C is for Corpse by Sue Grafton

tastefully done, the decor down here runs to brown vinyl tile and glossy paint the color of vanished bones. The air smells hot and dry and certain open doorways reveal glimpses of ominous machinery and electrical ducts as big as sewer pipes.
    There was a steady flow of pedestrian traffic that day, people in hospital uniforms, as pale and expressionless as residents of an underground city, starved for sunlight. The Pathology Department itself was a pleasant contrast: spacious, well lighted, handsomely appointed in royal blue and gray, with fifty to sixty lab technicians working to accommodate the blood, bone, and tissue specimens that filtered down from above.The computerized equipment seemed to click, hum, and whir: efficiency augmented by an army of experts. Noise was muted, telephones pinging daintily against the artificial air. Even the typewriters seemed to be muffled, recording discreetly the secrets of the human condition. There was order, proficiency, and calm, the sense that here, at least, the pain and indignation of illness was under control. Death was being held at bay, measured, calibrated, and analyzed. Where it had claimed a victory, the same crew of specialists dissected the results and fed them into the machinery. Paper poured out in a long road, paved with hieroglyphics. I stood in the doorway for a moment, struck by the scene. These were microscope detectives, pursuing killers of another order than those I hunted down.
    â€œMay I help you?”
    I glanced over at the receptionist, who was watching me.
    â€œI’m looking for Dr. Fraker. Do you know if he’s here?”
    â€œShould be. Down this aisle to the first left, then left again and you can ask somebody back there.”
    I found him in a modular compartment lined with bookshelves, furnished with a desk, a swivel chair, plants, and graphic art. He was tipped back in his chair, his feet propped up on the edge of his deck, leafing through a medical book the size of the
Oxford English Dictionary
. He had a pair of rimless bifocals in one hand, chewing on one of the stems as he read. He was substantially built—wide shoulders, heavy thighs. Hishair was a thick, silvery white, his skin the warm tone of a flesh-colored crayon. Age had given his face a softly crumpled look, like a freshly laundered cotton sheet that needs to be starched and ironed. He wore surgical greens with matching booties.
    â€œDr. Fraker?”
    He glanced up at me and his gray eyes registered recognition. He pointed a finger. “Bobby Callahan’s friend.”
    â€œThat’s right. I wondered if I could talk to you.”
    â€œSure, absolutely. Come on in.”
    He got to his feet and we shook hands. He indicated the chair near his desk and I sat down.
    â€œWe can make an appointment to talk later if I’ve caught you at a bad time,” I said.
    â€œNot at all. What can I do for you? Glen told me Bobby hired someone to look into the accident.”
    â€œHe’s convinced it was a murder attempt. Hit and run. Has he talked to you about that?”
    Dr. Fraker shook his head. “I haven’t seen him for months except for Monday night. Murder. Do the police agree?”
    â€œI don’t know yet. I’ve got a copy of the accident report and as nearly as I can tell, they don’t have much to go on. There weren’t any witnesses and I don’t think they found much evidence at the scene.”
    â€œThat’s unusual, isn’t it?”
    â€œWell, there’s usually
something
to go on. Broken glass, skid marks, transfer traces on the victim’s vehicle. Maybe the guy jumped out of his car and swept up all the soil and paint flecks, I don’t know. I do trustBobby’s intuition on this. He says he was in danger. He just can’t remember why.”
    Dr. Fraker seemed to consider that briefly and then shifted in his seat. “I’d be inclined to believe him myself. He’s a bright boy. He was a