3: 9 to 5 at the MorgueChristopher Harth tucked the rolled-up newspaper under his armpit so he could flip the light switch to the morgue. Incandescent bulbs turned on in a scattered pattern, illuminating the metal tables and the cadavers that had been delivered during the night. He surveyed the two new bodies and sighed. Harth cleared his throat—the sound echoing off the far wall of body-size drawers—and headed for the Mr. Coffee. He set his newspaper next to the carafe and contemplated just finishing the pot from yesterday or brewing a new one.
A knock on the opened door startled him from his decision, and he turned toward the entrance.
“G’morning, Chris.” Sergeant Santana entered the room and proffered a fresh steaming cup of coffee. “Thought you might need this.”
“Thanks, Sarge.” He
