As we approached the bodies, the smell of formaldehyde became intense. I shook my head in repulsion and cringed as my lids swelled with tears, “I can’t. I am sorry, but these bodies could be of anyone.” I couldn’t even differentiate if they were male or female. All that was discernible to me was that one was slightly larger.

Both doctors casually approached me from opposite directions. Each carried a file.

“Female Caucasian, about seventy-eight years old, black, greying dyed hair, light brown eyes, five feet, half of the index finger missing on the right hand,” a voice to my left rattled articulately.

Before time permitted my response, the voice to my right chimed in, “Male Caucasian, about seventy-nine years old, brown, graying hair, grayish-blue eyes, five feet six inches tall. Did he walk with a limp?” he queried.

I rotated halfway to my right, wiped my eyes and confirmed, “Yes, my father had a limp.”

“That explains why one of his legs is shorter than the other,” he said, referring to his file peering over his thin-rimmed spectacles that were firmly seated on the bridge of his nose.

I shook my head, “No,” I denied in futility. “It could be anyone”.

Now all eyes were trailing me.

“That’s all conjecture. There are eight million people in this city!” I challenged, heading for the door.