Quincy curled his arm around Sam's neck as the technician fed the tox samples into the spectrometer. The two of them stared at the needle as they waited for the graph analysis.

"You're pretty upset, aren'tcha Quince?" Sam asked quietly.

"At myself, yeah... I really hurt him."

"You know Asten, he'll be over it by tomorrow."

"I don't think so. Not this time, Sam."

"But you were only trying to help."

Quincy sighed heavily. "Some help. I probably caused him to eat the rest of the antacids on his desk."

Sam smiled. "He sure has been swallowing those by the bottle-full lately."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"Every time I've seen him in the past week or so he's been popping antacids like candy; either that or he's dissolving Alka-Seltzer in a glass and downing it. Maybe you've given him your ulcer, Quince..."

"That's not funny, Sam. There are a lot of other reasons that people take antacids; heartburn, for example."

"So Asten's got heartburn," Sam said as he put another sample into the machine, "he'll be fine once all of this blows over."

But Quincy's investigative mind was too busy reviewing the clues of the past week to answer; at least until Pete's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Dr. Quincy? There's a fella out here by the name of James Sanderson. Says he's the brother of a guy you autopsied, and that it's important he sees you right now."

"Okay, Pete, let him in, thanks..."

Sanderson walked past the security guard, and entered the main lab. He calmly watched Pete walk down the hall through the glass windows, waiting until he was out of earshot. "Which one of you is Dr. Quincy?" He asked.

"I am, Mr. Sanderson," Quincy said, holding his hand out toward the man in greeting.

But instead of shaking his hand, Sanderson pulled the 9mm from his waistband. "Okay everyone step away from the tables, and walk slowly over here. Move! Now!" Stunned and frightened, the lab techs and doctors walked toward the man holding the weapon. "And you, Dr. Quincy, I want you to kneel down right here in front of me."

Quincy's heart stopped in mid-beat. "Kn-kneel down?"

"Yeah," Sanderson indicated a spot on the floor with the nozzle of the gun. "Right here. Move!"

Quincy knelt down as he felt the sweat trickle down his face. "Mr. Sanderson, maybe we should talk about this--"

"--Shut-up!" Sanderson yelled. Then wide-eyed, he stared at the assistants and technicians. "All of you, get out!" Most of them bolted for the door, but Sam and Marc hesitated. "I said get out!"

"Mr. Sanderson," Sam said nervously, "whatever the problem is, I'm sure that we can--"

"--Sam," Quincy interrupted, "just go. You too, Marc. I appreciate it fellas, but I want you to go while you can." He forced a smile on his face and looked at the younger men. "I'll be all right, won't I, Mr. Sanderson?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure, you'll be fine," Sanderson lied.

"Hear that fellas? Mr. Sanderson says I'll be fine. Now just go on. Both of you..."

Reluctantly the two technicians walked out the door and down the hallway, through the double doors and into a small room of pure pandemonium. Pete was trying to calm down the assistants and the technicians who had preceded Marc and Sam through the doors, but without much luck. Sam grabbed Pete's sleeve, and pulled him aside.

"Have you called the police?"

Pete shook his head. "I called Asten, he's calling Lt. Monahan." Pete looked at Sam with dread in his eyes. "Sam, if I had known the guy was a psycho and wanted to hurt Quincy, I never woulda let him in there, I swear to God..."

"No one's blaming you, Pete," Asten said from the side doorway. "What's the situation in there?"

A hush fell over the room as the very group of technicians, doctors and assistants who were so quick to abandon Asten earlier in the day, now looked upon his presence with relief; if he was in charge, they knew everything was going to be all right.

Pete responded to Asten's question. "A man identifying himself as James Sanderson, a relative of a guy Dr. Quincy did an autopsy on, said he needed to speak with the doc. We get several bereaved relatives showing up at the morgue every day, I just thought he was one of 'em. I didn't know this guy was armed, Dr. Asten. I didn't know."

Asten put a calming hand on Pete's shoulder. "There's no way you could have known, Pete, now try and calm down. Did you happen to notice what kind of weapon he was carrying?"

"I did, Dr. Asten," Sam said, "it's a 9mm handgun."

"Automatic I presume?"

"I didn't happen to notice that, sir."

"I did," Marc added, "and it is."

Asten nodded gravely. "Okay," he sighed deeply, "Any idea what it is he wants with Quincy?"

Sam swallowed hard. "He made Quincy kneel down on the floor in front of him, Dr. Asten, execution style. I don't think there's any question what it is that he wants..."

Asten visibly shuddered at the information, but forced his voice to remain even. "I've called Monahan, he'll be here in a few minutes with a negotiator and a SWAT team. Sam, Marc, I want you two along with Pete to meet him and fill him in on everything that you know about the Sanderson case; the exact position of Quincy and Sanderson in the room; and anything else that you think might be important."

As he started for the double doors, Sam said, "Dr. Asten, where are you going?"

"I can't take a chance that this lunatic will shoot him, Sam; I just can't live with that. From what you've told me, Sanderson isn't planning on making small talk. I'm going to try and distract him until Monahan arrives with the calvary."

"But Dr. Asten, if you go in there--"

"--Yes, I'm aware of the risks." He opened the door, then stopped and looked down. "If something goes wrong, Sam," Asten said softly, "can you please tell my wife I'm sorry, and that I...well, tell her that I love her."

Without waiting for an answer, Asten walked through the double doors and down the hallway, leaving Sam, Marc and Pete staring in his wake.