Thursday, June 16, 2011

My day as a crime scene investigator.

The sun hung high in the sky, beating down on the burning pavement. Sweat dampened my shirt. I stepped inside the door of the house and immediately detected the smell of death. I quickly pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the door to the dark, musty basement.

The stench of death hit me squarely. My stomach rolled and I felt myself wanting to vomit. I knew I had to be strong so I took a deep breath and slowly descended the wooden stairs. As darkness closed over me I turned on my small flashlight. I opted for the small one, since those famous CSI agents on TV only used those. I left the larger, bulkier, brighter light for less seasoned and more inept investigators who actually needed to see.

All around me were the artifacts of a household’s civilization; a once loved and used crib, part of a pair of bunk beds, a case of old LP records. The stuff of a lifetime, stored in hopes of use again someday.

Sweeping long cobwebs out of the way, searching diligently with the aid of my small light. I moved a few boxes and an old dresser. All the while, I was becoming indifferent to the smell of rotting flesh. My keen eyes took in the scene, noting every clue as to the cause of death.

Then I saw it. The body. The poor creature was bloated almost beyond recognition. With care and precision, I bagged and tagged all the evidence and carefully removed it from the damp subterranean grave. Moving the items up the stairs  I placed them in containers to for transport.

The sun shone brightly and the leaves danced in the light breeze. I pulled out my cell phone from the pocket next to the flashlight. Dialing the familiar number, beloved answered.


“Hi, I found the dead mouse.”

“Oh good, now maybe the basement won’t stink. You are such a pal.”

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