Free Terminal 9 by Patricia H. Rushford

so they can hide the engine from us. He also confirmed the bit about Mullins tattling to the terminal management about Mason doing a sloppy job. Mason had told him more than once that it made his blood boil to see Mullins out there every day, watching from his chair, counting and watching, counting and watching.”
    â€œInteresting. We’ll have to ask Mason about that this afternoon when he gets off work.”
    â€œThat’s the part I think you will find really interesting.” Dana pulled on her seat belt and snapped it into place. “Mason signed off duty while I was speaking with the dispatch clerk. I heard it over the radio, and the guy I was talking to confirmed it. Looks like Mason is skipping out on us.”

EIGHT
    M AC AND DANA DROVEBACK IN TO DOWNTOWN PORTLAND, hitting a drive-thru at a fast-food restaurant along Highway 30 on the way to the medical examiner’s office. Mac had taken his sunglasses on and off a half-dozen times during the forty-five-minute trip. Oregon’s weather fluctuated this time of year between sun breaks and rain showers, making it difficult to predict the proper dress for the day, and making driving a royal pain.
    Mac pulled into the lot and put the Crown Victoria in park. The extra pair of handcuffs that hung on the shift knob clanked as they slid down.
    Dana zipped her light jacket up to her neck and brushed the hair that had escaped her chignon behind her ears. Mac envisioned Dana with her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, the way it had been during their last date—check that—the dinner they’d had together. He sighed. You have to stop thinking about her that way, he told himself. She’s off-limits. Period.
    â€œI hear the medical examiner division is getting a new office down in the Clackamas area,” Dana said. “They’ll be sharing it with the crime lab.”
    â€œWhere did you hear that?” Mac examined the faded red brick on the old single-story building while he popped the trunk.
    â€œJan told me this morning. Don’t know where the funding is coming from—especially with all the budget cuts.”
    â€œI’ve given up understanding the political ins and outs of all this stuff. Seems like they can find the money when they want it. I’m not complaining, though. With both their offices in Clackamas, it would be one-stop shopping for us. We could attend the autopsy and run the evidence across the hall instead of driving it all the way downtown.”
    Dana nodded, accepting the digital camera bag from Mac as he hoisted it out of the trunk. “That would be nice.”
    Mac grabbed his leather briefcase, slipping in a few small evidence bags and evidence forms before snapping it shut.
    Dana walked just ahead of Mac as they approached the employee entrance to the morgue and punched in the digital code to the back door. The door opened, forcing them to step back to make room for a mortician.
    â€œComing through,” the man pushing the gurney yelled as he balanced the human cargo with one hand and pushed with the other. The man expertly slid the body and gurney into the back of the hearse and checked his clipboard before leaving the parking lot, probably double-checking the directions for the delivery.
    Once the man had cleared the entry, Mac gestured for Dana to go ahead.
    â€œBusy place,” Dana observed.
    â€œThat’s for sure.” The state medical examiner produced a steady clientele for local funeral directors, who picked up the bodies after the autopsies were completed.
    Mac had been in on a number of autopsies now. He remembered his first time, when he and Kevin had attended the Megan Tyson autopsy. That had been a rough one. Not only was Mac a novice detective, but he’d never witnessed an autopsy. The corpse had been about two weeks old and the stench unbearable. Kristen had kindly supplied him with smelling salts. Her teasing and focusing on collecting evidence had