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have so many awesome people supporting me.”
    “You were just waiting for your moment to shine,” he replied. He moved to the table and peered down at Mr. Stewart, assessing.
    “Helps that I had so many people giving me a hand up along the way,” I said with a shrug.
    He glanced up at me. “That only works if you have your hand up and reaching.”
    “Well that’s damn near poetic,” I said with a laugh.
    He gave an answering grin. “I blame the formalin fumes.” He picked up a scalpel. “Let’s find out if there was anything amiss about Mr. Stewart’s death.”
    *   *   *
    Except for the crushed nature of Mr. Stewart’s head, he seemed to have been in excellent health. The autopsy went quickly, and I drew and packaged up blood, urine, and vitreous samples for later toxicology testing. The conversation I overheard at the stadium, about the death possibly not being an accident, replayed itself in the back of my mind, and the autopsy didn’t help put it to rest. While Dr. Leblanc had no problem listing the blunt force head trauma as the cause of death due to the extent of the crushing damage, he fully admitted there was little way to determine if it had been accidental or intentional.
    After he finished and left to go write up his notes, Ireturned Mr. Stewart to the cooler. It bothered me that we might never find out if he’d been murdered, though I knew there’d be slim chance the killer would ever be found and prosecuted, even if we knew for sure. Lots of murders went unsolved, and I had no doubt there were plenty of accidental deaths that weren’t, or overdoses that had been helped along.
    I guess all we can do is the best we can
, I decided.
    The rest of my shift was busy enough to keep it from being boring, but I was glad to leave when it was over. Lightning flashed through the dark clouds of the late afternoon sky as I slipped out the back exit of the morgue, and I felt a bit of relief that the rain had taken a break for the moment. I started toward my car, then almost had a heart attack as a figure moved from around the corner of the building.
    “Angel,” the figure said, and it took me a couple of heart pounding seconds to recognize the speaker.
    “Jesus Christ! Ed?”
    He moved closer. “Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “That’s cool,” I said, taking a deep breath to get my pulse under control. “I know you can’t exactly saunter up to the front door in broad daylight.” Ed was wanted for multiple murders. Yeah, he’d killed those people—all zombies—but he’d been played and manipulated pretty heavily by the ruthless Dr. Kristi Charish. She’d convinced him that the “zombie menace” needed to be eradicated and that killing known zombies would be a good and noble thing to do. It didn’t help that he’d seen a zombie kill his dad about a decade earlier—which Charish knew all about and gleefully exploited. The truly tragic part was that she only manipulated Ed into becoming a serial killer because she wanted zombie heads for her own screwed-up research. Bitch.
    I peered at him. When I first met Ed Quinn he lookedlike the typical boy next-door—tall and slender, reddish brown hair, scattering of freckles across his nose. After he went on the run he went goth as a disguise—dyed his hair black and spiked it, sported a variety of piercings, and dressed in skull-adorned clothing. Now he looked…
ordinary
. Dark brown hair in a conservative and boring style. Khaki pants. Dark blue polo-style shirt. Even the freckles were gone, either bleached away or hidden beneath a layer of makeup. I wouldn’t look at him twice, which was probably the point, I realized. “How are you doing?” I asked.
    “I’m okay. I mean as okay as I can be while being hunted as a serial killer.”
    I winced in sympathy. “I guess no one’s come up with some brilliant way to get you cleared of all that yet, huh?”
    Ed exhaled, shook his head. “Nope. Never will be