Part I

(Family Reunion)

"Francis Thurston?" the man asking was a pudgy fellow in a white lab coat, who reeked of disinfectant, that had just emerged from the metal double doors that cut off the morgue from the antiseptic white hall in which Frank had been waiting.

Frank bristled a bit, despite knowing that the hospital's policies would have required the coroner to verify his identify before taking him into the secured section of the building. He was, after all, a doctor himself, but it didn't make it any less annoying that the man called him by his legal name, which he despised, nor did it abate the desire to point out to the man that since he was the only one waiting in the hallway, it should have been pretty obvious who he was.

"Doctor Thurston, yes," Frank answered as he stood from the bench which offered little comfort from its worn padding, and pointedly ignored the other man's extended hand as they moved together into the morgue.

"Sorry, Doctor," the man offered as they entered the main storage area and Frank felt goose bumps rise at the drop in temperature, "I was only told that a relative was flying in from Chicago for identification. I was not aware you were also medically trained. I am Doctor Blake, the coroner here at Miriam Hospital."

The main room of the morgue was lined with small metal doors, each blinking a verification that the internal temperature of the compartment was being maintained well below the zero degree mark.

In the center of the room, a single body lay on the stainless steel table, covered from head to toe by a pristine white sheet.

"We actually have enough to make the identification," the pudgy coroner offered, "Having a family member verification is just a formality. You didn't really need to come all this way."

"I know," Frank nodded. He wasn't terribly close to his uncle, so there wasn't much of an emotional connection, but something else had compelled him to come in person when the hospital had called. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the death of his uncle seemed out of place in an oddly familiar way.

He hoped he was wrong. Fifteen years working the emergency room at Northwestern Memorial, in Chicago, might have jaded his views a bit. This was Providence Rhode Island. Even though it was technically part of the greater Boston sprawl, it was part of the outlining area and it certainly was not plagued with the dark and grim violence of his own city. Even the clean conditions of the hospital, in contrast to his own place of employment with its graffiti ridden walls, served as a reminder this absolutely was not Chicago.

Still, years of treating gang injuries, and survivors of shadow ops, both on and off the books, had left Frank a bit jaded. Besides, even though the quarantine had been lifted after "Operation Extermination, it still wasn't easy getting passage in and out of Chicago. Even with his status as a physician, and extenuating circumstances for a family death, he had undergone numerous tests, both physical and metaphysical, to ensure he wasn't one of the surviving bug spirits that once infested the sprawl, before gaining the clearance to leave.

The coroner drew back the sheet to reveal the face and upper torso of Frank's uncle, George Angell, but stopped before revealing the top edge of the "Y" shaped incision he knew had been was created during the autopsy.

Additionally, Frank noted the data jack behind his uncle's right ear, a small port used to wire into the matrix. Such devices were used by criminals to hack files for profit, or sometimes just for fun, but he had a feeling his uncle only had one installed to aid in research.

He had one of his own installed when he first started as a physician. It made accessing medical journals and texts far simpler, but he rarely used it. Even though he didn't venture anywhere near the more dangerous areas of the matrix, with potentially lethal security, he had seen more than his share of the effects when a decker was brought into his emergency room after messing with something beyond his skills. The lucky ones died, the unlucky ones were reduced to a vegetative state.

"It's him," Frank nodded. His uncle would have been sixty-four on his next birthday, had he lived, but looked considerably younger due to his regular exercise habits and controlled diet.

It suddenly struck Frank what it was about all this that felt off. He had not seen his uncle since before the Chicago quarantine, but his earliest memories of the man had been of an accomplished academic and athlete. In fact, the entire reason George Angell moved out of Chicago, several years before the quarantine came down, was because he wanted to live closer to the Boston Marathon, and event he had flown out for five times prior to relocating permanently and taking a position at Brown University.

"Wait," Frank stopped Dr. Blake as the man was lifting the sheet back to cover George Angell's face, "Did you do a full tox screen?"

"Of course," came the expected answer, "His blood was clean and all of his levels were well within normal ranges, except his electrolytes were a bit erratic."

"And his calcium levels?" the coroner stared back blankly causing Frank to repeat himself, "The Calcium levels, doctor?"

"We didn't test calcium."

"I presume you still have blood samples on hand from which you can run a test?"

"We keep samples on hand for a few months, but I don't see the point..."

"Just do it," Frank instructed as he reached for a set of disposable gloves from the box nearby.

"Mister Thurston," the coroner took a tone that Frank knew all too well, having used it himself many times when dealing with bereaved family that was acting irrationally, "I understand this is a hard time for you, but I need to remind you, you are not on staff here. I assure you, that we have done due diligence in our investigation of your uncle's death. He had a heart attack. This is not uncommon for one his age."

"Does this look like a man who was prone to have a heart attack," Frank asked as he began his own physical examination of his uncle's body, "You just said that all his levels were within normal range. I presume you also mean his cholesterol?"

"Mister Thurston," the coroner protested.

"It's Doctor Thurston," Frank snapped as he pushed aside the hands of the coroner when the other man tried to stop his examination.

"Not here it isn't," the man retorted, but did not move to interfere again. Instead, the coroner strode purposefully to a phone mounted by the door, and Frank was certain he was calling for security.

A minute later, Dr. Francis Thurston found himself being escorted from the hospital by a pair of officers from their security team, but not before he had found what he was looking for.

As he walked long the street towards his late uncle's apartment, he thought about the significance of what he had found. Two, almost imperceptible, needle punctures, about an inch and a half apart on this uncle's left shoulder.

George Angell had been murdered.