Lieutenant Reece called Jo into her office as she walked by. "Detective, walk me through this again. How is the bridge jumper a homicide? I thought we had witnesses who saw her climb over the ledge."

"We do."

"They saw her fall into the water and a cab driver said she was distressed."

"I believe the word he used was 'hysterical.'"

"You may be new to this squad, but if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck... what am I missing here, Detective?"

"Maybe something other than anecdotes? Something the witnesses were missing?"

"Oh, so you're trying to actually think about the case? You aren't satisfied with anecdotes and hearsay?" The lieutenant sighed. "That's not what we do at the NYPD. We close cases, not necessarily solve them."

"That's not what I thought we were doing."

"Jo, sit on my lap."

"...What?"

"It helps emphasize the irony of what I'm about to tell you."

"Sure, anything for irony... gods, it's as if we're in a parody of ourselves or something." Jo sat on the lieutenant's lap.

"Something like that. Jo, when you solve a case, you know what that creates? More work, that's what. That's the last thing we need at our workplace. So, we find the hastiest conclusion we can draw by looking at a situation, and we act on that. If somebody dies, we ignore the ME with all that silly experience and medical degrees, and form a conclusion straight from the gut, whether it gives families the closure of what really happened or not. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, but I don't agree –"

"Shh. Shhhh. Don't think, conclude. Doesn't matter if it's right or not. As long as it's a hasty conclusion, it's all good. Mike gets that; it's about time you did too. As far as the jumper's concerned, there are a bunch of reasons she could have fallen backwards in the water. We don't know them, we're just saying that so we have less work. We have a long list of homicide cases that we can't make up a reason for not investigating them. If your ME is as good as you say he is, I'm sure we could find a less work-intensive use for his talents."

One of Henry Morgan's greatest talents was that he was an expert on face mites. "Lucas, did you know that the average living person has twenty-five face mites on their eyelashes? They feed on our oil and have tiny, slug-like bodies."

"Um..."

"There are also face mites that crawl around on our eyes, usually thirty-one at any given time for the average person."

"Hey, Henry...?"

"Their reproductive organs are simply amazing. If you look under a magnifying glass at a human eye, you can see that the face mites rub their willies all over it and –"

"Okay, Henry, just stop right there. That is new information and now something that I can't un-know. The cops called, and they're encouraging us to rule the jumper a suicide."

Henry sighed in exasperation. "It's not a suicide. If they wish us to categorize it as such, they should either get a medical degree or another ME."

"Okay. Also, the parents of the jumper, Vicky Holquist, are here to identify the body."

"Just show them the pictures."

"They want to talk to you."

"Lucas, you know this. I never speak with the families; it's much too emotional."

"But they refuse to leave. What do you want me to do?"

"Call Detective Martinez! Have them... oh, dear gods..." The parents had just walked in the room, and had seen the body.

"She's really gone..." The mother of Vicky Holquist started sobbing into her husband's arms.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, it's why we discourage families from seeing the bodies."

"What happened?" the father asked.

"I'm sorry, but it appears she fell from the bridge to her death."

"She was a grad student getting her MA. She was leaving this week to study in Paris. Is there any evidence that something else could have happened?"

"I strongly suggest that you bring this matter up with the police."

"I'm asking you," the father said shortly. "Did she jump?"

"I can understand the pain that you must be going through."

"Do you have a child?"

Henry thought for a moment. "I do."

"Is the child gone?"

Henry started to feel emotional. "No, he's still with me."

"You have no idea what pain we're going through." The parents of the victim walked out.

Flashback: An orphanage, 1945

Abigail and Henry stood by the crib that held the baby they had found in the ruins of Auschwitz. "His name is Abraham. They haven't been able to locate any of his family." Abigail looked at the baby wistfully.

"What'll happen to him?"

"I suppose he'll be still in an orphanage. Unless someone were to fall in love and adopt him," she said, turning to Henry and smiling.

"If only it were that simple..."

"What could be more simple than making an impulsive commitment for the rest of your life?"

"Hmmm... eating a Welsh rarebit?"

"What's that? Do you boil it?"

"No..."

"Then I'm not eating it."

Henry just stared at her disbelievingly until Abigail erupted with laughter. "I know perfectly well that British food isn't all boiled! I'm British!"

"Does anybody in this country know the difference between Welsh cuisine and British cuisine?"

"Well, maybe people from Wales and food geeks. And it's rhetorical, Henry. After all, I don't think our baby Abraham is going to let you go." The baby smiled up at him.

"I do think you're on to something, Abigail. Let's adopt him."