In his sixties, his first name is Wyatt but I don't know his last. He looks like a sheriff in his khaki uniform with brown pocket flaps, walking up the concrete ramp leading inside the morgue, pressing a button on the cinder block wall. The massive door begins rolling down in the swirling exhaust of the hearse driving out, probably the suicide from Fairfax County, based on bodies scheduled for release. ------------------------- "He needs you to meet him somewhere." My secretary acts as if I answer to her instead of the other way around. Dressed in her typical couture of a tweedy skirt suit and loafers, her steely gray hair styled like the 1950s, Maggie Cutbush eyes me disapprovingly over the wire-rim glasses perched on the tip of her sharp nose. "He needs to meet me for what reason---"I start to say. "He'll explain," she interrupts.