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.
“That’s the wife, Yvette Horne,” Jeff continues, lifting his eyes toward the blubbering woman.
“Hmm.” She does seem rather upset right now, but the image of her sitting calmly and watchfully hasn’t disappeared from my mind. That didn’t seem like shock but more like a high school drama kid realizing they missed their cue and launching in full bore.
But she’s not my concern right now. The body of Richard “Dickie” Horne is.
There isn’t much else to be learned right now, so I finish my assessment, double-checking my list even though it’s an automatic habit after doing this job for so many years. I’m the coroner in the county, so literally every body comes through my morgue.
It’s a heavy responsibility, one I was taught to take seriously.
“All right, I’m done for now. Let’s transport.” Jeff nods and waves a hand at the paramedics, who’ve got a body bag and gurney waiting. If we were a full-service unit, we’d hire specialists, but out here, we all do double-duty. Paramedics sometimes hurry live ones to the hospital, and sometimes, they move my DBs to the morgue. They come close, wearing ponchos and full protective gear because you never know what’s going to happen when you move a body. Sometimes it’s clean and easy, and sometimes it's . . . not.
And that’s all I’ll say about that.
I stand up, giving them space. “Take him in. I’ll meet you there.”
The senior paramedic nods. “Sure thing, Boss.”
Outside, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Birds are even chirping. It seems like the sort of day where nothing bad could happen. But I think Mr. Horne would disagree with that assessment.
Maybe Mrs. Horne too. Her overly dramatic wailing echoes in my ears.
Before I get in my car, I go over to pet Rusty on the head, rewarding him for being calm, cool, and collected now that there’s not a stranger in his yard. “Yeah, I didn’t like that guy, either,” I tell the dog, who’s downright purring like a kitten under my palm.
At least dogs like me.
Blake
Traffic. I hate traffic.
More than 38,000 people die in car accidents in the US each year. And yet, people take it in stride while freaking out over a couple of dozen people choking on gummy bears or something similar. I won’t be one of them—the car accident victims, not the gummy bear chokers—even though I’m running late. But that’s my fault for not expecting an overflow of cars out here on the rural highways surrounding the city.
Are we stuck behind a tractor with a maximum speed of twenty? Or maybe a big truck hauling a double-wide trailer?
I mentally cuss my sister out again, wondering if this crazy idea of hers is truly worth driving all the way out here. But I keep my hands at ten and two, radio on low, and eyes on the cars in front of me, alert for brake lights. I creep along, making barely any discernible progress until . . . finally, the roadway opens up and we start moving.
Pressing down on the gas, I keep my eyes fixed on the Mitsubishi Mirage in front of me, wondering why anyone would drive the number-one most unsafe car on the road. Sure, it’s cute and pink like an adult version of a Barbie car, but no way would I put my wife or daughter behind the wheel of a go-kart on a highway filled with Hummers and monster-truck-sized SUVs.
Not that I have a wife or daughter, but the point remains the same. The Mirage doesn’t even have the safety features of similarly sized cars in its class.
Unfortunately for me, I’m so distracted by the bright pink monstrosity, my mind running through all the facts and figures about the Mirage,