Someone told me to just write. I'm doing that. I thought if I put it onto a dead blog, then maybe it would somehow motivate me more than just keeping it hidden in a file on my phone would. It's the beginning to a story that I'll likely never finish, but the seeds are there for maybe something like a short 20-30 page story. For right now it's called Dread. It probably also needs a lot of editing and research to go anywhere because I know nothing about real police work.
The body was found at half past 8 on Wednesday morning. The landlord was making her morning rounds when she noticed the crumbling drywall next to door 18A. Then the smell hit her - a mix of rotten meat and burnt hair. She didn't dare to open the door, having always been squeamish. The police arrived at 8:55.
Its final position was a middle finger to chance. After the shot, the body slumped over forward, catching against the old Mossberg before it fell. The result was the stiff leaning into the gun that he killed himself with, like a macabre Fred Astaire leaning into his tap stick during a number.
"Couldn't do that again if he tried," Dubont muttered, half to himself and half to the forensic team around him.
"Hilarious, Teddy," came a muffled voice from beneath a layer of HAZMAT material. The body that owned the voice rose up from its crouch in front of the stiff, snapping one last picture with a gaudy police-issue camera. Peeling back his hood revealed a sweaty red face, sticky blonde hair falling down to his cheeks as if taking off a wetsuit. It was Bill Korb - probably the only guy at forensics who Dubont didn't think was a dumbass.
"Damn, you look like you ran a marathon in that stuff," Dubont balked, looking Bill up and down. He was still visibly sweating.
"Maybe I did, wise guy. These suits are probably older than I am." He may well have been right; the department's budget was geared more toward pensions, retirement packages and "We're Sorry We Accidentally Shot Your Dad Because he Looked Suspicious on his Way to Volunteer at the Homeless Shelter So Here's $20,000" funds than tangible resources. Dubont side-stepped Bill and took a cursory glance around the room, squinting to hopefully reveal something he missed at first.
"I don't get it," he looked back at Bill.
"Pardon?"
"Why the hell are you guys here? This is an obvious 10-56. Poor sap's even hugging the gun."
"Pssh, I don't know. Nothing surprises me when it comes to this part of town anymore. Plus it's been a slow week, Pogue probably wanted us to earn our keep." Bill started stripping the rest of his crusty yellow protective gear off, each piece making the room smell somehow worse. "I think we're all done here, though. I swear to God, if the paperwork for this schmuck keeps me over tonight, I may just shoot myself." He piled the gear into a navy duffel bag near the door and flung it over his shoulder. "Headed back?"
"No, I've got to wait for Remy to get the super's statement. Poor broad won't stop bawling enough for him to get more than a sentence down."
"Lucky you," Bill said as he made his way to the door. "Oh, Ted, I forgot to tell you, Maria and I are out of town this weekend, so I'll be a no-show Saturday night." His voiced trailed off as he left the apartment and made his way to the stairwell.
"Wonderful, glad to hear it," Dubont replied, having stopped listening about halfway through the sentence. He thought he noticed something strange out of the corner of his eye as Bill talked, and focused on trying to identify it. He surveyed the apartment: the body, the furniture, the Pollock blood splatter, the body again, the wallpaper - nothing. He knew it was probably his mind making something out of nothing, and Dubont himself self-admittedly had the worst police intuition this side of J. W. Pepper, so he gave it up. He exited the apartment, closed the door, and radioed for the coroner's people.
Between 1 and 1:45 was the coroner's official report. Time of death estimates always put off Officer Dubont. It was so strange: that there was a 45 minute swath of time during which this man painted his living room wall with his brains. What else happened during that time, he thought. Did he struggle with the decision, finally resting his chin against the shotgun barrel at 1:44? Or maybe the man decided on it as easily as his dinner choice of canned spaghetti, the remnants still left on the table in the tiny apartment's version of a dining room. A lot can happen in 45 minutes, and Dubont thought of it like a dense black fog, an opaque curtain hiding an endless number of possibilities, all leading to a man's death.
