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difficult. Which was why the scientist eventually emerged from the house clad in a dark blue ball cap, a gray hoodie over a
Corona
T-shirt, and a pair of wrinkled khaki slacks. A pair of red high-tops completed the outfit.
    The rain had stopped during the night, but it was cold, and Devlin could see her breath as she made her way down the side of the house to the point where the detached two-car garage stood. The old fashioned double doors squealed as she pulled them open. Two vehicles waited within. The car on the left was Mac’s prized candy apple red 1965 Mustang. The other vehicle was a somewhat dilapidated 1978 International Scout 4 X 4 that the professor drove back and forth to the University of Washington.
    Devlin, who was accustomed to driving old four-wheelers, and acutely aware of the fact that she didn’t have any insurance yet, chose the Scout. It started with a satisfying roar, generated a cloud of gray smoke sure to make global warming even worse, and produced a blast of music from the jury rigged CD player. The song was
A Boy Named Sue
, from Johnny Cash’s San Quentin album, which must have been the last disc Mac listened to prior to his death.
    Tears were streaming down Devlin’s cheeks as she backed the old rig out of the garage, got out to close the doors, and climbed back inside. One of the truck’s belts began to
screech
as the parasitologist backed out onto the street. But it stopped when she put the transmission into drive and took off. The passenger compartment smelled like stale pipe tobacco. So Devlin opened both side windows and let the cool air dry her tears. Finally, once
A Boy Named Sue
ran out, she turned the player off.
    The first stop was the Starbucks on 15 th avenue where Devlin purchased a Grande mocha, no whip, and a pumpkin scone. Thus fortified, the scientist guided the Scout through the Denny Regrade area to old Highway 99, which carried her north over the Aurora bridge. Devlin made good time because most of the traffic was headed south at that time of day, which meant she arrived at her destination with fifteen minutes to spare. The Hayley Medical Lab was located a block off Highway 99 in an area dominated by car lots, strip malls, and dilapidated apartment houses. What few windows the nondescript one-story building had were darkened, as if to prevent people from peeking inside. The only indication of the structure’s purpose was a black hearse that pulled away just as Devlin parked.
    Devlin chased the final bite of scone with the last of the lukewarm mocha and wiped her mouth with a brown 100% recyclable napkin. After locking the truck Devlin made her way over to the building and pulled the heavy slab-like front door open.
    The interior looked, smelled, and felt like all the various labs she had spent most of her adult life working in. The lighting was harsh, the walls were bare, and the air felt unnaturally cool. Not for the comfort of the facility’s staff, but in order to stabilize the customers, all of whom were dead. A waist-high counter barred further progress and a sign invited Devlin to, “Ring the bell for service.” The device produced a cheerful ding, but it was a good three minutes before a middle-aged black man sauntered into the room. There was a lot of gray mixed into his hair. He was dressed in blue scrubs and the expression on his face was professionally neutral. “Hello,” the man said. “How can I help you?”
    “My name is Devlin. Sara Devlin,” the parasitologist replied. “And I’m here to observe an autopsy.”
    The man in the scrubs eyed a clipboard, nodded agreeably, and handed Devlin a packet of forms as he opened a waist-high gate. “I'm Charles,” he informed her. “I’m the diener and will assist Doctor Yano with the autopsy. Please take a seat, fill out the forms, and I’ll be back in five minutes.”
    The title “diener” was new to Devlin, but given the context, she assumed Charles was a technician of some sort. So Devlin went to