THE MORNING AFTER
Dr. Harmon was not what I expected.
I'd constructed him in my mind from the evidence — the midnight visits, the dark bag, the unlabeled bottles, the system of four delivery methods — and the construction had produced something that matched the function. Someone cold. Someone is deliberately clinical. Someone whose appearance would carry the visible mark of what they were doing.
The man who came through the east wing entrance was ordinary.
Fifties. Medium height. Gray at the sides of his dark hair. Reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. A leather bag — not the dark bag of the midnight visit, a proper doctor's bag, the kind that announced itself as medical. He wore a collared shirt and dark trousers and he moved through the corridor with the ease of someone who had
