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think of Jerry Dwyer on the table, because the worst thing is, the dead have no privacy. Pretty woman, ugly woman; shy person, bold; the dignified and the dirtbag, it doesn’t matter: Once they wheel nude into the semipublic room, all is seen, all is known, and it isn’t done with the finesse you might imagine. I did not want to attend Jerry Dwyer’s autopsy, no matter that I saw him a mess on the floor. Most people avoid autopsies on their friends. Most people avoid them, period, unless they must be there.
    I thought about what the report would reveal—the type of slugs that would be dug out, the bullet trajectory—and knew it was important to get the report for Bud, but it irritated me. Bud Peterson is like a few people I’ve met. He seems to be passive, but underneath plays games. I think it bothers himthat I’m team leader sometimes, because he’s got the seniority and hasn’t been yet. What Bud was saying was, Take a hike, will you? Give me a chance to buddy up with old Joe, maybe I can take his place when he retires. How do I know this? Bud’ll tell you. He thinks you’ll think that because he confided in you, he won’t be after your frijoles.
    â€œWill the report be ready so soon?” I said.
    â€œOnly takes a couple hours, Watanabe on it. That guy can sling the guts.”
    Bud plays bridge with Dr. Watanabe, noons, in the morgue conference room while they eat lunch. Nothing wrong with that, I guess. The thing is, Dr. Watanabe’s running for mayor this year.
    â€œYou’re so couth, Bud.”
    â€œThat’s me. Couth youth. By the way, you want to join Toastmasters? A guy dropped out.”
    â€œI’m not good at giving speeches.”
    â€œThat’s what it’s for . People exactly like you.”
    I said, “Listen, I’ll check with Firearms and Trace when I’m at the lab. What about your print run, how long will it take?”
    â€œAt least a three-day wait.”
    â€œWhy does it take so long, Bud?”
    â€œThat’s fast . You know how long Tox has been taking? Six to eight weeks. ”
    I looked away from him, fiddling with my hair, which felt too short to me again.
    Fingerprint identification is still tricky. There has to be a print on file to check against. Though I volunteered a check with Trace on the fibers found on the door frame, we both knew it would be wasted motion. Fibers is tough duty—too many brands, and the manufacturers don’t like to reveal information that might help their competitors; we all live in our small worlds. On cases involving cars, we sometimes have to go take a test drive with a dealer in order to swipe a few carpet fibers.
    Bud said, “Put whatever you get on my desk, if you will, okay?”
    â€œIsn’t Joe going to want to see it first?” I needed him jumping all over my case again. I could go ask Joe if I should be getting the report for Bud first, but that seemed chickenshit.
    Bud said, “Joe’s taking tool-mark impressions now off the door, where they forced it open. Then he says he’s got a dentist’s appointment.”
    â€œGood,” I said, uncharitably. Bud loosened up then and tried to grin, though it fell off at one side.
    I moved away and went up to the cooler where Jerry’s body had lain.
    The mess, now darkened, reminded me how quickly the molecules of change take over, how the earth urges itself onward, into more change, and then again. By now, not even twenty-four hours later, Jerry Dwyer “was,” not “is.” Still, the face was there in my memory. The happy, friendly face with child-sized teeth. I could see him smiling at me, in the eyes as well as at the mouth. And I did not want him to be dead.
    Off to the left of the cooler, Joe was putting the plastic molding gunk used for impressions back in the kit. The light from the high windows made his hair shine silver.
    I asked him about the restrooms,