When we find the murder scene,

we get more than we bargained for,

because we discover the body of a man,

clutching a book of fairy tales in his right hand

and a gun in the other.

“Blew his brains out, oh brother,” says Bob,

“another narrow escape from justice.”

“If you say so,” I tell him, but I don’t know.

“He could be burning in hellfire now.” I say.

“I wish I could be sure.”

“Just assume,” says Bob, “you’ll sleep better if you do.”

“I don’t sleep you know that. Neither do you.”

“For different reasons,” he says.

“Whatever you say,” I tell him, stepping out of the way

of the coroner, who’s just arrived.

He’s pissed because it’s almost five

and he’s got tickets to a concert.

He’s taking his neglected wife, he tells us

and that we owe him.

We say we know, then wrap up and go.

Bob’s off to the Bahamas for the weekend

and I’m thinking I will see some movies,

if I can handle

the violence on-screen,

but Bob asks me

how I can do my job since I’m so squeamish

and I say it’s different,

but I don’t know how, then I say

“Don’t let what happened to your mother

ruin your good time.”

He looks as if he wants to hit me,

but starts the car instead.

“When I was fourteen my father killed her,

after he raped her in front of me.

Satisfied now?” he asks.

I don’t answer. I can’t, because I might tell him

I know what else happened.

No, I’ll just let that pass into the ether

like the victims who to us are neither alive, nor dead,

just in transit forever,

but Bob says, “You know, don’t you?

A murder-suicide was really two murders,

but one of them was in self-defense.”

I just tell him I can’t see anything.

“Liar,” he says, “you know what it feels like

to lose someone to violence.

It’s what makes you sensitive.”

“Maybe,” I say, as my cellphone rings

and I hear about the terrible things

that happened to a five-year-old girl.

“We’re on it,” I say, signaling to Bob.

“Better unpack your toothbrush,” I tell him

and it feels good to avoid the truth

if only for a few hours.

“The two of us are something,” he says

and I answer, “We’re as warped as they are.”

“We aren’t,” he says,

“we only want to be forgiven for our sins.

Instead we end up hiding them

among the crimes others have committed.”

“I’ve heard your pet theories before.

They’re nothing more than excuses you make,

because you can’t admit that you’re addicted

to solving crimes, or trying to.

We’re both hooked on mutilation, strangulation,

decapitation,

should I go on? . . . I’ve heard this before too.

Whatever happened stays in your past.

I never asked to know your secrets, Bob,

the last one spooked me is all,

made me want to erase my memories

and replace them with scenes