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Judge Hope Dawson didn’t like the morgue and hated hospitals even more. Her rotations in medical school and then residency were pure torture, but she wanted the knowledge and forced herself to push through. But medicine wasn’t her passion; the law was. The law was power. What was prescribing medication compared to a profession that gave you the authority to have people imprisoned or set free?

Outside the morgue, she paced. The soft shuffle of her Italian handmade shoes contrasted sharply with the stark hospital basement. Her tailored Saint Laurent suit felt out of place in the sterility.

Dr. Henry Moss stepped through the double doors of the examination room. He was a friend of her father’s and one of the most respected medical examiners in the United States. She had known and trusted him her entire life.

Dr. Moss’s once-youthful face was now lined with wrinkles, his hair graying at the temples. Behind him, on a metal slab, lay the corpse of Owen Whittaker. Whittaker had no next of kin, and his body would be cremated tomorrow, like most unclaimed homeless individuals.

“Well?” she said.

Dr. Moss let out a breath. “Almost everything Detective Holloway stated in his review hearing about the death is accurate.”

“Almost?”

“The problem is, if Mr. Whittaker shoved him away before charging at him again, as he stated, we would expect to find gunshot residue indicating a distance of about three to four feet. The gunshot residue on the cadaver indicates a distance of nine to ten feet. I doubt a simple shove from such a small individual would send Detective Holloway back ten feet. And no pathologist worth his salt would miss that. He must have people who owe him favors. If the cadaver wasn’t so desiccated, I would recommend a second autopsy performed by someone outside this jurisdiction and a new report written for posterity. But you asked me if he was lying, and yes, I think he is. He was much farther away from this man when he shot him than he says. Far enough that Mr. Whittaker was likely not an imminent threat.”

Judge Dawson nodded, her eyes lingering over the body on the metal slab. It was shriveled and twisted, like a withered husk. Its mouth was open, revealing rows of broken yellow and black teeth. The skin was a sickly gray, and the veins beneath it were gnarled and twisted.

“So,” he said, taking off his gown, “you going to report him?”

“No,” she said, her lips curling into a smile. “I have something more interesting in mind for him.”