Monday, September 21, 2009
An Overdramatized Version of the Events That Unfolded Yesterday
The stench was overpowering. As I moved the trash can and saw the unsightly remains of the mouse, it was all I could do to not hork like rookie working a homicide.
"Oh...my...God," I said, surveying the mess, my bottle of Febreze cocked and ready in one hand, a broom in the other. It was the biggest disaster the underside of my trash can had ever seen. Not since the great All-Purpose Flour Spill of 2006 had any garbage receptacle in my apartment experienced such a mess. But this wasn't the first mouse I'd seen that week.
On Wednesday, as I stumbled blindly into the bathroom to put in my contact lenses, I stepped on something small and crunchy on my bathmat. Was it a rogue pork rind? No, it was a petrified mouse corpse, probably retrieved from a heating vent and batted around for hours before boredom and a nap overtook my cat.
Yes, it was definitely my cat who did this.
There was cat hair all over the crime scene, tufts and tufts of it, signs of a struggle. She liked to catch the mice and torture them until their only escape was to crawl away and eventually die somewhere no one would discover them until the stench wafted.
But the cat lived here. It was only natural that her hair would be found near the body. It would take hard evidence. DNA. Matching her bite pattern to the ones on the body. And that would take months, years even, to bring this serial killer to justice. It would take black lights and some of those orange glasses CSI people wear to spot semen and blood spatter. And then there's the red tape. Damn it. Damn it straight to hell, along with the bureaucratic a-holes who cut all the funding.
I'll just have to wait until she kills again, catch her in the act. Sleep with one eye open. Wait for the squeaks of another victim. And then I will bring her to justice. Oh, yes. I will.
I threw a paper towel over the victim. It's a tough job, but somebody has to clean it up.