"This is the third time this month."

"But I've got a family. They expect me to spend time with them. You're a free agent."

"Right. I get a divorce and suddenly I'm everyone's Kelly Girl."

Ratchet shuffled into her office and leaned his ample behind against her desk. "Just this once. Beth and I, we're having problems, you know, and I want this vacation to start off right. I'll return the favor sometime. I promise."

Sighing, M. J. folded up the Star. The travails of Andy and Fergie would have to wait. "Okay," she said, more to get Ratchet's fanny off her medical charts than to do him any favors. "What've you got?"

Ratchet was already pulling off his white coat, visibly shifting to vacation mode. "Jane Doe. No obvious trauma. Another body-fluid special. Beamis and Shradick are in there with her."

"They bring her in?"

"Yeah. So you'll have a decent police report to work with."

M. J. rose to her feet and brushed powdered sugar off her scrub pants. "You owe me," she said, as they headed into the hall.

"I know, I know." He stopped at his office and grabbed his jacket-a fly-fisherman's version, complete with a zillion pockets with little feathers poking out.

"Leave a few trout for the rest of us."

He grinned and gave her a salute. "Into the wilds of Maine I go," he said, heading for the elevator. "See you next week."

Feeling resigned, M. J. pushed open the door to the autopsy room and went in.

The body, still sealed in its black bag, lay on the slab. Lieutenant Lou Beamis and Sergeant Vince Shradick, veterans of the local knife and gun club, were waiting for her. Beamis looked dapper as usual in a suit and tie-a black homicide detective who always insisted on mixing corpses with Pierre Cardin. His partner, Vince Shradick, was, in contrast, a perpetual candidate for Slim-Fast. Shradick was peering in fascination at a specimen jar on the shelf.