“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll do my best to get you out of here quickly and wipe that OJ off.”

“Not too worried about the OJ being cold. Don’t think shrinkage matters now, but there’s a corner of toast poking me in the cheek.”

“Oh, I can fix that in just a second.”

“No rush. Not like I’ve got anything better to do now.”

Pics and video done, I do more assessing. Toasty was dressed for work, it appears. There’s a slight bulging in his neck veins, possible indications of heart problems. I lift my head to look around for any medications or anything helpful. None, but I’ll check the bathroom cabinet later.

Through the doorway, my eyes land on a woman sitting on the couch. She looks like this could be a house party, sitting cross-legged and calm as can be while people mill around her. She’s wearing jeans and a low-cut V-neck T-shirt, so not a police officer, not one of my crew, so . . . who is she?

Her eyes tick from person to person, silent and watchful. Eventually, they land on me and we lock eyes for a moment. She takes a deep breath and begins to cry . . . instantly loud and dramatic wailing.

Jeff’s rookie sits down beside her, patting her shoulder comfortingly, but she amps up her wailing.

“My Dickie! He’s gone! Nooooo, Dickie Boo!”

I lift an eyebrow. “Dickie Boo?”

Jeff, who’s followed me in, squats down beside me and the body of the dead guy. “Yeah, DB’s name is Richard Horne. His parents must’ve hated him something fierce before he was even born. And then they made it even worse by nicknaming him Dick.” He snorts, covering it with a cough, before explaining, “Dick Horne. Toot, toot, tootle-toot.”

Out of professionalism, I don’t laugh, but I do agree that this guy’s parents weren’t winning awards for that one. Maybe some people would find it wrong or rude that we’re joking around at a scene, but a macabre sense of humor is shockingly common in our profession. I’m not sure if investigative work attracts morbid people or if our sense of humor is a coping mechanism. Probably both.

“That’s the wife, Yvette Horne,” Jeff continues, lifting his eyes toward the blubbering woman.

“Hmm.” She does seem rather upset right now, but the image of her sitting calmly and watchfully hasn’t disappeared from my mind. That didn’t seem like shock but more like a high school drama kid realizing they missed their cue and launching in full bore.

But she’s not my concern right now. The body of Richard “Dickie” Horne is.