“You hauled in a marlin here, kids,” Shanika said. “Hand me my murder bag, will you?”

Alan reached over and grabbed the old-fashioned black bag that rested on the countertop between an old CRT set to (muted and subtitled) daytime TV a stack of autopsy reports.

Shanika reached in and produced a battery-powered circular saw, the sort used for light drywall work. A few quick revs to make sure it had a charge, and she leaned in over the horror that Alan and Jen had retrieved.

“Aren’t you going to use a scalpel?” Jen said.

“Too much CSI: Miami huh?” Shanika said, looking up. “Look, if you want to try sawing through whatever this bad boy has in what passes for his chest with nothing but an Xacto knife and hope, be my guest. But around here, we use power tools to do the heavy lifting.”

Jen visibly blanched at the thought.

“Nobody said you had to look,” Shanika said, leaning forward with the saw. Then, almost as an afterthought: “You might wanna step back, though.”

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