She had turned her back on this world, and that's how I found her, with her back to the door. As the hall light fell into the room, she gave every appearance of a woman asleep. I stared at her for a moment, almost expecting to see the rise and fall of her breathing. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, her pretense of slumber was betrayed by the light spray of blood spatter on the wall.
I flicked on the light, and ugly reality flooded the room. Mingled with blood were the familiar flecks of runny mozzarella cheese - brain matter. I scanned what was likely her entire third grade education plastered on the wall.
Why? What moved her to this?
She left few clues. On the dresser was an envelope addressed to the maid. In it was a hundred dollars and a note that read, "For your trouble."
Again, the questions buzzed in my head even as I tackled the more pressing issue before me - where was the gun?
The dark pool of blood had congealed into a thick mass of cranberry sauce on the bed beside her. There, nestled in the protective crook of her crossed arms, like a snake in a bush, was the weapon. Even with the lights on, it was hidden. My flashlight beam prodded it from its hiding place, and the beast grunted to life. Unlike the woman, who gave the appearance of being alive while not, the gun gave the appearance of being dead, and yet, it was very much alive. With hammer cocked back, it was ready to fire again. This was a familiar problem - familiar, yet always a problem.
How does one remove a loaded gun that is stuck in a jellied cranberry sauce of blood from the protective custody of the dead?
Very carefully.
Because the gun was so deeply buried in the pool of hardened blood, we were unable to determine if it would be affected when we moved her. Several scenarios flashed through my head.
1) We move her. The hardened blood pulls the trigger. I get shot.
2) We move her. The hardened blood pulls the trigger. The medical examiner gets shot.
3) We move her. The hardened blood pulls the trigger. The dead woman gets shot again.
4) We move her. The hardened blood pulls the trigger. The bed gets shot.
5) We move her. The body pulls away from the cranberry sauce. Nothing happens.
6) We leave her here, and go get a frappuccino while we think about this some more.
Although #6 was clearly our best choice, it apparently was not an option for us, so after a quick check to make sure the barrel of the gun was pointed away from the living, the medical examiner gingerly lifted an arm. A large chunk of cranberry sauce came off with the hand. She carefully moved the arm back and forth in an effort to get the blood to fall back onto the bed. It stubbornly refused. Instead, it flapped in the breeze like a great crimson pancake. The medical examiner continued her futile attempts to flick it off. I found this vastly amusing in a macabre fashion. In fact, it was quite funny until the moment I realized that although she had to handle the body, I was the person who had to remove the locked and loaded gun which was also embedded in cranberry sauce. Option #6 was suddenly looking far more appealing.
When it was over, I took a moment to ponder holidays, cranberry sauce, and suicide. Back in a more innocent day, I never associated the three, but I am older, wiser, and a bit wistful now, and I shall never quite think of cranberry sauce the same way again.
