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“No, we’re not looking for anyone,” Doug said. “We just have a few questions about something we’re curious about.”
“What exactly? Are you press?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you talk to anyone here today. I can give you an email of someone you might be able to reach out to, but I just—”
Just then, a door opened and a young man with dark, side-swept hair, thick, black-rimmed glasses, and a prominent, arched nose burst into the reception.
“Do you work here?” Doug asked the man, who looked startled, his large eyes and prominent nose giving him a sort of avian look.
“What?” the man said, looking from Doug to the receptionist.
“Don’t worry about it, Harris,” the woman said, and he seemed more than happy to ignore them and walk on.
“Ok, that email address please,” Doug said, clearly annoyed.
The woman stooped to find a card and Doug looked at Saber meaningfully, then at the door. Saber, understanding dawning, turned quickly and went after the man, into the parking lot.
“Do you work here?” she called after him, not knowing what else to say, and he turned.
“Yeah,” he said. “Obviously.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m the assistant to the medical examiner.”
Saber jogged up to him so she didn’t have to shout.
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“It’s my lunch hour,” he said. “I don’t want to spend it on this sidewalk. There’s not a lot I’m allowed talk about even if I wanted to, and I don’t.”
He started walking to his car again.
“Have you seen anything weird since you’ve worked here?” she asked him, her voice a little breathless.
“I work in a morgue,” he said, his voice blunt and his words clipped. “I’ve seen a lot of weird stuff.”
“Deaths due to unexplained blood loss? No wound?”
That stopped the man in his tracks and his large, dark eyes pierced her. He had a quick, jittery energy that accentuated his birdlike features.
“Meet me at the coffee shop on the corner of Market and 13th” he said, and swept into his car without another word.
Doug was already walking toward her, and she indicated for him to rush to the car. She felt a strange exhilaration.
They had a lead.
The coffee shop was quaint, warm, and had large windows overlooking the bay, which was blanketed in a dense fog.
The man from the morgue was sitting there with a black Americano steaming in front of him, tapping his index finger onthe polished wood surface of a café table. As they approached, he looked up at them, barely moving, his body language unwelcoming.
“So,” he said. “What are your questions?”
“My first question,” Saber asked, “is what is your name?”
He seemed to blanch a little, like he was annoyed that she was wasting his time.
