I’m Pretty Sure I Would Make a Great Crime Scene Investigator

WHILE IT is true that my incredible combination of talents would suit itself to most any task, there are a certain few that I think might suit or interest me most. To wit: that of Crime Scene Investigator. A modern Sherlock Holmes, I would use my incredible deductive reasoning and superior powers of perception to foil the madcap killing sprees of murderers everywhere.

Allow me to set the scene:

It is a cold, dark night. There is a body lying on the ground in an alley in a bad part of town. Mist swirls around the still form as, in a nearby zoo, an owl hoots and a wolf howls eerily.

Suddenly, a policeman appears on the scene.

“Shaun? Shaun! There’s been a murder and we need your help desperately!”

Instantly alert, I sit up. “Let’s roll, baby,” I say suavely.

Moments later, we arrive at at a well-lit, cheery apartment in the city. Among the throng of police, I see that my partner—a sexy yet by-the-books woman named Clarice Scully with whom I have, oddly, not yet consummated our professional relationship—has already arrived and is dusting for fingerprints. I greet her with a firm smack on the ass.

“Any fingerprints?” I ask.

“Nope,” she replies.

A magnifying glass... just one of many tools in a murderer's arsenal. Particularly cruel killers may use one to burn a victim to death slowly.

I begin stroking my beard thoughtfully, then thrust my index finger into the air as it hits me:

“The killer must not have any hands. We should round up and interview all the multiple amputees we can find.”

An officer dashes out as Clarice gasps. “So… another victim of The Nubby Strangler, you think?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But there seems to be something different about this killing… I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”

I smile and wait for everyone to get the joke. As they do, one by one they begin laughing and cheering. To have a handless killer… then, “can’t put my finger on it”… brilliant. This is brilliant fucking police work.

I strut on into the boudoir, where I spot a naked hottie covered in blood lying on the bed. I quickly intuit that she is the murder victim. As the gathered police respectfully clear the way, I sashay confidently up to the corpse and begin fondling her breasts.

“Firm, but not stiff. Looks like rigor mortis hasn’t kicked in yet,” I move quickly to her exposed va-jay-jay, thrusting my fingers in with a practiced, clinical precision, “…and she’s still warm all up in there. Nope, she hasn’t been dead long at all.”

I remove my dripping fingers and then look at them, thoughtfully. “Looks like the killer may have left some DNA evidence, too. We’ll have to wait at least thirty minutes for a DNA test, but”—my tongue darts out to lick my fingers—“tastes like blood type A-negative to me.” More clapping arises from my fellow investigators as one policeman begins swabbing my fingers and another grabs a spoon from the kitchen in order to scoop out additional evidence.

“Brilliant!” effuses Clarice, rightly smitten. “So how do you think the killer got in?”

“Well,” I say, trying not to sound too condescending, “I don’t know about you, but I usually use a door.” I glance around the apartment. “If I recall correctly, there was one at the entrance to the apartment, leading into the hallway.”

A rookie office dashes back to the entry, and returns wide-eyed. “He’s right! That proves it!”

Nods all around. Poor, dumb Clarice.

“Anything unusual about the body?” I ask, graciously attempting to divert everyone’s attention from Clarice’s failures.

“Well,” she begins, “the victim appears to have an extra vagina on her neck.”

I look and quickly confirm existence of the slit on her throat. But… wait…

“This… is no vagina!” I declare. “This… is a wound!”

Crime scene tape, useful for surrounding corpses and framing Thomas Kinkade paintings. Am I right? Huh? That man murders fine art. Is what I'm saying.

More gasps and murmurs. Clarice is dumbfounded.

“Of course!” She sees it, now. “A horizontal cut across the neck! Such an injury could very will kill a person! But… how did it end up there?”

“Well,” I say, placing a pipe in my mouth, “I figure a handless murderer couldn’t sharpen his fingernails enough to make such a cut, since he doesn’t have fingers with which to manipulate a nail file. So he must have used a tool. Or…” I add with a wink, “she must have used a tool”.

