The fluorescent lights hummed overhead in the cold, sterile morgue, casting harsh shadows across the stainless-steel tables and the rows of cabinets lining the walls. The air smelled of disinfectant and something faintly metallic. On the central gurney lay the body of Phillip Hale, still and pale beneath a crisp white sheet that covered him from the waist down.

Marcus stood over him, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to the elbows, dark tie slightly loosened. His face was set in a grim, almost satisfied expression as he looked down at the man who had spent a lifetime making him feel small.