The register tape clicked off the printhead with a sharp mechanical snap.
The amber letters on Register 1’s display held their ground.
[AUDIT POINT 1/4 SUSTAINED: ACOUSTIC ANOMALY LOGGED -- 3 POINTS REMAINING TO STRIP BEARER ID]
Dr. Victor Corvo did not hurry. In his thirty-four years of signing death certificates, haste was the quickest way to miss a poisoned liver or a forged will.
He set his Pyrex lab beaker of cold black espresso onto the shelf by the stockroom drain. He adjusted the knurled brass ring of his Morgue Magnifying Loupe over his left eye, then pulled on a fresh pair of talc-dusted black rubber autopsy gloves.
“Three points left,” Corvo said, stepping past Station 5 toward the front register. “And paper has always been far more talkative than bone.”
Julian Vance didn’t turn his head. His eyes stayed locked on the creature across the counter.
The skin around Julian’s temples was tight and chalky, but his fingers rested firmly against the edge of the till. Beside him, Thomas Vance leaned his tall, gaunt frame against the counter rail, his yellow slicker rustling like dry autumn leaves.
