The Long and Winding Hallway. A dank, murky passageway leads Alan "The Pledge" Lowe, Detective Mike, and Mrs. Fletcher to another equally dismal room. This ain't no flashy morgue like the one on that truly horrible Jill Hennessey venue, Crossing Boredom, oops, I mean "Crossing Jordan." The Suffering County Morgue is a basement, with pipes overhead and grey cement blocks for walls. The Very Serious Crime March serenades the three as they walk briskly toward the viewing room. Both Detective Mike and Hunky DA are wearing trench coats that make them look like superheroes as they trot toward the end of the hall. They stop in front of a doorway so the Hunk can ask Mrs. Blah if she's okay to make the identification. She takes a deep breath: "Mr. Lowe. You're telling me --" Pause. Dramatic inference. Cheap music trill. "That my son may be in there." Alan asks if there are any family members or friends that might be able to make the identification for her. Mrs. Fletcher replies by stating, "I'm here." They carry on in through swinging doors that have orange "Hazardous Materials" markers all over them. There is a stainless steel operating table to the right as they walk toward the large refrigerator-type storage container for the bodies. (Honestly, if I had a better word to use to describe it, or actually its proper name, I would have used it.) A coroner pulls out a drawer. The music swells like a hurricane over the weather-ravished Caribbean. Alan nods toward Detective Mike, who uncovers the body. When the white sheet is pulled back, it reveals a very young, very dead man. Mrs. Fletcher looks at the body for an intense minute. Creases her brow. And nods. It's her son lying there, her son.
Outside the morgue, Alan walks around Mrs. Fletcher as she insists that her son was not in a gang. Alan: "He was wearing Crip colours." Her voice quivers. "Mr. Lowe," she says, "I know my son." Then she pauses and corrects her own grammar: "I knew my son. The jacket was a Christmas present from an uncle. He was not in a gang." Alan postulates that he was mistaken for a member of the gang. Mrs. Fletcher asks if he knows who shot her son. Hunky DA nods in his hunky way, "We think so, yes." Without pausing to suffer the consequences of her words, Mrs. Fletcher says, "Please. Get this person, Mr. Lowe. I'm asking you as his mother." Because asking him as any other person might not have rendered the emotional impact DEK was looking for. Yawn. She carries on, "Please get whoever did this." Alan looks clearly into her pretty brown eyes and makes his promise: "I will."