The Bum's Rush by G. M. Ford

frightening thought, consider the fact that fj lately they've been talking about moving in together."
    I mulled this over as we walked. "Where does that leave you?" I asked casually.
    "I think that would leave us about at that discussion we've always been promising to have."
    "I suppose a full-fledged sprint back to my car would be considered poor form about now."
    "Extremely," she confirmed. "Not only that, but I've always been faster than you."
    I kept my chin high and my step steady. "I should probably start acting more agreeable, then."
    "Probably," she agreed.
    We strolled on, turning down the little fractured
femur of Alder Street that ran along the south side of Harborview. Dug
in like a bad toenail, 850 Alder was nearly buried by a latticed
superstructure of steel scaffolding, wooden catwalks, and concrete
forms. I'd asked everyone, but nobody knew what it was they were
building. We went down the stairs. The reception desk was empty. A
little red clock. Smiley face. Be back at 1:00. It was 1:20.
    Rebecca removed her coat and looked up at the assignment board.
    "Tommy's working in three. Second door on the left."
    "I don't suppose "
    "I've got a meeting and then a logjam of lab work. Call me later. Or" she started down the hall, smiling
back over her shoulder "you can neglect me for another couple of days
and then just make another reservation at Palomino. Ta-ta."
    I watched until she turned right into her office
and then took a deep breath. I was a man with a plan. I was ready. I'd
been training for a moment such as this, and now the moment was at
hand. During my recent sabbatical, I had filled some of the time when I
wasn't surfing the Net with movies. Three or four a week. Sometimes
more. I'd seen everything. The Academy Awards committee should be so
wise as to seek my counsel. Somewhere along the way, after the
zillionth frame of Hollywood gore, I'd developed the ability to see the
carnage as merely interestingly constructed plastic creations. I no
longer averted my eyes at the sight of mock internal organs. Instead, I
now tried to figure out how they had gone about constructing this thing
that looked so convincingly like a recently severed arm, its veins and
arteries still quivering, fingers easing open for the last time. I had
willfully suspended my willful suspension of disbelief. That's what I
was going to do today. It's just a plastic model. Just a plastic model.
Just. . .
    Three was what I presumed to be a typical autopsy
room. On the right, a series of large stainless steel drawers provided
temporary shelter for the stiffs. Except for massive overhead lights
and the big drain in the middle of the floor, the rest of the room
could have passed for a high school science lab.
    I pulled open the door. Tommy Maksukawa's head
popped up from behind the green-covered atrocity that lay heaped on the
table in front of him.
    "Hey, Tommy," I said.
    "Good to see you, Leo." His eyes crinkled above the surgical mask. "Come on in. Take a look at this."
    As I started across the room, I began my internal
dialogue. It's just a plastic model. Just a plastic model. Must have
taken them weeks to get the feet that purple color. Interesting. I
wonder how they--"
    "Rebecca says you did the postmortem on that Lukkas Terry kid."
    "That was my unfortunate honor," he confirmed.
    I stopped on the near side of the table, with the
stiff between us. Huge. A floater. Looked like somebody put an air hose
up his ass. All puffed up and ready to burst like a bad souffle. Oh,
Jesus, it's got no face. No. No. Deep breath. They just haven't put the
face on yet. That's it. Amazing how they just left the holes so the
artist could work out the face itself later. A lot of different people
probably work on a big model like this. Specialization is the key.
    "Just your run-of-the-mill drug overdose?" I asked.
    "Had enough pure smack in his system to kill a rhino. Come over on this side. Take a look at this."
    I kept smiling as I walked around. It's