F3 Cold and Hard

The hard-boiled greats could face down any challenge. Surly gunmen, flim-flam artists, the upper crust with skeletons big enough to rival the dinosaurs, and even the smoldering stares of femme fatales as they prepared to plant a knife between your shoulder blades. They took it all in stride. Another day at the job.
I wasn't those guys.

I jumped at skeletons, hated people pointing guns at me, and the one femme fatale I knew wouldn't use a knife; her teeth were far more dangerous.
The door to the morgue swung open, and I was waved inside. I didn't want to go in there. I had been called in to identify a body. Corpses creeped me out. An occupational hazard that went beyond what even Golden Age private dicks had to deal with.
Shoe soles squeaked on the hard floor. It was concrete, and coated with something hard and slick. There was a drain set into the floor. Steel tables with steel lips cradled bodies. I was directed toward the freezers. Cold storage.
The ME pulled the door open with a loud mechanical click, then hauled on the drawer. Steel bearings pulled smoothly, but with a slight metallic hiss until the upper body was free. The ME looked at me, hands on the zipper to open the bodybag.
I swallowed hard. Of all the things I had to do as a detective, this was the worst. Someone I knew was inside that bag.
The ME pulled open the zip, and my world crashed down around me even as I went numb. It had nothing to do with the cold.