We got a call in the middle of the night for a gunshot wound to the head.  I should have been in bed, but I was up playing Zuma in the radio room.  This was one of the first Popcap games I was addicted to.  There would be many more to come, but this was the first.  I was playing my own special version of the game.  I had noticed during installation that all of the sound files and graphics were categorized into directories, and that they were out in the open where they could be edited.  This had given me a great idea for a joke, so I had changed the Zuma frog to the face of our shift captain.  So now Captain Frank would shoot balls out of his gaping mouth.  Captain Frank was always forthcoming about his Polish heritage, and even referred to himself as “The Pollock” so I had changed the name of the game.  Now the opening screen had giant stone letters with the name “Pollock.”  I had also brought in a microphone one day, and we all had fun making multi layer recordings that replaced the usual Zuma native chants.  Now when we played the game, strange ethereal voices would chant, “Captain Frank is a big fat bald man. HUH!”  I had installed this on the radio room computer for all to enjoy.  Frank was so completely taken aback by the level of detail in this project to make fun of him that he never took it off the computer.  He said, “Damn.  You put a lot of work into that.  Pollock it is.”  So for the next year, anyone playing Zuma in the radio room was greeted with Frank’s gaping mouth and bald head.  My partner woke up and stumbled downstairs to make the run with me, and we were soon driving down the road.

“Let’s get this knocked out so we can go back to bed.”  My partner was still sleepy and knew that gunshots to the head usually turned out to be victims rather than patients.  Chances are that I would only be confirming death and doing a bit of paperwork.

“10-4 my man.”

We got to the scene and found that police cars were starting to stack up.  There were five already and the number was growing.  I never understood why this happened.  I have been in the business long enough to know that if there are fifteen cops on scene, only one or two of them will be doing any paperwork.  The rest just stand around in a big gang.  Why they are not made to break up and get back to patrolling has always been confusing to me.  I have never seen a cop show up and say, “Yep, looks like this guy blew his brains all over the wall.  Well, there are 18 other cops here.  You guys need me?  No?  Alright, I’m outta here.  Call me if you need me.”

One of the cops outside said there was no hope for the guy and that it was suicide, so all I brought in was my monitor.  Like my partner, I was all about printing off a strip of asystole, doing some paperwork and going to bed.

We made our way past a couple of cops to enter the front door.  I sensed something odd right from the start.  This was an affluent section of town, but this house was filthy.  It was only heated by a wood stove in the kitchen.  Firewood and newspapers were stacked up in the hall.  This sometimes happens in Kentucky.  The owners of an old farmhouse will sometimes sell their land to a subdivision, but keep their house, and a small plot around it.  The subdivision grows around it, and the house looks out of place.  The owners will sometimes live on that money for years and be the ‘weird people on the block’.  Imagine living in a suburban subdivision and your neighbor is a barefooted, overall wearing, trucker cap sporting, farmer with a beard down to his knees and a bank account full of money.  Things get uncomfortable sometimes.

And the above description fit our man.  He was sitting in a rocking chair with a hole in his forehead that looked like it had been carefully drilled.  No powder burns or blast marks were visible.  There was a .357 hand cannon laying in his lap with his finger still on the trigger.

“How do you figure this was a suicide?” I asked.

“His two friends said they saw him do it.  They’re talking to another officer outside.”

“Really?”  I said while I walked up to the body.  “I assume you guys haven’t moved this weapon.”  Sometimes cops will secure a dangerous weapon by unloading it and taking it with them.  There was zero chance that they had unloaded it and put it back in his hand, but I just wanted confirmation just to be sure.

“No, we haven’t touched a thing.  We brought the two outside to get them away from it and thought we would take some pictures with it in his hand just to be sure.”

“Mind if I touch the body?” I asked.

“Knock yourself out, just don’t move anything.”

I felt his other hand.  It was ice cold.  I tried to lift it slightly but found that it was rigored.

“Sorry to ask so many questions, but this doesn’t feel right.  Those two said they saw him shoot himself?

“Yep,” he pointed out the window at the two men, “they said they were drinking for hours.  He got that gun and started waving it around and threatening to shoot himself.  They say this went on for a couple of hours and then he finally did the deed.”

“Did they say they called 911 right away?” I asked.

“Yep.  They called right away.”

I have heard about paramedics who work death scene having that “Agatha Christi” moment, but I never thought I would have it.  I was shocked to think that I would actually be able to point the finger at a killer myself.  I was actually starting to get excited.

“Hey man, those two guys killed this dude.  Don’t let ‘em go anywhere.”

“What?” he whipped around like he was ready to tackle someone right now.

“Okay, do you see that little hole that is so nicely drilled in his head?  That’s a .357 in his lap.  If he shot himself with that half of his head would be missing.  There aren’t even any powder marks.  He was shot from across the room.  And he is already stiff which means he has gone through rigor mortis and has been dead for a few hours.  My guess is that they shot him for some reason and jacked around for a few hours trying to get their story straight and then called 911.”

The cop looked at the gun in his lap, and then at his head.  He paused for a few seconds, said “Oh shit!” and ran out the front door.  Before long the two men were in handcuffs.  I had my paperwork done in about 20 minutes and gave it to the coroner just as he was arriving.

As we drove away I looked at my partner and said, “What about that, eh?  I fingered the killer.  Just like that.  Like a regular freaking Kojak, man.”

“Fuck you, I want to go to bed.” Was all I got.

When I got back, I couldn’t sleep.  I watched Capt. Frank’s bald head shoot marbles out his mouth for the next hour until we got another run.