Another day, another blood-soaked reminder of why the mayor is down our throats.
The crime scene is barely secured. Los Angeles’ finest...idiots who fumble their way through the academy, only to end up beating some poor souls at a traffic stop.
Anyways, I’m here now. Called away from the west side, beckoned into the hellscape of Beverly Hills. Ready to figure out who killed this man, now splattered on his own linoleum floor.
Dying in a kitchen. Not as bad as the toilet, but close. Your body watched over by appliances. Your last breath witnessed by the breadbasket.
What they won’t teach you in a book is that it all means something...A murder in a bathroom. A murder in a kitchen. Nothing is inconsequential. Did the offender mean to keep things contained (the bathroom)? Was it a crime of passion (the bedroom)? Or was it a domestic escalation (the kitchen)?
That’s why they pay me the medium, government bucks. Fuck it. I’m rambling. Time to figure out who did it. If I was a gambling man (I am), I’d bet the wife did it.
