Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“Log in and then store it in the decaying-body room. Metro says this guy was not found for a while.”

Louise is shaking her head at me. We both realize the decaying-body room is likely to be colder, less often visited, and a really bad place to get locked in. I mean, our deepest instincts are to prefer fresh kill. Not that we exercise them much these days, each having our own private chef.

I must admit that Louise benefits from the personal attentions of Chef Song and his palette of Asian-infusion menu items at the Crystal Phoenix (the little suck-up) and my Miss Temple, being a working woman, can be a bit cavalier about her menu planning.

We trot under the belly of the beast as its wheels start spinning and peel off when we spot a large stainless steel trash can. Not ideal cover, because it reflects us, but black is a very fine color because it shows up in almost any room you can think of.

We immediately eel around the round trash can into a room of tables surrounded by four lightweight chairs. Hmm. Is this place a morgue or a bridge club?

In fact, I become almost hypnotized by the blaring fluorescent lights and the stainless steel cabinet fronts that stand in a U-shaped row like robotic servers on parade. Snack dispensers. Louise has made a tour from the other side and we meet in the middle.

“Awesome,” she says. “I must admire these people for sustaining such a prodigious appetite in the face of daily death. Although it is all junk calories.”

“Cheetos? That is dairy protein. You know how we like our milk. Pepperoni ’n’ cheddar. That is dairy and protein.”

“Pretzels?” Louise’s tone is withering.

“Ah, salt is the saline solution that is the staff of life, along with, uh, wheat.”

“Gluten.” She glowers. “High-fructose corn syrup.”

“Fiber. Low, er, sodium.”

We have faced off over this bounty we do not have time to break into.

Louise nods as sagaciously as a babe of her type can. “If we can contemplate breaking into the fast-food automat, we can crack any autopsy cabinet in the place. Do you think they will make it easy for us and have drawers?”

“One can only hope, Louise.”

*   *   *

Of course, identifying one dead dude among so many is a challenge. I somehow think our ancient alien will not be in any old drawer, so we tour the rooms off the main autopsy area.

“Where would Grizzly Bear stash a prime candidate for illegal paparazzi snapshots?” I ask.