A thud, as the rookie officer from before faints to the ground from the shock. A woman could have killed this victim, then used a turkey baster to shove some semen up there that she purchased from the local convenience store.

Some officers drag out the unconscious rookie, while others begin looking for possible cutting implements. Clarice grabs ahold of the bedside lamp and attempts to force it into the woman’s neck-wound, but it won’t fit. She looks at me, pleading for help.

“What about that bloody knife?” I ask, pointing to a bloody knife.

Clarice tries it and… it fits! She looks up, exuberant.

“It fits! But could it really have created the wound?”

“One way to find out,” I say back, snatching the knife and raking it across the throat of an inattentive officer standing nearby. He drops to the floor, gurgling. As the blood flows out, we see… a long cut across his throat. It’s a perfect match! Amidst yet more cheers, the officer tries to congratulate me, but lazily dies instead.

“Bring the victim to the lab,” I demand, “and prepare this officer’s body to be burnt as sacrifce in the Shrine of Investigation.”

* * *

Back at the lab, Clarice and I stand around the prone body, jabbing it with microscopes.

“Clarice, we’re getting nowhere fast,” I say. “And I don’t just mean the sexual tension between us. I think I may have to resort to less orthodox techniques if I’m going to crack this case.”

Clarice shakes her head. “You always have to throw the book out, don’t you.” She’s so by-the-books, that Clarice.

Moments later, the victim’s body has been duct-taped into a chair. I hurl a legal textbook at the victim’s head.

“WHO KILLED YOU?” I scream. Short any more books, I slam a baseball bat into her ribcage. “TELL ME WHO KILLED YOU, DAMNIT!”

“Shaun, this isn’t working!” Clarice opines.

“You’re telling me,” I reply. “Bring me a cricket bat. Those Brits may be onto something.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head dumbly. “I mean this… the torture. It’s just not an effective interrogation technique. You can’t expect to get the information you need this way.”

I stop peeing on the corpse for a moment to ponder this.

Moments later, Clarice has been duct taped into a chair. I hurl a cricket bat at Clarice’s head.


You know what else is a crime? This dress! Oooooh, snap!

“Perfect!” I cry. “That’s just the information I needed. And all this duct-taping of women reminds me of something… I—I know who killed the victim!”

Just then, the Chief of Police (as ably played by Bill Paxton) barges in.

“Shaun!” he exclaims. “Sexy but by-the-books Clarice! It’s been half an hour, so the DNA test is back!”

We hold our collective breath as Paxton dramatically opens the envelope, making great use of the same gravitas he brought to “Titanic” and “Twister”.

“Computer magic has determined that the plentiful semen of excellent color, consistency, and bouquet belongs to… Shaun! Other police in the room, arrest that man!”

As the police descend upon me, I calmly hold up a hand. “Stop, assholes!”

“You see, just before the Chief dramatically burst into the room, I remembered what happened. It was not I who killed this woman. You see, I merely sexed her up, then wandered off for a little nap in an alley.

“However, as the victim lay there, she realized that her life had climaxed alongside me, and that there was nowhere to go from here but downhill. No, it was not me who killed her… it was she!” I pointed a finger then at the victim, outdoing even Bill Paxton in my dramatic chops.

“Other police in the room, arrest that beaten, urine-soaked corpse!” the Chief decalres. They handcuff the corpse, and slip in a couple rough elbows for good measure.

“Gee, Shaun,” says Clarice, nuzzling up to me. “All this brilliance is making me want to forego my by-the-books ways. Care for a tryst in the microscope closet?”

“Sure, baby,” I say with a wink. “I’ll bring the knife.”

* * *

And so, with crime in America essentially vanquished, I would be a national hero. It would be like if Batman and Superman had a baby together, and then that baby grew a beard and got laid a whole lot instead of just stupidly pining over frumpy old Rachael Dawes and Lois Lane. The best way to score with them would have been to bang lots of other chicks… women get all jealous about that stuff.

But yes, just think of the world you’d live in if the department would just stop rejecting my applications. Assholes.