“They have a duck palace on the roof,” I said. “And roll out a red carpet for them twice a day when they come and go to John Philip Sousa.”

“No way.”

I told the hostess that we would like a table for two. “In nonsmoking,” I added.

The restaurant was crowded with men and women wearing big name tags for some real estate convention they were attending at the hotel. We sat so close to other people that I could read reports they were perusing and hear their affairs. I ordered a fresh fruit plate and coffee, while Marino got his usual grilled hamburger platter.

“Medium rare,” he told the waiter.

“Medium.” I gave Marino a look.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He shrugged.

“Enterohemorrhagic E. coli,” I said to him as the waiter walked off. “Trust me. Not worth it.”

“Don’t you ever want to do things bad for you?” he said.

He looked depressed and suddenly old as he sat across from me in this beautiful place where people were well dressed and better paid than a police captain from Richmond. Marino’s hair had thinned to an unruly fringe circling the top of his ears like a tarnished silver halo shoved low. He had not lost an ounce since I had known him, his belly rising from his belt and touching the edge of the table. Not a day went by that I did not fear for him. I could not imagine his not working with me forever.

At half past one, we left the hotel in the rental car. He drove because he would never have it any other way, and we got on Madison Avenue and followed it east, away from the Mississippi River. The brick university was so close we could have walked it, the Regional Forensic Center across the street from a tire store and the Life Blood Donor Center. Marino parked in back, near the public entrance of the medical examiner’s office.

The facility was funded by the county and about the size of my central district office in Richmond. There were three forensic pathologists, and also two forensic anthropologists, which was very unusual and enviable, for I would have loved to have someone like Dr. David Canter on my staff. Memphis had yet another distinction that was decidedly not a happy one. The chief had been involved in perhaps two of the most infamous cases in the country. He had performed the autopsy of Martin Luther King and had witnessed the one of Elvis.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Marino said as we got out of the car, “I think I’ll make phone calls while you do your thing.”

“Fine. I’m sure they can find an office for you to use.”

He squinted up at an autumn blue sky, then looked around as we walked. “I can’t believe I’m here,” he said. “This is where he was posted.”

“No,” I said, because I knew exactly who he was talking about. “Elvis Presley was posted at Baptist Memorial Hospital. He never came here, even though he should have.”