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A touch of murder lets the hairspray dry
orange pretty flowers by the freeway
Everett left the poetry book on the bus, on purpose. It was spooky the way it was speaking to him. Yes, he was murder police and yes, he used hairspray in the morning, but he wouldn't let that distract him from the case at hand. It was bad enough he'd had to take the bus in to work and he was already late. Not as late as the dead guy, he told himself. Murder can wait. It punches no clocks. This unlucky stiff was dredged up from the canal last night, all swelled up like a beach ball in the outfield. The facts were trickling in already. Name, address, occupation. Former, that is. If I were a carpenter, Everett murmured to himself. Rather, if I were that carpenter, you couldn't marry me now. Apparently the man had enemies, but it only takes one. Much easier that way. Now he thought he'd have to drag himself around town interviewing all the folks who hated the guy and for what. He had it coming if anyone ever did, still somebody is supposed to pay. Standing at his desk now, fiddling with the file in front of him, it only took a glance up at Charlie to realize, with relief, that some cases, like this one, are better kept cold.
