By Ian Creasey
Read by Ben Phillips
“How long have we had this one?” I asked, shivering in the morgue’s chill.
“Two days,” the white-coat guy said. I didn’t know his name. I try to remember the lab people and support staff, but turnover’s too high. This line of work burns people out faster than a crematorium on overtime.
“What did you leave it that long for?” I said, annoyed. “Waiting for the killer to turn himself in?”
“We were waiting for the ghost to show up,” he said.
I shook my head in disgust. “Look, when someone’s been murdered, they want us on the case. If their ghost doesn’t turn up in twenty-four hours, that’s because it can’t.”
That was the problem. If a ghost complains that it’s just been murdered, it can help us by describing the killer, or at least telling us about its enemies. Investigating a murder without a ghost is much harder. The slashing was the third this month, all without ghosts, and the eighth this year. Or was it the ninth?
Hell, when you lose count of the corpses, you know you’re losing.