Feeling optimistic, Murry picked up some vegetarian lasagna and headed back to the morgue.  With any luck Eclair would be finished and they could inhale garlic at his place.

She was just washing up when Murry walked in, her assistant rolling Kimble out the other set of doors.  He glanced toward the covered body and everything dimmed.  Time seemed to stop.  An image formed so clear in his head, the details so startlingly real it sucked the air from his lungs.  The sheet disappeared and the body changed from Kimble to Eclair.  Her hair was wet.  He swore he could smell her lemon shampoo.  Water glistened on her shoulders and bare flesh.  Her face was pale and slack, eyes closed, hands open at her sides, bloody holes in both, damp blood smeared across her chest, holes in her feet.  More blood stained her thighs, glimmered in her pubic hair.

Jesus Christ, no. Not her.  Not Ice Pick.

His stomach churned and panic ripped through him like he’d bungee jumped from a bridge only to hear the cord snap and feel the ground come rushing up at his face.  His legs shook.  He wasn’t sure if he was still standing, wasn’t sure of anything, the world quiet as death stealing across a dying man’s eyes.  He blinked, tried to speak, blinked again, and the vision faded into Newton pushing the gurney through the door.  Then he felt his stomach clench.  He staggered to the nearest sink, hoping he wasn’t about to screw up evidence, and vomited. Bile burned his esophagus and mouth.  He sucked in air, a mistake, and vomited again.