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September 15, 2007
As we’re working, the cops are nearby, standing far enough back to ensure that their yellow gowns—the thin vinyl barrier, the only thing standing between their pressed blues and the spatter—aren’t christened. We move methodically, some gears better oiled than others, elbow deep in science, looking for the cause. “Yo, Doc,” one says, “Cause of death?” The other: “Gay love triangle! Gay love triangle!” The knives pause long enough for snickers behind facemasks. “Don’t mind the Rook, he guesses that every time”. “Yeah, well, one of these days I’m gonna be right.” This time, though, it’s an MI.