I was completely calm when I entered the morgue.
This time, there was only a slight scent of disinfectant, and
one white-coated orderly trying not to be noticed by the man
standing over the body. The medical examiner gestured me into
the room, then left, after letting the door close itself with a
quiet pneumatic huff and a click.
I let the man stand for a moment beside her body, eyes closed.
The large institutional clock adjusted itself forward a bit,
then back, as if undecided.
I said "I know how you feel, Mr. Gunderson".
He slowly turned to look at me, and opened his eyes.
They were moist, with
the beginnings of bloodshot, blue-gray, under slightly arched,
wrinkled brows that indicated intelligence and curiosity. He
considered me briefly, looking only at my eyes, not taking in
any details of my clothes or demeanor.
"I don't see how you possibly could." he said. His voice was
even, uninterested, tired. His eyes dropped back to the body
in front of him. His hands found his coat pockets, and slipped
in, stretching the fabric at the shoulders.
"My wife was on that table two weeks ago." I said quietly.
"I'm here because I think the two murders are related."