Police tape surrounded the house. No one was allowed in or out, neighbors pooled around trying to get a morbid view. A car honked twice and rolled up to the curb. The tiny door opened and Binky got out.
He dragged out a large duffel bag, two gurneys and a large equipment box, setting them all on the curb. Onlookers gaped. There was no way all of that could fit inside such a tiny car. Binky was used to the looks.
He wandered up and, ducking under the police tape, nudged Detective Biggins with an oversized shoe. “This the vic?” Binky asked, throwing in a head lift in the general direction of the body on the ground.
“Yeah. The dead guy is the dead guy. That other dead guy,” Biggins pointed, “is the other dead guy.” Biggins hated Binky. He hated everything the clown stood for. Binky couldn’t care less. He sprayed a bit of cooling water on a handkerchief, directly from his lapel flower, and dabbed his forehead. Careful to not wipe off the make-up, he soothed himself and got to work.
Blowing up balloons he measured the angles of the shots fired and made a poodle to mark each. Some white powder to dust for prints, and a UV light the shape of a flamingo helped him discover even stranger clues.
Standing, Binky honked his nose and brushed off his knees. “Well, this is gonna be an interesting one,” he told Biggins, who sighed. “But for now, I’ll take these bodies in myself, to make sure nothing happens to them.”
Binky grabbed a roll of multi-colored plastic from a wide pant pocket and snapped out two body bags, each a primary color. “Which one’a these guys looks more like he’d enjoy the sunshine yellow, ya think?” he asked Biggins.
Biggins stood and thought hard about retirement.