the dead murderer lies pale and naked on a slab. victor leans close, still dripping, studying the face closely. a flash of lightning throws wild, skittering shadows through the dormer windows and skylights. softly:
tracking slowly past the forearm lying in a steel pan, we find victor performing an intense chemical analysis. dead tissues are breaking apart in solvents, distilled over a slow-burning flame. victor smears a glass slide, places it under a microscope.
victor is examining the amniotic fluid. boiling it off. working to synthesize it.
victor pours the final drum of fluid into what appears to be a large copper vat. he dips his hand in, examines the consistency and smell. angle widens, spinning slowly up to reveal that the vat is human in shape. a sarcophagus.
victor wearing elbow-length gloves, hacking furiously away with a bone saw. tossing aside the scraps.
the creature lies on an improvised bier of crates, surrounded by shadows and clutter, draped. sprawled like christ taken from the cross in michelangelo's "pieta."
victor glances at the clock. scribbles in his journal:
only to discover the door torn off it's hinges. he enters, stunned. the thing is gone.
snow is drifting outside the tall dormer window. we find victor at his desk, reading a letter: