Peggy Sue Got Murdered

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An hour before her shift started, an hour before she was even supposed to be there, they rolled the first corpse through the door.

Up until that moment, M. J. Novak's day had been going better than usual. Her car had started on the first turn of the key. Traffic had been sparse on Telegraph, and she'd hit all the green lights. She'd managed to slip into her office at five to seven, and for the next hour she could lounge guiltlessly at her desk with a jelly doughnut and the latest edition of the Star, whose cover was graced by her favorite royal couple, Andy and Fergie. Yes, the day was getting off to a pretty good start.

Until the gurney with the black body bag rolled past her doorway. Oh Lord, she thought. In about thirty seconds, Ratchet was going to knock at her door, asking for favors. With a sense of dread, M. J. listened to the gurney wheels grind down the hall. She heard the autopsy room doors whisk open and shut, heard the distant rumble of male voices. She counted ten seconds, fifteen. And there it was, just as she'd anticipated: the sound of Ratchet's Reeboks squeaking across the linoleum floor.

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