Willy wheeled the body from the cold unit, then pushed it into an autopsy suite. The room smelled of disinfectant. He locked the wheels; then the two men heaved the corpse from the gurney to the stainless steel table. John noticed the zipper on the body bag hadn't been pulled tight-there was a gap of about two inches.

"Thanks, man," Willy said, snapping off his gloves and tossing them in the biohazard bin. "I need to get home. My wife's afraid of storms."

John nodded, allowing the man his dignity. Everybody knew Willy grew uneasy when darkness came. A lot of people were like that, even some of the other medical examiners. John found it interesting that modern man still suffered from ancient fears left over from a period in history when humans lived in the open and darkness was a real threat. These days, it wasn't the darkness that would get you-it was the people in that darkness. You didn't work in a morgue without coming away with that lesson well learned. Homicides had doubled this year, and the city was feeling as uneasy as Willy.

After Willy left, John suited up in a gown, mask, goggles, and latex gloves, then put on some tunes. Had to have autopsy tunes.

He unzipped the bag and leaned back, waiting for the stink to hit him.

Nothing.

Sometimes bodies didn't smell. Then again, when you worked around dead people as long as John had, your olfactories shut down. The brain finally decided, Hey, I've smelled that before. Smelled that a lot. No cause for alarm.

He spoke into the Dictaphone. "Decedent's name: Truman Harrison. No middle initial. Body belongs to a fifty-one-year-old African-American male with a history of heart disease."

He photographed the body, then removed and bagged the clothing-not easy without an assistant. He examined the cadaver externally, surprised to find no outward signs of rigor mortis or livor mortis. The guy must not have been dead long before being put on ice. And he chewed the hell out of his fingernails, John noted, lifting a hand to examine it more closely.