Coroner's Report: Joe

I was with my girl for an early dinner when the call came. Her name is Sally, but I tend to think of her as a poor man’s Mary Poppins. She’s always humming and singing to herself little children’s songs, but her voice sounds more like rats chewing cardboard. I think one day I’ll just have to give her the ultimatum. “Cut the humming crap or find yourself another meal ticket.

Her taste in diners was wacko too. We’d gone to a place called “The Honeysuckle Inn, but that was the only sweet thing about the joint. The mashed potatoes tasted like they were made with year-old buttermilk and my steak, (supposedly the house delicacy) was so smothered in onions and celery the damn thing tasted more like a meat flavored salad. The coffee was some counterfeit, abominable blend of hickory and puppy chow that had to have been strained through a used gym sock.

Anyway, I was supposed to take Sally somewhere we could slow dance the night away, but when the call came there was nothing to do but run her home, tell her something to pacify her and promise a bit of bliss on the love seat after I finished my reports. She seemed happy enough when I dropped her off. Sally believed I was an astronaut. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was the county coroner.

The drive uptown was horrendous. Though we were closing in on the autumnal equinox the air was more aestival. (Yeah, Yeah, I know. But my biology professor thinks I sound more authoritative using the twenty-five dollar words.) The point is I was sweating more than usual.

When I pulled on to Providence Avenue, my first impression was that I had entered some sort of psychedelic dream-world. The address was a monstrously painted tree-house of all things. The tree-house was a geometric octagon painted in the weirdest shades of indigo and periwinkle. Below was a tiny carousel painted in the same hues. I suppose it was to give the place some sort of “carnival” effect. I was met by a patrolman named Davis. “The stiff’s at the top of the staircase”, he said.

As I climbed the stairs, leading to the home’s underbelly, I had a fleeting memory about this place. Oh I’d never been here before, but there was an urban legend about some old guy who’d accidentally cut off his left arm with and ax. He went crazy; insisting his arm was looking for him and would find him at night to reattach itself. His doctor called it an extreme case of “phantom limb” while the nut-jobs really believed the limb had become some sort of “phantom”. I suppose sometimes ignorance can bleed history.


As badly as the place was painted, I had to hand it to the architect. Everything was very neatly arranged right down to the window seat which was partially carved out of the thickest oak branch. I thought that was sheer, utter brilliance. The weirdest thing was the bedroom. Nail-beds! No crap! Beds made of nails. Now, I once saw an illusionist use a nail-bed in his act but this was the first time I’d encountered someone actually using one to sleep!

By the time I finally got around to checking the “stiff”; well, he was stiff. The body was in an isometric, frozen state. Every muscle in that body was tense and no amount of pushing would force contraction. He’d been dead for some time. But something didn’t feel right. I was beginning to feel pretty solipsistic about this whole scene. I was the only reality here. Fortunately the feeling was ephemeral. I snapped back quickly.

No blood. No sign of foul play. The identification in his wallet named him Joe. I became a little indignant at the whole thing because it looked to be natural causes. I’d know more after a thorough autopsy. But that thought pissed me off too. Now I’d need all those twenty-five dollar words and I’d be up all night doing a spell-check to satisfy my professor. Crap!