Lieutenant Yankovich stood facing us with a frown on his lips. Nothing unusual there. Yank’s usual expression was a frown on his lips and a somber resignation on the rest of his face. The resignation of a man who had fought the wars and seen far too much crime and corruption in his life before eventually coming to the conclusion he could do very little to stop it. The tall, slightly stooping shift commander had hands in his slacks while underneath his left arm was a thick folder. A very thick folder.
A blue folder. A cold case file.
Which seemed odd to me. Discussing a cold case file standing in the semi-empty morgue seemed odd. Between us a white sheet covered a body lying on the steel top of an examination table. Obviously, it was no longer a cold case. Glancing at the white sheet, not
