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excitement she felt as she entered what she considered to be the center of action. It certainly wasn't the visual experience, for in that regard, the tiled, windowless room with its blue-white fluorescent lighting was cheerless. The eight stainless-steel tables were dented and stained from countless postmortems. Over each hung an antiquated spring-loaded scale. Along the walls were exposed piping, dated X-ray view boxes, old-fashioned glass-fronted cabinets containing an array of grisly instruments, and chipped soapstone sinks. More than a half century ago, it had been a state-of-the-art facility and the pride of the OCME, but now it suffered from lack of funds for both modernization and appropriate upkeep. Yet the physical plant didn't faze Laurie. The setting didn't even register in her mind. Her response was based on knowing that she would see or learn something new every time she entered the room.
    Of the eight tables, three were occupied. One supported the corpse of Sean McGillin, or so Laurie surmised, since Marvin was scurrying around it in his final preparations.
    The other two, closest to where Laurie was standing, contained bodies in the middle of their procedures. Directly in front of her lay a large, dark-skinned man. Four people attired in moon suits identical to Laurie's were working over him. Although reflections off the curved plastic full-face masks made identification difficult, Laurie recognized Calvin Washington. His six-foot, seven-inch, two-hundred-fifty-pound frame was hard to conceal. The other one she thought was Harold Bingham because of his contrasting short, stocky stature. The last two had to be George Fontworth and the mortuary tech, Sal D'Ambrosio, but because they were about the same size, she couldn't tell them apart.
    Laurie stepped over to the foot of the table. Just in front of her was a drain emitting a rude sucking sound. Water continuously ran down the surface of the table beneath the corpse to carry away body fluids.
    "Fontworth, where the hell did you learn to use a scalpel?" Bingham growled.
    It was now obvious which one of the suited figures was George. He was on the patient's right with his hands somewhere down in the deceased's retroperitoneal space, apparently trying to trace the track of a bullet. Laurie couldn't help but feel a stab of sympathy for George. Whenever Bingham came into the autopsy room, he liked to assume the professor role, but he invariably became impatient and annoyed. Even though Laurie knew she could always learn from him, she disliked the aggravation of working with him. It was too stressful.
    Sensing that the atmosphere around table one was too charged to ask any questions, Laurie moved down toward table two. There she had no trouble recognizing Jack, Lou, and Vinnie. Immediately, she sensed the atmosphere was the opposite, with some semi-suppressed laughter dying away as she arrived. Laurie was not surprised. Jack was famous for his black humor. The corpse was that of a thin, almost emaciated, middle-aged female with brittle, bleach-blond hair. Laurie assumed it was Sara Cromwell. Of particular note was the handle of a kitchen knife protruding at an acute, cephalad angle from the upper, outer, anterior surface of her right thigh. Laurie wasn't surprised to see the utensil still in place. In such cases, medical examiners preferred that such objects be left in situ.
    "I hope you are showing reasonable respect for the dead," Laurie gibed.
    "Never a dull moment," Lou responded.
    "And I don't know why I keep laughing at the same jokes," Vinnie complained.
    "Tell me, Doctor Montgomery!" Jack said in an exaggerated professorial tone. "In your professional opinion, would you guess this penetrating entry into the thigh was a mortal wound?"
    Bending over slightly so she could better access the point of entry, Laurie looked more closely at the knife. It appeared to be a small kitchen paring knife, which she guessed had a blade about four inches long, which had