Inspector Poon pulled Rain showered onto Poon's fedora in waves, dribbling off the brim and running down the puffy set of cheeks he liked to call the front of his face.

The coroner took photo after photo of the two bodies in the dumpster; a man and woman, both in their twenties, with only a small note left in the man's hand.

"It never gets any easier, does, it, Poon?" asked the coroner, dragging absently off a cigarette.

"What?" asked Poon, who'd been wondering to himself if the coroner might let him pose the corpses into amusing positions and hadn't been listening. "What the hell are you talking about?" Poon eyeballed the coroner accusingly. "What are you saying? Are you bugged? Who sent you? WHO SENT YOU?" His fists launched out at the coroner's lapels, his bloodshot eyes frantic and glaring.

"Jesus, Poon," said the Coroner. "The body. It doesn't get any easier looking at dead people. Christ, are you on something?" .

And of course he was — that most paranoia-inducing of cocaines, the ol' crack cocaine. Poon did his best to compose himself. He was already in trouble with Mallory over the case of the kidnapped twins a week earlier, and didn't want any more heat headed his way.

Ah, the kidnapped twins case. In retrospect, the kidnappers had not researched their victims well, since both parents were both middle class workers and could not afford to pay the one million dollar ransom. Matters had looked bleak — unless the ransom was payed at exactly midnight, the children would die. Poon had studied the taped telephone call for hours before finally, with only ten minutes left until midnight, he recognized a church bell in the background. The twins were being held in the belfry of St. Michael's Cathedral. Detective Poon had raced to the phone to get in touch with his dealer. He happily cooked up in celebration, patting himself on the back for solving such a challenging crime, and ended up watching Baywatch reruns and passing out in front of the TV.

He'd awoken late the next afternoon to the realization that he'd missed the deadline, and so wisely decided to pretend he hadn't actually solved the crime after all. He'd been in Mallory's bad books ever since, as the twins had been his daughters.

"So, you have any idea who killed them, Poon?" asked the coroner.

"Nope. Not a clue. It sure is a mystery." Poon puffed out air fast, making a face. An awkward pause ensued.

"Can I go now?" Poon asked, hopping from one foot to the other.

"Why don't you read the note, Poon?" The coroner pointed to the scrap of paper with his pen. "Might be a clue."

"No need, no need," dismissed Poon. "My detective instincts are already kicking in. THAT woman," —he pointed at the woman— "killed THAT man! Oh ho! Yes."

The coroner paused for a moment. "The woman has a bullet in her head, Poon, " he sighed. "And the man has a gun in his hand."

"EXACTLY!" screamed Poon, ripping off his shirt, then pausing awkwardly to rebutton it.

How did Poon know the woman had committed murder, then suicide? Poon guessed that the woman had slyly invited the man into the dumpster, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist the offer. She then shot him, and even slylyier threw the gun in the air, wrote a quick note framing the man while the gun flew through the air, then died as the gun dropped into the man's hand and fired itself. "That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard," said the coroner. "What would her motive be, Poon?" "I detect that I don't care," surmised Poon, lighting a cigarette and flagging a cab. "I really think you should at least read the note," said the coroner.round in to Fierstein's thigh. "Agh!" Feristein yelled, grabbing at his leg. "My thigh!" "Knock yourself out," waved Poon as he hopped into the cab. "Do you know where the red light district is?" He asked the cabbie. "Then step on it, and don't spare the horses." The cab sped off into the cold rainy night. "They really should fire him," mumbled the coroner as he began zipping up body bags