He called me in to the office to tell me that the report I just submitted on the processing of a scene with an unclassified death (turned out to be a natural death–no foul play) needed a bit more detail and “punching up.”

I went back to my office, and five minutes later sent him this:

***

Cold air slapped at my cheeks and wormed its way inside my jacket as I stepped out of the van. I kicked at a pile of pine straw as I waited for my partner to retrieve the camera from the back of the van. He was stalling. We both were. We didn’t want to face what was inside the house.

“You ready?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

We were both lying to ourselves, but sometimes that’s what you have to do to get the job done.

Gravel crunched beneath the tread of our boots, echoing loudly in the still morning air. We walked slowly even though the chill air was already numbing fingers and noses. The deputies by the house watched our approach, their expressions grim and somber.

I exhaled as I entered, not wanting to breathe in the taint of death any sooner than I had to. The warm air wrapped around us, drawing us further in like quicksand. Noise assailed us: the wails of the grieving mother, the incessant yapping of the two small dogs, the crackle of the police radio. I grimly blocked it all out and focused on the detective.

He was pale under the brim of his ball cap. “Upstairs,” he said, voice breaking slightly. I pitied him. He’d been here for over an hour already.

I climbed the steps, treading cautiously over creaking boards and rotting carpet. The miasma of decay grew stronger as we climbed, until it surrounded us mercilessly at the top of the stairs. I tried to breathe through my mouth, still feeling as if I was swallowing a sordid morsel of rot in the air with each breath.

He lay on his back in the bed, arms up over his head, eyes open, and a trickle of blood and saliva oozinng from the corner of his mouth. An olive-drab shirt was pulled up to reveal the mottled white and red lividity on his stomach. A soiled comforter shielded his privates from the prying stares of the world. And in the corner stood the Angel of Death, cackling in triumph at his victory.

***

He laughed his ass off, posted it on the bulletin board, then asked me, “If I provide the stories, will you write the books?”

Oh man.. hahaha