Waving the others away, the jock doc—an elf with narrow, delicate fingers and a widow’s-peak hairline—pushed the stretcher into an adjoining room. Forced to play my part, I picked up the case and followed. He shut the door behind us and motioned for me to stand to one side of the stretcher. As I did, he velcroed an apron over his track suit and carefully lifted a monofilament blade out of the medical bag he carried. He pulled the micro-thin line taut between its two plastic handles, then raised it above the dead man’s neck. Knowing what was coming, I fought down the bile in my throat.