|The Joy of Falconer
||[May. 21st, 2005|07:33 pm]
|||||sugarcubes - regina||]|
Falconer screwed his little finger into the dead man's nipple, feeling the tract the bullet had cut on its fatal passage through the victim's chest.
"Shot through the nipple," the great consulting detective tutted. "What is the world coming to?"
"We can't find the bullet," the attending police officer said, nervously. The very presence of Falconer tended to turn his bowels to water, and he suspected he'd been given this assignment as a joke. "The forensics guy was... well, he was drunk off his ass, actually, and my superiors asked if you'd give the body the once-over before we moved it."
Falconer inhaled, deeply. Then inhaled again, sharply, with intent.
"This man was being threatened?"
"Yes," sighed the policeman. "Notes, mostly: received in the mail, stuck to the door, daubed on the wall, nailed to the cat, that kind of thing. 'I will piss on your grave', 'I will dance on your bones', 'you will die shitting yourself in fear,' the usual."
"Aha," Falconer said. "Contempt. Hate is the mother of invention, you know."
"I thought that was necessity."
"Catshit, my boy. It is hate. Hate makes the world go round. All you need is hate. I'd like to teach the world to hate."
Falconer sniffed his probing fingertip. "In perfect harmony. I know why you cannot find the bullet."
"Because it has melted. Did you sniff the wound?"
"Of course I fucking didn't."
"You should have done. Your crime scene technician was plainly too drunk to do his job. You should have him sodomised by heavily medicated weasels immediately. A service I can provide for a small fee."
"Where's the bullet?"
"In here. Melted. 'I will piss on your grave' indeed. The offending shell, my boy, was made entirely of urine and shredded paper, frozen together. The paper fragmented and dispersed, and the urine melted."
Falconer stood tall, producing the Cigarettes Of Victory from his pocket.
"This man was killed by ballistic piss. Exeunt."