After handing Rogers a robe (smooth, white, sexy silk) and donning
one herself, Serena headed for the kitchen. "There's an extra
toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet," she called over her shoulder.
Rogers found there was indeed an extra toothbrush--in fact there were
four--still in their packages and lined up like soldiers. Either
this girl was expecting relatives, or hoping to get REAL lucky. All
the handles were white.
As Rogers brushed her teeth, she tried to recall the events of the
previous day. She remembered that late in the afternoon Serena had
come to the morgue with a question about a vic. They reviewed his X-
rays and Rogers had tried to explain to the girl that the impact of
the blunt instrument could not have possibly been delivered by the
driver sitting next to the vic--it had to have come from someone
sitting behind him. "Look, you feel this place here?" she asked
touching the girl lightly behind her ear. Serena nodded. "The
driver would have had to put his arm completely around the vic's neck
to make the strike." She put her arm around Serena's neck to
demonstrate. "Impossible."
Serena had blushed, thanked her, and quickly left the room. Rogers
had thought at the time that the blush had something to do with the
intricacies of the case, and as for rushing from the room--well, most
people who didn't work in the morgue left it pretty quickly when they
finished their business.
That's why when she found Serena waiting for her after work she
hadn't been suspicious. And when she suggested they go for a drink,
Rogers thought, "Well, hell, why not? I've got no husband waiting at
home, and it IS the weekend." Actually, Rogers felt a little sorry
for the girl. She'd been working as ADA for two years, and was damn
good at her job, but she had a problem when it came to people. The
cops disliked her, her co-workers disliked her, even the cleaning
crew disliked her--and yet no one could give you a good reason why.
Virgin snow, they called her. Unmarked and cold. Her propensity for
all shades of white just reinforced the label.
A strange sound intruded into Rogers reverie--a choking, gasping
sound. Looking down she saw Fluffles, evidently convulsing and
fighting for breath. God, what should she do? She was NOT going to
give that cat mouth to mouth. She tried patting it on the back but
it seemed to make matters worse.
"Serena? Serena!?"
Serena came running in from the hallway. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Rogers pointed to the cat. "Your cat. It's convulsing or
something. Epilepsy?"
Serena's features relaxed. "No. Hairball."
"Hairball?"
"Yeah. You don't know much about cats, do you?"
"Well, no. I've always been a dog person. Will he be...ok?"
"Oh, sure. He'll just sic up and then be fine." Serena smiled at
her--a really dazzling smile--then touched her arm. "He really likes
you. I can tell. And by the way so do I."
With that departing shot Serena went back to her domestic duties,
leaving Rogers to stare at a mound of puke on the bathroom floor.
one herself, Serena headed for the kitchen. "There's an extra
toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet," she called over her shoulder.
Rogers found there was indeed an extra toothbrush--in fact there were
four--still in their packages and lined up like soldiers. Either
this girl was expecting relatives, or hoping to get REAL lucky. All
the handles were white.
As Rogers brushed her teeth, she tried to recall the events of the
previous day. She remembered that late in the afternoon Serena had
come to the morgue with a question about a vic. They reviewed his X-
rays and Rogers had tried to explain to the girl that the impact of
the blunt instrument could not have possibly been delivered by the
driver sitting next to the vic--it had to have come from someone
sitting behind him. "Look, you feel this place here?" she asked
touching the girl lightly behind her ear. Serena nodded. "The
driver would have had to put his arm completely around the vic's neck
to make the strike." She put her arm around Serena's neck to
demonstrate. "Impossible."
Serena had blushed, thanked her, and quickly left the room. Rogers
had thought at the time that the blush had something to do with the
intricacies of the case, and as for rushing from the room--well, most
people who didn't work in the morgue left it pretty quickly when they
finished their business.
That's why when she found Serena waiting for her after work she
hadn't been suspicious. And when she suggested they go for a drink,
Rogers thought, "Well, hell, why not? I've got no husband waiting at
home, and it IS the weekend." Actually, Rogers felt a little sorry
for the girl. She'd been working as ADA for two years, and was damn
good at her job, but she had a problem when it came to people. The
cops disliked her, her co-workers disliked her, even the cleaning
crew disliked her--and yet no one could give you a good reason why.
Virgin snow, they called her. Unmarked and cold. Her propensity for
all shades of white just reinforced the label.
A strange sound intruded into Rogers reverie--a choking, gasping
sound. Looking down she saw Fluffles, evidently convulsing and
fighting for breath. God, what should she do? She was NOT going to
give that cat mouth to mouth. She tried patting it on the back but
it seemed to make matters worse.
"Serena? Serena!?"
Serena came running in from the hallway. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Rogers pointed to the cat. "Your cat. It's convulsing or
something. Epilepsy?"
Serena's features relaxed. "No. Hairball."
"Hairball?"
"Yeah. You don't know much about cats, do you?"
"Well, no. I've always been a dog person. Will he be...ok?"
"Oh, sure. He'll just sic up and then be fine." Serena smiled at
her--a really dazzling smile--then touched her arm. "He really likes
you. I can tell. And by the way so do I."
With that departing shot Serena went back to her domestic duties,
leaving Rogers to stare at a mound of puke on the bathroom floor.
