Ruth Turner

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St. Mary’s Hospital is a large building; Skids’s hope of finding the mortician in the warren of rooms took a nasty dent. He wandered inside, staring up at the list of departments: Paediatric, Chiropractic, Surgery, Basement… “ah,” he thought, “she must be down there in the basement, where else?”

He “accidentally” bumped into a fat man in white coat, removing the name tag at the same time.

“Can I access the Mortuary?” said Skids to a sullen-looking youth. “I’m Dr. Roxas,” and he fingered the tag pinned to the shirt. The youth pressed a switch, there was a buzzing sound and a click, which came from the door he guarded.

Skids entered a white-tiled laboratory, or dissecting room. The mortician looked up from a cadaver, the apron she wore was smeared in red stuff, her expression changed to one of impatient question.

“Ruth Turner?” said Skids.

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