I crossed the tape and entered the apartment. There was a smell, a mixture of dairy and Lysol. I waved my junior over to me as I looked around the joint.

“What have we got here?”
“Another suicide. Same way, sir,” the boy said to me.

My eyes narrowed when I got a good whiff of the mode of suicide.

“Didn’t anybody clean it up yet?” I gruffed.
“No sir, we’re still taking pitchers of the stuff for analysis and the photographer hasn’t arrived yet.”

My mouth formed a grim line on my face and I walked towards the kitchen. Technicians in cleanroom suits were busy gathering the evidence in pitchers specially designed for this type of work. I knelt at what I assumed was the victim’s side. After what he did to himself nobody could be sure. Damn shame somebody could get so upset with a jug of milk.

Suddenly I took one of the pitchers and drank. Two percent.

“No use just crying over it, eh?”