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came in. If you go outside you can make all the conversation you want. One more outburst and that’s where you’re going.”
    My cheeks felt hot, like I’d been slapped in the face. I nodded and went silent, though speaking at an autopsy wasn’t a capital offense. There was generally a touch of banter, the transcriptionist recognizing it as such and excising it from the record, no big deal.
    She continued the procedure, giving the play-by-play into the air, recorded—as she noted—for later transcription. Being a detective, I studied her as she worked and discovered some interesting anomolies: I’d first thought her petite, but realized it was how she held herself that made her seem diminutive. I also found it odd she didn’t include her title when we made introductions. Most MDs waved their titles like flaming swords, and wouldn’t leave a note for the meter reader without a Dr. or MD pasted to their name. She was dour, abrupt, and projected the femininity of a hammer—yet her motions verged on symphonic, her skills beyond what I’d have expected of someone with just six months in the game.
    A few minutes later there was a break in the action while she wentto fetch an instrument. When she returned, I said, “I meant no offense by comparing you to a shortstop. I was trying to relate my enjoyment at your skill. Your hands move like water.”
    She stared at me like I’d urinated on her Reeboks.
    â€œDidn’t I request that you not talk? Not ten minutes ago?”
    I took a deep breath, released it. “I’ve never been at a postmortem where a gag rule applied, Doctor.”
    She tossed the instrument to the table, spun to face me.
    â€œHere’s how it works: I handle the procedure, you handle the observation. It can be done quietly. If you have intelligent questions regarding the autopsy—and some people actually do—ask your question and the answer will be provided. If that’s too difficult for you to understand, I can have it typed up and delivered to your superior.”
    I’m slow to irritate but sometimes make exceptions.
    â€œLook, Doctor, just because you got shit on this morning doesn’t mean you have to shovel it down the line.”
    Her eyes lit like green fire and she yanked the cloth mask from her mouth. Her skin was ashen and sweat beaded on her forehead.
    â€œI’m not going to take this,” she said. “Who do I call to have you replaced?”
    I started to respond, thought better of it. I threw my hands up in surrender, made a lip-zip motion, and stepped back to give her room. Plenty of room.
    For the next couple of hours I was the Sphinx. I asked three questions, all framed in bland technical lingo. She answered in the same manner, robotic. The autopsy revealed the severing of the head was precise, accomplished with a thin, razor-sharp blade, and probably unhurried. Save for the tattoo and minuscule, cryptic writing, the body was unmarked. The dark stain of the gravity-settled blood, livor mortis, indicated the victim had remained supine after death. Nothing else, at least not yet.
    The procedure finished, she snapped off her gloves, dropped them in the biohazard container beside the table, and started to walk away. Without turning she said, “I’ll have an outline of the major points typed up. It’ll take two hours. You’ll find it at the front desk.”
    â€œDoctor,” I called to her retreating back. She stopped, turned, glared. I wondered if I’d broken some rule about speaking after the recorder was turned off.
    â€œYes, Detective Carson?”
    â€œIt’s Ry—never mind. Listen, Doctor, we got off on the wrong foot and I think it was my fault. I’m a cretin with small talk and make up for it by jabbering inanely. Can we maybe start over?”
    When she didn’t answer, I said, “It’s past lunch. I know a great po’boy joint down by Bienville