"Nothing," I said. "Go on." Bent glanced back to the other terminal. "There's not much else. Admitted to Harborview at seventeen-oh-three, 24 November 2052. Life support terminated twenty-two-fifteen, 26 November-last night. Post-mortem begun twenty-two-fifty-one-that's fast-completed oh-one-ten this morning." He frowned again, but it was an expression of puzzlement, not affront. "Waters flatlines at twenty-two-fifteen, and the Lone Star doc starts cutting thirty-six minutes later," he said slowly. "And transit from Harborview to here is twenty minutes, give or take." He looked at me expectantly.