8
Lit from above by a glaring bank of purplish halogen lights, Hank’s corpse was finally under Sandoval’s knife. In that harsh light, the dark-chocolate skin looked gray and ashen. He might be a mysterious, slain giant plucked from a UFO, an elusive Bigfoot brought down, a Magic Johnson in height and breadth of shoulders, but in the end, he was simply a plain-speaking black man who had committed the unpardonable sin of talking back to an angry white cop.
Unlike the lonely hours the medical examiner had spent with Keiko assisting him down here, this time Doctor Morbid was surrounded by a grim-faced entourage. A microphone dangled over the dissecting table from a junction box on the ceiling above the spotlights. It was live, the tape reels were rolling, and this time there would be no joke
