microphones, cameras, and lighting equipment.
“Brace yourself,” Arnie warns me. “They aren’t going to be allowed near the crime scene so they’ll be desperate for any clues they can get. Questions will be coming at you faster than a BMW on the Autobahn. Don’t say a word.”
Before Arnie has finished issuing his warning, several faces are peering at me through the van window. I reach behind me to grab my scene kit, then push back the news-hungry horde by opening the van door. As I climb out, I catch the faint odor of rotting flesh with my first breath and switch from breathing through my nose to through my mouth.
A perfectly coifed brunette wearing a tight-fitting business suit over a body not much bigger around than one of my pant legs runs up to me and says, “Is it true that the bodies you found here are those of Chicago oil baron Gerald Heinrich and his wife?” Then she shoves her microphone in my face.
I don’t say a word and smile enigmatically instead, but when I do I accidentally breathe in through my nose and the smell nearly gags me. As I’m struggling to subdue my body’s desire to recycle my breakfast, a bright light flashes in my eyes.
“Perfect!” says a voice I recognize.
Belatedly I see that Alison Miller is among the group of newspeople. I shoot her a dirty look but she has already turned around and is taking shots of all the emergency vehicles, pretending to ignore me.
I slam the van door closed, and when I try to take a step toward the grassy hillside leading down into the trees, I am once again accosted by the first woman, whom I recognize as a reporter for one of the major network TV affiliates in Madison. She begins a machine gun interrogation.
“Are there two bodies? Are there any signs of foul play? Has the Heinrich family been notified yet? How long have the victims been dead?”
I ignore the questions, glare at the cameraman, and shove my way past everyone. It’s not hard to get past the newswoman since she’s as short as Izzy even with her three-inch heels, and can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds soaking wet, which she is, thanks to the rain. But the camera guy proves a bit more challenging. He dodges around me and aims the camera in my general direction. I try a similar dodge but as soon as I step on the wet grass it’s like I’m on ice; one foot is heading downhill at a breakneck speed and the other is fixed on the shoulder of the road. Just as my legs start to feel like the wishbone in a turkey, I hear a loud ripping sound and my second foot finally gives way.
Chapter 15
I slide down the wet grass for twenty feet or more, most of it on my butt. When I finally come to a stop in a position that looks like a gymnastic maneuver gone horribly wrong, I look down and see that the crotch of my scrub pants is ripped out. Above me Alison is snapping away and the cameraman appears to be filming also.
I manage to drag my legs together as Arnie appears at my side. “That was impressive,” he says. “I give it a nine and a half. I would have gone the full ten but the landing was a bit off.”
“Very funny.” I get up from the ground and try to adjust my pants.
“Uh-oh,” Arnie says. “Did you have an accident?”
I give him an exasperated duh! look.
“I don’t mean your fall,” he says, pointing to my behind with barely contained laughter.
I crank my head around, trying to see, but my circus contortionist genes don’t seem to be working. So I grab a handful of my scrub pants material and pull at the fabric. Just as I see the dark smear on the seat of my pants that looks like a Depends failure, I hear a distinct ripping sound and realize I’ve enhanced my crotch vent.
“Damn it!” I say, glaring at Arnie as he doubles over with laughter. I hear several more clicks from above and quickly turn around so my backside is facing the trees. Then I mentally strangle both Alison and the TV camera guy while making a few ineffective swipes at my ass.
“Go
“Brace yourself,” Arnie warns me. “They aren’t going to be allowed near the crime scene so they’ll be desperate for any clues they can get. Questions will be coming at you faster than a BMW on the Autobahn. Don’t say a word.”
Before Arnie has finished issuing his warning, several faces are peering at me through the van window. I reach behind me to grab my scene kit, then push back the news-hungry horde by opening the van door. As I climb out, I catch the faint odor of rotting flesh with my first breath and switch from breathing through my nose to through my mouth.
A perfectly coifed brunette wearing a tight-fitting business suit over a body not much bigger around than one of my pant legs runs up to me and says, “Is it true that the bodies you found here are those of Chicago oil baron Gerald Heinrich and his wife?” Then she shoves her microphone in my face.
I don’t say a word and smile enigmatically instead, but when I do I accidentally breathe in through my nose and the smell nearly gags me. As I’m struggling to subdue my body’s desire to recycle my breakfast, a bright light flashes in my eyes.
“Perfect!” says a voice I recognize.
Belatedly I see that Alison Miller is among the group of newspeople. I shoot her a dirty look but she has already turned around and is taking shots of all the emergency vehicles, pretending to ignore me.
I slam the van door closed, and when I try to take a step toward the grassy hillside leading down into the trees, I am once again accosted by the first woman, whom I recognize as a reporter for one of the major network TV affiliates in Madison. She begins a machine gun interrogation.
“Are there two bodies? Are there any signs of foul play? Has the Heinrich family been notified yet? How long have the victims been dead?”
I ignore the questions, glare at the cameraman, and shove my way past everyone. It’s not hard to get past the newswoman since she’s as short as Izzy even with her three-inch heels, and can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds soaking wet, which she is, thanks to the rain. But the camera guy proves a bit more challenging. He dodges around me and aims the camera in my general direction. I try a similar dodge but as soon as I step on the wet grass it’s like I’m on ice; one foot is heading downhill at a breakneck speed and the other is fixed on the shoulder of the road. Just as my legs start to feel like the wishbone in a turkey, I hear a loud ripping sound and my second foot finally gives way.
Chapter 15
I slide down the wet grass for twenty feet or more, most of it on my butt. When I finally come to a stop in a position that looks like a gymnastic maneuver gone horribly wrong, I look down and see that the crotch of my scrub pants is ripped out. Above me Alison is snapping away and the cameraman appears to be filming also.
I manage to drag my legs together as Arnie appears at my side. “That was impressive,” he says. “I give it a nine and a half. I would have gone the full ten but the landing was a bit off.”
“Very funny.” I get up from the ground and try to adjust my pants.
“Uh-oh,” Arnie says. “Did you have an accident?”
I give him an exasperated duh! look.
“I don’t mean your fall,” he says, pointing to my behind with barely contained laughter.
I crank my head around, trying to see, but my circus contortionist genes don’t seem to be working. So I grab a handful of my scrub pants material and pull at the fabric. Just as I see the dark smear on the seat of my pants that looks like a Depends failure, I hear a distinct ripping sound and realize I’ve enhanced my crotch vent.
“Damn it!” I say, glaring at Arnie as he doubles over with laughter. I hear several more clicks from above and quickly turn around so my backside is facing the trees. Then I mentally strangle both Alison and the TV camera guy while making a few ineffective swipes at my ass.
“Go
Similar Books
