But, but, what is this? Is it a tattoo? What is that on your body, Dr. Foseca?, Camilo asked, taking two hurried steps backwards, as if something had pushed him.
His eyes were fixed on the motionless body on the metal stretcher, and the tone of his voice trembled with uncertainty.
On the other side of the cold room, surrounded by white tiles and surgical instruments, Dr. Foseca, the most experienced surgeon in the place, who had just opened a closet in search of scalpels and knives, turned around with a frown.
What do you mean by “up tattoo”? What did you see, Dr. Camilo?
He asked clearly, intrigued, as he approached with slow steps. Lying on the stainless steel stretcher was something that was not seen every day in that morgue: the body of a nun.
He was still wearing the black habit, which suited his young and delicate body very well.
Her face, pale and angelic, seemed more like that of someone who was sleeping soundly than that of someone alive, but she was dead and there was no clear explanation for her death.
Camilo, the better of the two foremen, remained silent for several seconds.
