We pulled up to the address, 246 Bradford Drive. What a neighborhood. They must have been filthy rich.

Anyways.

I slid out of my seat, retrieved my bag and grabbed my PPE. This was going to be messy.

"Stacy, grab your equipment, treat it like a serious case." I spoke softly, trying to not let the patient's family hear, "It is important that they see you trying to help."

She nodded and grabbed her things with a big huff of disapproval.

She'd learn.

I walked in front as we approached the porch, "Hello, Mrs. Goldstein? We are here to assist you." She nodded and waved us by.

She clearly tried to speak but the words crawled back into her throat as she began bawling her eyes out.

Just then, her, who I assume to be, sister burst outside and wrapped her up in her arms. It seemed like they had fought the tears off once already.

I opened the door and took a step inside, the fleshy smell was present, along with the smell of burnt gunpowder. A terrible thing to recognize. Alas, it was the job.

After getting inside and preparing I spoke, "Stacy, what do you see about the patient? What would you do first?"

She looked like a deer in headlights.

"You need to think about these things. You need to train yourself to respond to trauma with solutions. What do you assess here?"

She shrugged, "Airway patency?"

I smiled, "Normally, yes. Obviously. But this patient has a particular wound that we classify as being worthy of Obvious Death. The presence of a shotgun, gunpowder odor, and massive cranial damage might clue you into that, eh?"

She nodded as I continued, "This would technically be a penetrating injury with evisceration of the brain. There is more technical language that you can use, but most professionals respond readily to "human" terms. Even doctors and nurses prefer reality over the flowery language. But. It is good to know. Being technically correct is the best kind of correct after all."

I smirked under the mask and backed away. She'd need time and fundamentals. But, she showed promise.

I quickly radioed back and explained the situation, we'd be waiting for a while. The ME was supposed to stop by, apparently he knew the family? I don't know why he'd show up to a suicide, but it is his call. Somehow.

The LEO's would be rolling in any minute.

While we were waiting, I pulled out my phone and did a quick check. Eyes, nose, mouth, feet, hands, and unmentionables.

All clear.

"Why do you do that?" Stacy asked from the side.

I squinted, "Someone must have told you, surely?"

She crossed her arms and squinted back, "My name is Stacy, not Shirley."

I smiled, "A battle of Sass, eh? Well, it isn't a big deal, but I don't feel pain."

No look of surprise appeared on her face, she only nodded.

I expected that. People always talk about it like it is some miracle, but it kind of sucked. I mean, I always have to check myself to see if I accidentally hurt myself. It's a real pain in the ass. Or, what I assume it to feel like.

While lost in my thoughts, I looked over to the glass door and noticed the boys in blue pulling up behind us. Better late than never.

"How are you holding up, Stacy?"

She shrugged, "Better than I thought. But worse is to come, isn't it?"

I nodded.

Jim Jefferies walked in, "Howdy Todd, how is everything going?" The cop looked at the body and grimaced but he held his stomach, "The doc should be here within the hour, he is at dinner right now."

We both nodded, gotta' eat when you gotta' eat.

Jim walked closer and pointed outside, "My rookie is out there. He wanted to comfort them."

I deadpanned, "Jim. Go get his ass before he brings the wrath of money down on us."

He giggled and went to go grab him when we heard a loud smack.

Too late…

The skinny man walked in with a huge red mark on his left cheek.

Well. Shit.

I guess this is where we are at. Getting yelled at by grieving mothers on a Friday night.

Jim smirked at the kid and asked, "How'd it go, buddy?"

The rookie didn't seem to want to answer and just pointed at his face.

I nodded, "You can't talk someone through a loss like this. You can only offer to be there for them, be present. That is the only real option."

I turned away before he could ask a question, "Jim, what do we do about Eric? Do you notice any signs of foul play?"

He just shook his head, "Don't ask me, I mostly write tickets and train idiots." He turned to the rookie, "No offense."

I smiled, "Okay, Jimbo. Maybe start taking your pictures?"

He nodded and got to work.

Detailing a crime scene like this isn't really his job, but he is what we have for a low priority case like this. It probably IS just a suicide, but pictures of the scene are always useful in case it turns into a murder midway through.

Stacy was hanging back and out of her PPE, she seemed disturbed. And she had every right to be, this was a reallllly chunky one…and not in an obese way.

As I approached she asked, "How could someone do something like this to themselves?"

I shrugged, "If you figure it out, let me know. But, people get sad. Then, eventually, they get so sad they do not want to-" she interrupted, "Yeah. I understand all of that, thanks, but why a shotgun?"

I shrugged again, "Death of the instantaneous variety is pretty appealing when deciding how to die. Like. Most guys I know SAY they want to be smothered by a girl's…bottom, butt they don't really mean it. Smothering is a terrible way to go. Really. I'd choose a gun over booty if I had to."

She frowned, "I suppose it would suck, a lot."

I nodded, "Major suckage."

We leaned against the wall for a while, just watching the professionals go to work.

The ME was about to arrive and take over, but they had documented EVERYTHING, TWICE!

I was humming "Just Keep Swimming" when the Medical Examiner came into the room. The little procession he had with his equipment and assistant was very noticeable.

"Ah, Eric. My troubled young man." He walked up in minimal PPE and was mentally constructing a scene. Or whatever it was that he did.

I watched as he slowly signed off on the cause of death and attempted to depersonalize the situation enough so that he might be able to teach his assistant how to determine a suicide from a homicide. But he was mostly blowing hot air.

After a few minutes of their hushed whispers, I gave up and walked to the truck for a sip of water.

"Be right back." I passed the guys and Stacy, just waiting for the shift to end.

As I went to open the door to the porch, I noticed a strange noise coming from the body.

"Now, you MUST pay attention. Do you see any signs of substance abuse on Eric?" The ME was waving over the body when it twitched.

"Uh?" I looked at Stacy who had gone wide eyed, "Did you see that too?"

She nodded.

Jim frowned, "What is it?"

I let go of the door handle and walked closer to the body.

The corpse was…weeping???

Tears were flowing out of those ballooned eyes.

"A corpse can cry?" I spewed out.

The ME turned to me and then the corpse, "Ah, yes, the muscle that controls the tear duct must have been loosened, though, that should have already happened."

He seemed stumped and Stacy chimed in, "Do body's twitch after death often as well?"

He nodded slightly, "It can occur." Then he squatted down low, "Eric?" He seemed to be reminiscing about the deceased when the head turned towards him.

"What-the-fuck?" Jim pulled his pistol out.

Eric's corpse seemed to forget the doctor's presence. It slumped up off the bed and bent down to get the shotgun. It struggled for a few moments but eventually got it in its hands.

We were stunned at the corpse moving and just watched as the thing placed the gun under its chin.

An ethereal voice was heard, "FUCK THIS!!! FUCK!! FUCK!! DO IT, JUST DO IT, PUSSY!" Then a loud bang was heard as the corpse fell back into its original position.