Someone called her Stacy. A fitting name for one so alluring. Wanton desire in a tight red dress. A sure thing for the right man, but not for me. I didn't have a shot in hell.

I eased in beside her at the bar and she turned toward me. The music was loud, and I had to yell to say hello. She turned away without a word, sparing herself the pretense of a make-believe courtesy. With little more than a glimpse she deemed me unworthy, and that simple gesture allowed me to chart the evening's course.

Time slowed, and I waited. The perfect moment can present itself without warning and I may not get a second chance. The more minutes that passed, the more invisible I became, and soon Stacy and her gaggle of friends were in a world where I was not invited. They laughed and caroused and teased one another, and one or two of them went off to dance with men. Stacy drank white wine, and that was perfect for me. So I waited.

Then the moment was upon me. Stacy's wine sat unattended, unnoticed by anyone, except me. I reached for a napkin and passed over her glass. No one saw the cyanide drop. No one saw it dissolve in an instant, and as I turned from the bar they continued their boisterous antics ... as if I hadn't been there at all.

I made my way to the exit and listened for the sounds that I expected to hear. Frantic cries for help among a cacophony of confusion. And when I heard them, I turned to look as anyone might. I watched the bouncers push through the crowd, saw them knock people aside as they rushed to her. And among the music and the screaming, the dancing and the panic, I knew what the bouncers did not. I knew she was dead before she hit the floor.

Now I wait for her on a concrete sidewalk as a crescent moon arcs over the city — the Cheshire's grin, pasted on the night. My watch reads 3:36 and a thin layer forms on my skin. Humidity? Or sweat. Does it really matter? Baltimore is always humid in August, but more so tonight, and breathing is like sucking air through a wet sponge.

The sound of an approaching engine heralds her arrival. Headlamps bounce off the black surface of Pratt Street and a body transport turns the corner. Launching my cigarette into the night, I track its fiery path before turning toward the medical examiner's building. Stacy's image fills my thoughts as I pause beside a glass door that reflects my image.

My eyes sweep my length. I want to be presentable before stepping inside. Removing my glasses, I clean them with a section of my lab coat. Their circular rims portray me in a scholarly light and I like them, so I take extra care. Pressing my badge against the reader, I smile at the click of the electric lock.

Yes. She is desirable. Especially now, that she lacks a pulse.

I stroll past the main lobby information kiosk and nod to Officer Bowers. He is the night guard; a college kid in his third year working his way through. I point my travel toward the autopsy lab forty feet down and on the left. I hear the Latino janitorial crew jabbering in the Spanish I never learned in school. I doubt they're legal, but it doesn't matter. I don't really give a shit one way or the other.

The metal double doors of the lab hiss closed behind me and it's too cold in here again. We keep it that way by design. It's better for the dead. The lab's construction is cinderblock, painted a flat sea-green; a horrid color to say the least. Too bad they didn't consult me before painting. I'd have suggested a color that didn't remind everyone of bile.

They made a good choice with the suspended ceiling, however. The ample lighting serves the space well, as does the classic L design of the room. All they omitted was music. I mean, how hard could it have been to pipe in a bit of opera? But since they didn't, it falls to me to bring a little culture to an otherwise provincialist environment.

I glance at the clock on the wall. The transport should be at the dock. I pick up my pace down a center aisle that runs the length of the lab, jogging between gatherings of gray metal desks, to another set of metal double doors.

On the right, just before the dock, is the staging area; a secondary 20 x 20 room separated into its own quarter. That's where we do the city's work. It has all the pathological amenities: stainless cabinets and counters bolted to the bile-colored walls, gurneys with equipment trays parked side by side, tools and safety apparel stacked and organized in the cabinets, all there in support of three autopsy stations with their centerpiece stainless-steel tables; units tricked out with electricity, plumbing, and powerful parabolic lamps, fixtures I always thought resembled space weapons straight from a science-fiction movie.

I hear the telltale beeping of the van, backing into the loading area as the rollup door creaks its way skyward; triggered by Security in the central control room. A driver I've never seen before makes his way to the back of the van; an odd little man in an Orioles cap and coveralls. I walk over and offer my hand.

"I'm Doctor Harvey Morral, third-shift medical examiner."

"Hi, Doc. Andy Bikke's the name."

"Nice to meet you," I say. "So where's Alfred? The regular driver."

"Personal time off. Somethin' with his family's all I know. I'm just fillin' in till he gets back. So listen, Doc, I'd love to chew the fat, but I got another pickup. Can we get me unloaded?"

"Of course," I say, not wanting to take any longer with this bumpkin than I have to.

Andy disengages the safety latch and slides the gurney from the van. The wheels drop and lock as they clear the vehicle, and I lead him to the staging area to shift the body to an in-house gurney. Andy hands me a clipboard.

"So where'd you get this one?" I ask, signing the chain of custody.

"Picked her up at a club off Shawan Road. Wurlitzer's. Ever been there?"

I smile with the recent memory. "Can't say that I have."

"This one just dropped dead, from what they say. The Homicide boys were talkin' like it's that cyanide killer that's been causin' all the trouble. Thinks she was murdered."

My eyes cut to his but I say nothing. I find it pleasing that those idiots in Homicide have already taken to making calls at the scene, pinning sudden unexplained deaths on the Cyanide Killer without the benefit of forensics; especially since I would be supporting their theory when I send Tox specimens that belong to one of CK's victims.

I hand Andy his clipboard with his copy of the documentation, keeping one for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, and one for me.

Andy says his goodbyes and goes out the way he came in. Activated once again by Security, the overhead rattles its way down as the van pulls away. When it closes fully, I lock the interior dock doors and walk back to my desk.

In the lower drawer I keep my iPod speaker system, a compact little unit that packs a wallop. Aiming it toward the autopsy bay, I dial up my favorite piece. Rigoletto. After all, the Duke is much like me. As I return to the gurney, the peppy Questa o quella — this girl or that girl — saturates the lab.

Pulling back the forensic sheet, her beauty gives me pause. I gaze at her five-five corpse, her dark-brown hair splayed against the snowy white of the gurney's sheet, her translucent blue eyes still clear, fixed open, and even in death she maintains her allure.

"So, we meet again," I say, but then I remember. "Well, not 'again', per se. We never...