“He was an electrical engineer, I think…”

So spluttered the well-meaning neighbor. The apartment was filthy. They’re all filthy, when you work Homicide.

The body was in the all-electric kitchen, already somewhat cooked. Oddly enough, human beings, when electrocuted, smell sorta like bacon.

I hate bacon.

Why was he dead in the kitchen? There weren’t many complications. His marriage had failed, he was basically bankrupt, and it was fairly obvious he’d decided to end it all on his own. But it’s our job, you know, and we do it. We investigate. We investigate the kitchens.

“So” continues the fussy neighbor, “Do you think it was his experiments that did it? All those crazy electronic bits he was always putting everywhere?”

I can’t say. It would prejudice the jury if I did. So I usually don’t.

In this case, I’ll make an exception.

“Yes” I say. “There was a very low resistance circuit on the stove, and the current passing though it killed him.”

“He had an ohm on the range.”