Morris arrived at his place of business at just past midnight on a chilly Wednesday. Bruce was sitting in the office, reading the newspaper, waiting for the next call. The county morgue just brought in a young woman who had been in a horrific head-on collision. After a brief investigation, the accident was attributed to icy roads.
The other workers at Morris Funeral Home took an instant disliking to Saunders. He was impatient, rude, condescending, and as one of the chauffeurs put it, “downright weird.” When Saunders screamed at Bruce, the driver, for knocking on the door when he was about to begin cadaver preparation, Morris decided to have a chat with his new hire.
“Lemme tell you, Reggie, this is one of the messiest I’ve ever seen,” Bruce said. “It’s a good thing she had ID on her. Closed casket for sure.”
Morris nodded. “Where’s Wrigley?”
Bruce snorted. “Dr. Frankenstein’s prepping the deceased.”
Proceeding down the hallway, Morris descended a set of stairs and stopped at a beige door with a numeral three. Strange gurgling sounds made him pause, then knock three times.
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