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184 pages, Hardcover
First published March 7, 2005
"In the autopsy room, the body will be stripped, opened, turned inside out, emptied. Blood, urine, ocular fluid, and bile will be sucker out, dehydrated, atomized, and scanned. Organs will be cut loose, diced, shaved into sections less than a cell thick, saturated with dyes, eyed through microscopes. If it's murder, the evidence will show when autopsy techs cut her open. Or when the labs find toxins in the blood or urine, or when the kaleidoscope-like organ tissue slides give up the ghost. With little delicacy and much painstaking science, pathologists will hone or reverse the findings made by investigators at the death scene."
"Some deputy coroners, Tiffani Hunt, find this job difficult because there sometimes seems to be no upside. Other jobs involve death and tragedy - firefighting, nursing, paramedical work - but the people who do those jobs draw conviction from the idea that they are helping people. Deputy coroners find their jobs entertaining, but it doesn't always feel like they're helping anybody directly. Sure, they identify public health hazards and help catch killers. Sometimes they can help survivors or at least treat them with kindness. But most of the time, the job consists of dealing with people who are beyond help."
"It's your job to deal with death so the rest of the living don't have to. You cover it with a maroon blanket and whisk it away to a deadhouse that looks like a chapel among skyscrapers, where it's secrets are laid open. It's your job to hide death from others - but maybe you get really good at hiding it from yourself as well."
"Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou’art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy’or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die."