Jenner watched the two troopers walk back down the hall, muttering about him. He shut the autopsy room door with relief.

Martin and Cooper had quickly turned surly: Jenner was spoiling an open-and-shut case with forensic straw-clutching. No way could Jenner know how the body had rolled when the SUV hit it; maybe blood from the scalp wound landed on the body as it turned, or maybe it spattered off the vehicle undercarriage onto the victim’s back.

Jenner had listened, nodded patiently, and stuck calmly to his position—the pattern was what the pattern was, and he couldn’t explain it by the victim being simply run over.

If anything, Jenner’s calm had irritated them more than his insistence that something was wrong. He sighed; it was hardly the first time he’d been second-guessed.

The shirt now lay face-down on the photo stand, floodlit by four tungsten lamps. Jenner took a wide photograph, then shot close-ups of the blood spatter on the shirt. He tore open a package of sterile scissors and cut a two-inch square of bloodstain from the shirttail. He placed the stained fabric in a coin envelope and labeled the envelope with the case number and the location on the shirt. Then he cut another square of fabric from high on the shirt, from an area where he thought the blood-staining was from the victim’s head wound, and then finally a square of unstained fabric for comparison.

Jenner turned on the radio; mellow soft rock—Air Supply or Toto, he couldn’t tell, didn’t care—oozed out of the speakers into the quiet of the autopsy room. He spun the radio dial—anything but that. Down at the bottom end, there was religious broadcasting and country, then Latin music floating over the Glades from Miami. As he moved up the dial, a popping bass line filled the air, quickly plastered over with vamping eighties synthesizers—Ready for the World’s “Oh, Sheila!”

He turned it up with a grin, and went back to work.

He flipped the shirt over. The maroon blotches on the front were definitely wine—Jenner could smell it rising from the shirt as the stand lights heated the cloth.

Oh, baby, love me right

Let me love you till I get it right, unh

He adjusted the shirt, pressing it flat so the spill pattern was unruffled. He was now sweating under the bright light; in the heat of the bulbs, he felt a little dizzy. He wiped his forehead, took a hand lens, and bent close to the fabric, searching for droplet spatter.

Oh oh Sheila!

Let me love you till…

The cloth swam before his eyes, and then his face was flushing, tears streaming down his cheeks, watery fluid pouring from his nose as his mouth filled with spit. He staggered back retching, his stomach writhing and grinding.

He pulled himself unsteadily to the wall, dragged over a stool, and slumped down, easing back until his shoulders and head pressed the cool tile. The saliva in his mouth was acrid and thin, and he let it dribble out. He wiped his eyes, but the tears came faster; he began to wheeze.

Jenner’s breathing was harder now, his breath jerking out in rasping gasps. He pulled himself to his feet. Time to go, time to go quick.

He could barely see through the tears. He leaned into the sink, rinsed his face, splashed water on his scrub top until it was soaked, then pulled it up to cover his nose and mouth. Gasping and heaving, he stumbled back near the photo stand, hugging the wall as he made his way to the lighting power cord; he yanked the cord out of the wall socket, sending the expensive stand crashing to the floor in an explosion of sparks and popping bulbs.

The shirt was on the floor now, half-covered by the wrecked photo stand. He tossed a disposable plastic shroud over the shirt and stand, then moved back to the far wall. He could barely see now; he felt along the wall until he found the high-powered accessory ventilation switch and flipped it on; there was a low hum, and then the feel of cooled air moving against his skin.

He pushed through the swing doors into the corridor, fell out into the breezeway and slumped onto a bench, gasping in the warm, humid air.

The wheezing eased, but he was still breathless. It took a minute or so for the heaving to stop; he was spitting less but tears still poured from his eyes.

It took another five minutes before he felt normal. He walked back into the morgue wing, and peered through the autopsy room viewing window, staring at the red-stained shirt, still visible under the splintered stand plinth.

Jenner breathed out raggedly. Now he knew exactly what had happened.