“I thought that was against the law these days, especially for doctors.”

“Around here I make my own rules, Blake. Who’s your friend?”

“Clancy Smith, Secret Service. He’s taken a bullet for the President in the past. Fortunately, nothing like that was needed tonight.”

“I’ve started on our friend, Mr. Morgan. Just taking a break.”

“John Doe, if you don’t mind,” Blake said.

“And what if I do?”

Blake turned to Clancy, who opened the briefcase he carried, took out a document and passed it across to the doctor.

“You’ll notice that’s addressed to one George Romano and signed by President Jake Cazalet. It’s what’s called a ‘presidential warrant.’ It says you belong to the President, it transcends all our laws, and you can’t even say no. You also never discuss what happened tonight, because it never happened.”

For once, Romano wasn’t smiling. “That bad?” He shook his head. “I should have known when I realized you’d given me a Heinrich Himmler.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Clancy demanded.

“I’ll go back in and show you if you can stand to watch.”

“I was in Vietnam and Clancy was in the Gulf. I think we can stand it,” Blake said.

“Excuse me, I was in ’ Nam, too,” said Romano, “and with all due respect, the Gulf War was pussy.”

“Yeah, well, Clancy here has got two Navy Crosses to prove otherwise,” Blake said. “But let’s get on with it.”

In the postmortem room, two technicians waited while Romano scrubbed up again. He was helped into surgical gloves and moved to the naked body of Henry Morgan, who lay on the slanting steel table, his head raised high on a wooden block, the mouth gaping. Close at hand were a video recorder and an instrument cart.