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short
stories
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The
Dilemma of the Definitely Dead Dumpster Duo 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. "No, you're right,"
agreed Poon, playing it safe. "It's tough looking at dead bodies,
alright." He released his vise-like grip on the coroner's lapels
and adjusted his tie. "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.
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