The detective bent and pointed at it; the thing sticking in the body’s forehead. “What the fuck is this?”
The uniform kneeling next to him didn’t hesitate. “Looks like a paperclip, you know… office supplies.”
“Wiseass,” the detective stood, his knees cracking and popping. He turned to the Medical Examiner. “Any idea what killed him?”
“It wasn’t the paperclip.” The ME took a step away to get out of reach.
“I’m surrounded by wiseasses,” the detective shook his head, “really?”
“What makes you think he was killed, he coulda just died?” The uniform had his cap off and was scratching a knobby head barely covered by a brush cut that stood up like blond—unevenly placed—toothpicks. “Christ…” the detective muttered. “Henry, he’s wearing clown makeup and rubber underwear.” Next to him, the examiner lost his professional composure for a moment. “Ain’t no man with a weak heart gonna risk dropping dead dressed like that.”
