If her head had still been intact when I showed up, I’d say the broad is lying face-down. As it stands, anything resembling the face of the late Anne Connors burst like an overinflated tire the moment she wrapped her luscious lips around her husband’s service weapon and pulled the trigger. She’s sprawled out on her stomach with both of those blue-gray eyes staring up at the ceiling. Everything that made her a gorgeous 30-something, aged like a nice scotch, is peeled open all over supermarket floor. Well, everything save her tits, but that ample bosom is pressed firmly against the linoleum, and it’s not my place to flip her over and fuck up the scene for the lab geeks. Still, I don’t think them or the responding officer will have to do a lot of leg work to rule this one a suicide. She’s still got one manicured finger wrapped around the trigger.

A violent splattery halo of blood and brain matter surrounds the remnants of her face. It’s a shame, really, but at least she’ll never have to seriously worry about crow’s feet. Until the medical examiner arrives, it’ll be impossible to tell whether the jagged fragments of white in that vast pool of red and gray are teeth of bone shards. Her dark hair, once beautifully wavy, is little more than a torn wig on a broken mannequin. From her shoulders down to the small of her back, her summer dress—pale blue to offset her eye—is stained a deep red that will never wash out. She’s wearing black heels, and her feet are splayed at a funny angle, so even if someone threw a blanket over her, you couldn’t mistake Mrs. Connors for just sleeping.

 She hasn’t been here long, so that dead stench hasn’t had a chance to take hold. For now, all I can smell is the faint scent of Anne’s perfume—some sort of lilac—offset by the freezer burn smell of the vegetables in the broken refrigerator unit to her left. The crazy bitch offed herself in front of some frozen peas. After the bullet travelled through her skull, it shattered the glass display door of the fridge. Fuck knows where it finally lodged; I’ll leave that one to the lab geeks, too.

There’s a crowd gathered at either end of the aisle. Two uniforms have sectioned off either end of the aisle, and they’re ineffectively attempting to herd the gawkers elsewhere. “There’s nothing to see here, move along.” The stagnant pool of blood begs to differ.

The two uniforms are both rookies. They’d have to be to mistake my PI badge for a detective’s shield. I flashed it quick, and they didn’t ask questions. They’re bright-eyed and clean shaven. Neither one smells like whiskey, though past the time most folks get off work and start drinking. Happy hour. When I wore a badge, a real badge, this used to be the time when I’d usually take my first stiff shot of the night, but these boys seem to be doing things by the book. Even so, I don’t think either one of ‘em wants to spend too much time staring at the body. I don’t think they’ve turned around once since they taped the place.

The real investigators will show up soon, and if I’m still around, they’ll want to ask questions. I don’t really have anything to hide, but I’d rather not waste a few hours of my life in an interrogation room explaining why I knew the deceased’s name, or the color the bra she was wearing used to be before it soaked up all the shit that leaked out of her head.

 I snap some pictures, and I get the fuck out. While I’m leaving, I mutter something about filing a report to the rookies. They don’t stop me.