The Copyright Notice Case

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The gust caught my umbrella the second I got out of my car, before I’d even had a chance to fully open the thing. I struggled for a bit, then gave in to the inevitable. Another inside-out dripping mess to deposit in the trash can. The wild force of nature wins again.

I turned my collar to the cold rain and hustled up the brownstone stairs. I pulled out my ID and showed it to the uniform.

“Down the hall, one flight up, second door on the right. They’re waiting for you, Dr. D’Amato.”

“Right,” I said. I hated these long brownstone stairs—rushing up them always made me breathless these days. I guess I could’ve walked up slowly, but that wasn’t my way.

“Phil,” that was Dave Spencer, even less hair and more belly than I, bent over a body, male, looked to be in his late twenties. “Come take a look at this.” Dave was the coroner. He often called me in for special consultations— came with my forensic territory.

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