When Dairy Strikes

“Afraid not, Detective.”

I looked over my shoulder at the man standing behind me, a pensive look on his face as he stared down at the mutilated corpse.

“What’s the diagnosis, Doc?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Afraid I couldn’t tell you. Fifth suicide this month, all involving a mixture of dairy products.” He thought for a moment before finally looking away from the body with a sigh. “Although this one’s not nearly as gruesome as the Yogurt Woman, is he?”

I grimaced at the memory of the splattered mixture of cherry Yoplait and bloody bits on the living room wall. “That was a hell of an assignment, Doc. Any stats on the victim?”

“Male. Mid-30s. Took fingerprints, DNA for testing. Multiple puncture wounds and massive internal bleeding. Time of death about 6 hours ago.”

“Thanks, Doc.” I got up, brushed off my knees, and walked back to the door. The photographers would be in any minute, and I didn’t need to see any more than I already had. It was obvious what was going on.

This damn milk was a bad cookie.

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