When they stepped off the elevator, he paused, glancing around at the scuffed walls, the tired linoleum floor. Overhead was another bank of flickering fluorescent lights. The building was old, and down here in the basement, one could see the decay in the chipped paint, the cracked walls, could smell it in the very air. When the whole city was in the process of decay, when every agency from Social Services to trash pickup was clamoring for a dwindling share of tax dollars, the ME's office was always the last to be funded. Dead citizens, after all, do not vote.
But if Adam Quantrell took note of his surroundings, he did not comment.
"It's down this hall," said M.J.
Wordlessly he followed her to the cold storage room.
She paused at the door. "The body's in here," she said. "Are you… feeling up to it?"
He nodded.
She led him inside. The room was brightly lit, almost painfully so. Refrigerated drawers lined the far wall, some of them labeled with names and numbers. This time of year, the occupancy rate was running on the high side. The spring thaw, warmer weather, brought the guns and knives out onto the street again, and these were the latest crop of victims. There were three Jane Does. M. J. reached for the drawer labelled 373-4-3-A. Pausing, she glanced at Adam. "It's not going to be pleasant."
He swallowed. "Go ahead."
She pulled open the drawer. It slid out noiselessly,releasing a waft of cold vapor. The body was almost formless under the shroud. M. J. looked up at Adam, to see how he was holding up. It was the men who usually fainted, and the bigger they were, the harder they were to pull up off the linoleum. So far, this guy was doing okay. Grim and silent, but okay. Slowly she lifted off the shroud. Jane Doe's alabaster white face lay exposed.