Enter Mrs. Detective

The only thing that smells worse than wet dog is dead dog. I’d meant to wound the big idiot, but I’d also meant to not get pummeled. Priorities have a funny way of falling into place.

“Thomas!” came the shrill call, preceding the good homicide detective’s entrance into my office. She came in with a huff, hands on her hips and her hair done up perfectly. The words started tumbling out of her mouth faster than I could register, the usual tirade about messes, her time, needing to sweep up after me, and property damage. I wasn’t inclined to point it was my property that had been damaged.

Paws up in surrender, I yielded the crime scene to her and hit the streets. She didn’t even make a pretense of warning me against retribution as I left. If there’s one constant in this part of town, this crazy, upside down world which we inhabit, it’s that what goes around comes around.

As far as I was concerned, Jerry had been sowing chaos and violence long enough from behind those big, dopey, ’I’m so innocent’ eyes.

View this story's 6 comments.