suspicious, the nurse that was too big, clothes stretched too tight over a well developed chest. Lounging, arms folded, facing a room, but keeping a watch over patients as well. Wasnt scurrying about like the others. The expensive paintings. Even doctors couldn’t be doing this well. Something was wrong.

He walked over to the bathroom, “Excuse me,” he bumped past the burly nurse, taking note of his name, Boris M., giving him a wide smile, and note of the room, he was in front of. Dr Arif Tendu. 

*

Dr Arif was sitting in front of a man complaining of pain in the groin area. The man was clearly cheating on his wife. Dr Arif had only needed that first glance, to suspect, and the first four minutes to know. But he listened to the man complain. Sometimes they needed to talk to feel better about themselves. He probably had an STD. Yeah, the symptoms he was saying formed themselves in his head, arranging themselves into a formed puzzle. That was it. Gonorrhea. He was only half listening to the man. He was observing his patients on his screen. The girl had rejected the host. She had died. He now had three new ones, nine others had died from this batch. He wondered why these three ones had taken to the host so far. Tap, tap, his fingers danced on his desk, thinking. The man in front of him looked at him, bewildered. Dr Arif Tendu buzzed for the nurse. Gave her instructions, and she took the man out to get his medication. A knock on his door, “I told you, the blue pills-” Boris walked in, whispered something in his ear. He switched over to the security footage.

*

A man watched them both, split on screen, a large screen hanging against a rock wall in a darkened cavern, lit only by its glow. He picked up a device. Sent the message he was required to. Detective found doctor.