Sacred Sins

blue-paisley pajama bottoms under a flapping overcoat go into the alley. The coroner's day had started early.
    From somewhere blocks away came the grinding metallic sound of a truck changing gears. A single cab rode by without slowing down. One of the uniformed cops brought a big Styrofoam cup with steam and the scent of coffee rising off the top, and handed it to the figure in back of the cruiser.
    Tess looked toward the alley again. She'd held up, she told herself, though her stomach was roiling now in reaction. She'd been professional, as she'd promised herself she would be. But she wouldn't forget Anne Reasoner for a long time. Death wasn't a neatly printed statistic when you looked it in the face.
    She would have kicked and pulled at the scarf with her hands and tried to scream.

    Tess took a long gulp of air that hurt her throat, raw from swallowing nausea. She was a doctor. She repeated it over and over until the cramp in her stomach eased. She'd been trained to deal with death. And she had dealt with it.
    Turning away from the alley, she faced the empty street. Who was she trying to fool? She dealt with despair, with phobias, neuroses, even violence, but she'd never been face-to-face with the victim of a murder. Her life was ordered, protected because she'd made certain of it. Pastel walls and questions and answers. Even her hours at the clinic were tame compared to the day-to-day violence on the streets of the city where she lived.
    She knew about ugliness, violence, and perversion, but she'd always been neatly separated from all of it by her own background. The senator's granddaughter, the bright young student, the cool-headed doctor. She had her degree, her successful practice, and three published papers. She'd treated the helpless, the hopeless, and the pitiful, but she'd never knelt down beside murder.
    “Dr. Court?”
    She turned back and saw Ed. Instinctively she looked past him and spotted Ben talking to the coroner.
    “I wrangled you some coffee.”
    “Thanks.” She took the cup and sipped slowly.
    “Want a bagel?”
    “No.” She laid a hand on her stomach. “No.”
    “You did okay in there.”
    The coffee settled and seemed content to stay down. Looking over the cup, she met his eyes. He understood, she realized, and neither condemned nor pitied. “I hope I never have to do it again.”
    A black plastic bag was carried out of the alley. Tess found herself able to watch as it was loaded into the morgue van.
    “It never gets any easier,” Ed murmured. “I used to wish it would.”
    “Not anymore?”

    “No. I figure if it gets easier, it means you've lost the edge that makes you want to find out why.”
    She nodded. Common sense and common compassion in his quiet voice were soothing. “How long have you and Ben been partners?”
    “Five, almost six years.”
    “You suit each other.”
    “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
    She gave a low, humorless laugh. “There's a difference between attraction and suitability.”
    “Maybe. There's also a difference between stubbornness and stupidity.” His look remained bland as her head came around. “Anyway, Dr. Court,” he went on before she had a chance to react. “I was hoping you might talk to the witness for a couple of minutes. He's pretty shook up, and we're not getting anywhere.”
    “All right.” She nodded at the cruiser. “That's him in the car, isn't it?”
    “Yeah. Name's Gil Norton.”
    Tess walked to the car and crouched at the open door. He was hardly more than a boy, she thought. Twenty, maybe twenty-two. While he shivered and gulped coffee, his face was pale, with a high flush of color over the cheekbones. His eyes were puffed and red from weeping, and his teeth clattered. He'd put dents with his thumbs in the sides of the Styrofoam cup. He smelt of beer and vomit and terror.
    “Gil?”
    After a jolt, he turned his head. She hadn't any doubt he was stone sober now, but she could see a bit too much white around his irises. His pupils were dilated.
    “I'm Dr. Court. How are you feeling?”

    “I want to go home. I've been sick. My stomach hurts.” There was a trace of the whining self-pity of a drunk who'd had cold water dumped in his face. Under it was plain fear.
    “Finding her must have been pretty dreadful.”
    “I don't want to talk about it.” His mouth contracted into a thin white line. “I want to go home.”
    “I'll call someone for you if you like. Your mother?”
    Tears began to