Thirty and Two

Prelude

  I pulled the gloves from my hands, careful to keep the blood away from my skin and tossed the red-tinged black nitrile gloves into the red biohazard bag on the bus.

  “Morris,” I yelled, as I pushed the plunger on the bottle of sanitizer with my fingers, while catching the gel with the palm of the same hand. It was a motion I’d mastered too many crime scenes ago.

  “Yeah, what’s the commotion?” Morris bitched. “I just got the CSI guys started.”

  “I think we got this one nailed down,” I said, stepping off the bus. “I’ll run through the scenario for you and I’ll try to use small words so even an underworked, overpaid public servant such as yourself can easily understand what happened.”

  Morris gave me a smirk and held up one finger. It wasn’t his pinky.

  I began, “Dead guy number one and the girl get together for a little excitement in the back seat of his car. Dead guy number two, also known as the boyfriend of the girl, shows up and realizes the love of his life is slappin’ ugly with someone new.”

  “Dead guy number two is understandably not pleased and calls out dead guy number one, intent on displaying his displeasure with the situation.”

  “Both dead guys had guns. Both had better than average aim and Bang! No more living dead guys.”

  “Girl gives statement. Statement matches other witness statements and evidence obtained thus far.”

  “The detective, that would be me, waits for coroner’s report on both victims before creating a literary masterpiece describing said incident and clearing one murder from the books.’

  “The detective, in the meantime, goes home and tries to remember why he didn’t take his mother’s advice and become a pigeon groomer.”

  “Well, since you put it that way, how’s ‘bout I finish up here and wait for the coroner while you go get your beauty rest?” Morris said.

  “Although I don’t think it’ll do any good, considering you’re fuckin’ ugly and all the sleep in the world ain’t gonna cure that.”

  “Morris, you have a way with the English language,” I conceded. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. You still owe me lunch.”

  Morris started to argue the point but I pointed to my mike. “Shh! Gotta call it in,” I said, as I watched Morris feign being pissed at the thought of having to cough up money for lunch.

  I clicked my mike. “Lima 7, Comm,” I said.

  “Comm go Lima 7,” Comm responded.

  “Clear me from the scene. Sierra 5 will be scene contact,” I explained.

  “Lima 7 copy,” Comm responded. “Sierra 5 contact. Show you clear 1522.”

  I ducked under the yellow and black crime scene tape and headed toward my car, rubbing away the last of the alcohol-based disinfectant I had squirted on my hand at the bus, which reminds me, it’s a new world in EMS.

  Ambulances aren’t just for sleeping paramedics and emergency sex anymore. These days, they make great aid stations too.

  I struggled with the key for my car door- cars didn’t come with key fobs when my antique Maverick rolled off the assembly line in 1972.

  As I fussed, I saw a sign in the window of the long-abandoned deli across the street, advertising a “Killer Hero Sandwich $3.95” special.

  The thought of a sandwich made my mouth water. I’d missed lunch- again. I could have gone straight home and had mystery leftovers. I could have hit the MagicDonut for a bite to eat. I could have stopped by Lenny’s and had a burger.

  Instead, I chose to head to the deli counter of the local market.