Read A Sample Excerpt
. . . The pungent odor of formaldehyde partially masked the
stench of decaying flesh that always seemed evident in the air.
He hurriedly prepared the necessary forms and made sure there
was audio tape for the autopsy table microphone.
He flipped the light switch for the autopsy room.
The fluorescent ceiling lights flickered on, spreading a
macabre blanket of light over the sterile stainless steel table.
Doc Sharpe grinned; he could see why so many people were
morbidly fascinated, or nauseated, by the sight of morgue rooms.
Doc Sharpe had always been fascinated by death, especially
during his tour in Korea. He had volunteered to work at the base
mortuary. Needless to say, he got to be very good at his work
from the endless supply of bodies. He had acquired extensive
knowledge of the human body devastated in ways that only war can
produce. He had witnessed what bullets, bombs, and plane crashes
can do to the body, not to mention colorful ways man had
personally devised to maim and mutilate.
The knock on the door brought Doc Sharpe back to the
present. The paramedics were in the hall with the D.O.A. from
the trailer park. He let them in.
“Where do you want him doc, fridge or on the table?” asked
one of the medics.
“You can put him on the table.”
“Sure Doc. Are you doing the autopsy by yourself?”
“I’m going to prepare it; Stan will be here in about an
hour, along with a detective from the sheriff’s department.”
“Need any help doc?” hoping he would say no.
“No, I’ll be fine. Just take him out of the bag and place
him on the table.”
The medics wheeled Lenny over to the steel table. Doc
watched them unzip the black bag. . .