After completing his preliminary investigations at the scene and relegating certain tedious duties to his junior partner, he camped on the morgue's doorstep until the harried, chain-smoking pathologist confirmed what Jim had already suspected. "I don't like doing this sort of thing until all of the information is in," the pathologist complained as he unzipped the body bag. "I don't even have the child's medical records yet." Jim tried to speak without breathing too deeply; he hated morgues, the stink of death veiled in antiseptic. "Strictly off the record, Dr. Preston," he coaxed gently. "But before I talk to the parents I need some idea of what I'm dealing with here. Anything you can tell me at a glance? The weapon, for instance?" Begrudgingly, Preston snapped on a pair of mud-brown surgical gloves. He didn't want to do this—it defied strict protocol—but there was something in the quiet, squarely built detective's manner which precluded a negative response. He was grinning, but it was like being grinned at by a rattler.
