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Medical Examiner Harry Weston had not examined Lara Stewart but agreed to see me in his office the next day as he was scheduled for duty. His office was sparse, consisting of a desk and a couple of filing cabinets like any other state office. He did his work in the morgue which housed his tools and subjects. A small, emaciated man near retirement age, he waved off my offer to shake his hand when greeting me.
“I wear gloves but still I prefer not to expose you to the elements,” he said.
I was grateful because he sported an ugly rash on his face that reached to his scalp. I wasn’t squeamish but I had enough – too much – on my plate, and I didn’t need an illness or whatever to make my situation even worse.
“Psoriasis. It looks worse than it is,” he said, catching me staring at him. “I
