Beneath the bustling floors of Atlanta's Grady Memorial Hospital, in the summer of nineteen ninety-four, lies a place forgotten by the sun. Level B-Two. The morgue. A cold, damp basement of raw concrete and sweating pipes that date back to the nineteen forties. During a suffocating eighty-nine-day stretch of heat, this concrete tomb became the heart of an unspeakable mystery. It began with the ...
