Killer Moves: The 4th Jolene Jackson Mystery (Jolene Jackson Mysteries) by Paula Boyd Page A

Still, I kind of liked the guy—go figure. “Thanks for talking to me,” I said as we walked.
    “You’re not here for conversation.”
    “True, ‘Doctor times three’ Travis, but it’s always an added bonus.”
    He glanced toward me and stared intently for several seconds as we walked then said, “Technically, I am a Doctor of Medicine with additional doctoral degrees in complimentary science and philosophical disciplines, although few are aware of it. I’m serving as a medical examiner in a town of less than one hundred thousand people, most of whom think I am less qualified than the elected coroner with a high school diploma whom I replaced.”
    “Not many people around here get me either. In my case, I know why that is. How about you?”
    “You may not be quite as clear on why you get the reactions you do as you may think.”
    And there was the old Travis from my last visit. “Aw, come on, don’t start the cryptic crap again. I have enough on my plate without having to try to figure out what you’re really trying to say—or why I should care. Just say it, for godsake.”
    He glanced around again and sort of smiled, but said nothing.
    “Now, what is that supposed to mean!”
    He chuckled, or at least made a noise that resembled it. “We all have our self-perceptions based on our experiences and beliefs.”
    “Yes, Obi Wan, I know,” I said as a parade of Star Wars characters danced through my brain.
    “You’re uncomfortable being here,” he said, ignoring my clever commentary. “Sarcasm, humor and distraction help you cope.”
    “Not a revelation, Yoda,” I said, The Force apparently still with me.
    “My name is Zang Shen Travis.” He spelled the first two names then said, “I was adopted as an infant by artists living in communal housing in California. My parents Americanized Xiang for my first name and selected a traditional Chinese one for my middle name to honor my heritage. It has proved an interesting choice in both meaning and difficulty of pronunciation. Travis is easier for most people, although you may call me Zang if you wish.”
    “Zang Shen. You know, I kind of like the sound of that. Zang Shen. That’s just a cool name you have there, Zang Shen.”
    “Travis will do,” he said, pushing open a steel door and motioning me through.
    Any pithy reactionary remarks that might have been headed toward my tongue fled as I followed him into the main room of the morgue. Dread and déjà vu hit me like a rock. I wasn’t officially even supposed to be in town yet and I was already at the morgue. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead as we passed the examining tables on our way to the lab in the back. A wall with glass on the top half exposed a vast array of laboratory equipment, which only added to my unease. The TV images of such places are creepy enough, but it’s much worse in person and there’s no remote to change the channel.
    Travis closed the lab door behind me and held out his hand. “I presume you have more in that cup than a Mocha Latte.”
    I handed him the travel mug. “Blood sample.” Emptying my pockets, I gave him the little paper cup and sack of pills. “Those are from two separate things.”
    He nodded and set everything on the big counter in the center of the room then began collecting what he needed to work with it.
    Normally, I would be chattering like a chipmunk at this point, explaining and justifying, but the medical examiner didn’t seem to require it. For some strange reason I didn’t either.
    Travis opened the sack and poured Mother’s stash of pills into a small stainless steel tray and pushed them around with the scalpel, separating the larger white pills into one group. “These are for pain.” Small round pink tablets piled up next. “Cholesterol.”
    “Those kind of look like what’s in the little cup, although the shade of pink is different.”
    “Many look similar, which can be confusing. The imprint information on each side of the tablet