You don’t know what the fuss is about. It’s not like they stopped you from touching the clothes before, back when they were still on the body. Why are you at any more risk of contaminating the evidence now than then?
Fed up with the bullshit, you stride to the elevator, and plummet down to the Skull level. It used to be called the M level, but you decided to name your level M instead (for Magnificent, obviously). The morgue was left with a skull-shaped button.
The doors open slowly, and you, an avenging angel, power through the opening, standing tall, ignoring all in your path. Incidentally, this causes you to step on a live rat.
With a squeak, it dies. You make sure to give a well-timed snarl. It’s obvious you must have intended to step on the rat. Perhaps that’s why you’re down here in the first place!
Except it’s not.
Clothes are the reason.
You come to a fork in your path, and without a pause, take the right.
Figures. There’s all the people who should be cataloguing the evidence. The very people who forbid you to look at it.
“TAKE THAT YOU OPTICAL-NERVE CHEWING FINGER-MASTICATING RAT-MOUTHED SLIMEBALLS! Com’on! Hand over the eyeballs! And be careful! They’re prime bright-blue eyes! Worth quite a bit, those! Told you he’d win – ”
You hate to interrupt a lovely game of miniature golf played with balls made of hair glued together with dead throat slime (you forget what that’s called) and putters made from leg bones, played on a surface paved with… some type of internal tissue, perhaps intestine, and with human eyes for betting.
Or, you would hate to interrupt, if it weren’t for the extreme righteous anger you’re about to introduce them to. If it weren’t for said anger, you think you’d put down three bright emerald eyeballs on the teen with painted-on acne.
You grab the acne-obsessed teen around the throat, and immediately wish you hadn’t. It would appear he transplanted some zits from some of the bodies onto his neck.
You slam him against the wall and get right up into his pimple-penned smarmy face.
“You will tell me the location of the clothes.”
He stares at you wide-eyed. He probably expected a reaction to the zits around his neck.
“Now,” you growl.
“Box thirty five!”
You toss him at the others. They dodge. You pay no mind.
Instead, you stride to box thirty five. You open it. You examine.
They are, indeed, the correct clothes.
You search the pockets. A few pieces of paper; a wallet; a pencil.
You un-wad the piece of paper.
A45. The Nile Apartments.
You ponder as you sink into a handy chair.
“I require some cheese!” you exclaim.
No cheese is forthcoming.
Slowly, you stand, and glare at the morgue employees.
They’ve gone back to their game – only this time, it’s clear they’re trying to sneak it, with their hushed voices and whisper-quiet taps of the balls.
“I said,” you command, your voice dark and threatening, “I require cheese!”
They all stare at you.
They all rush off, tripping over each other.
You walk up to the balls of hair and pocket them.