Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
I can’t help but smile sweetly at the rookie and wave two fingers, though, pretending that I have no idea what Jeff is talking about.
Rookie uncertainly smiles back, and I switch modes in an instant, my smile morphing into a growl as I bite my teeth together with a clack and my fingers turning into claws. Grr! I’m a tiger that’ll eat you for breakfast, and not in the morning wood-good way. He recoils quickly, stumbling into the mantel above the fireplace and knocking down a figurine that looks like an old-school tin soldier.
I laugh. That was too easy.
I see Jeff grimace and mutter, “Told you so. She’s a bit . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence aloud, instead completing it by circling his finger by his ear to indicate that I’m crazy. “Talks to the stiffs, ya know.”
Pfft. As if he doesn’t talk to his stiffy too.
Okay, so his is a bit different, but you can’t tell me Jeff doesn’t talk to his dick every day, because I’ve heard him tell his daily breakfast donut ‘come to Daddy’ more times than I can count. And if he’s talking to food, he’s talking to Mr. Woody, and I’m not unpacking that level of crazy for all the money in the world.
Nope, I’ll just keep talking to the dead bodies, filling in their side of the conversations in my mind, and that does not make me crazy.
Weird, I’ll admit. But not crazy. I mean, fuck, at least they’ve usually still got their ears. Except for that one time . . .
Entering the kitchen, I see a guy hunched over the dining table, his breakfast plate of scrambled eggs and toast still sitting in front of him. Actually, make that under him. He’s literally nose-down in eggs. The orange juice glass has been righted, probably to keep it from rolling off the edge, but the spill of liquid is still dripping off the table into his lap, soaking his tie.
Time for ‘work brain’ to take over.
Male. Early fifties. No obvious signs of trauma or foul play. He’s just dead at the dining table, eyes staring unblinkingly and unseeingly at now-cold and congealed eggs.
And they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Okay, enough jokes. Assess, take pictures, and make notes. It’s all old hat, my hands working by habit, snapping pictures from nearly every angle I can think of. The county buys me a new memory card for every case, so I’ve got plenty of room on here for video and photo.
As I work, in my mind I’m talking to Mr. Toast-and-Eggs, just like I do with all my bodies.
“So, how’s your day been?”
“Pretty shitty, to be honest.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll do my best to get you out of here quickly and wipe that OJ off.”
“Not too worried about the OJ being cold. Don’t think shrinkage matters now, but there’s a corner of toast poking me in the cheek.”
“Oh, I can fix that in just a second.”
“No rush. Not like I’ve got anything better to do now.”
Pics and video done, I do more assessing. Toasty was dressed for work, it appears. There’s a slight bulging in his neck veins, possible indications of heart problems. I lift my head to look around for any medications or anything helpful. None, but I’ll check the bathroom cabinet later.
Through the doorway, my eyes land on a woman sitting on the couch. She looks like this could be a house party, sitting cross-legged and calm as can be while people mill around her. She’s wearing jeans and a low-cut V-neck T-shirt, so not a police officer, not one of my crew, so . . . who is she?
Her eyes tick from person to person, silent and watchful. Eventually, they land on me and we lock eyes for a moment. She takes a deep breath and begins to cry . . . instantly loud and dramatic wailing.
Jeff’s rookie sits down beside her, patting her shoulder comfortingly, but she amps up her wailing.
“My Dickie! He’s gone! Nooooo, Dickie Boo!”
I lift an eyebrow. “Dickie Boo?”
Jeff, who’s followed me in, squats down beside me and the body of the dead guy. “Yeah, DB’s name is Richard Horne. His parents must’ve hated him something fierce before he was even born. And then they made it even worse by nicknaming him Dick.” He snorts, covering it with a cough, before explaining, “Dick Horne. Toot, toot, tootle-toot.”
Out of professionalism, I don’t laugh, but I do agree that this guy’s parents weren’t winning awards for that one. Maybe some people would find it wrong or rude that we’re joking around at a scene, but a macabre sense of humor is shockingly common in our profession. I’m not sure if investigative work attracts morbid people or if our sense of humor is a coping mechanism. Probably both.