Morgues Are Cold and Merciless Places

When I arrived at Saint Elizabeth's, the dread of what was coming had risen to full flood within me.  I always been more comfortable dealing with dead victims than with grievng loved ones.  Add the fact that Wild Bill O'Hara had the reputation of resorting to heavy handed persuasion when needed, made this meeting in the morgue all the more hellish.

Walking through that door in that stark basement room, seeing Doc in his green scrubs standing beside that sheet-covered girl, I was reminded once more that morgues are cold and merciless places.  Almost cruel, every drip of human warmth drained out of them.



"The desk just called that the father is coming by himself and he's on his way."

With that Doc went to meet him at the door.  I stood guard at the remains of Miss Molly, my Miss Yellow Roses.

O'Hara entered as a backlit silhouette, a burly bear of a man, taller and wider than most men.  He walked toward Miss Molly and me.  As his features were revealed in the overhead lights, he looked somber and stoic, a stern steadiness.  He gave me a momentary glance and then immediately stood beside the body.  Doc gave a reverent pause then carefully pulled back the sheet to reveal her face.  There was a cold stare with no hint of what was going on inside of this man.  He stared at her for maybe ten seconds, gave Doc the look that said, "That's enough."  He then turned, started to leave, but did take time for one statement.  "MacKenize.  Take your time on this one.  It just may get resolved all by itself."  With that he left and with that I knew this case had gotten a whole lot more complicated.

The door closed behind him.  And Doc half-whispered as if had been holding his breath, "Now that is one tough son****itch."

"Yep.  One tough son****itch."


The End

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