Detective Cannon Roscher squints at the grisly scene with disgust. Twelve dead in a two bedroom apartment. Hands, and feet removed, eyes and teeth scattered all around the living room. It’s going to be hard to identify the victims, that’s for sure. What really gets him, though, is that every inch of the apartment is painted with blood and viscera. Not a single thing isn’t red, even the insides of the fridge and pantries. Everything except for the taxidermy on the counter.
A crow and a finch share one stand. Though lifeless, it looks like they might take flight any second. Cannon slips a pair of vinyl gloves on and inspects the thing. There’s no blood on the bottom either.
The door opens. “Woah,” someone cries. He slips on a liver and falls onto the bloody floor. He rolls back and forth like a turtle trying to rock back onto its feet. All of the blood underneath him smears around and soaks his jacket.
“Get up,” the crime scene photographer scowls. “Come on, get up.”
Blood sticks to Cannon’s boots as he walks over to the buffoon and pulls him to his feet. On the other side of the front door, a man stands wearing an identical outfit to the buffoon. Cannon’s never seen it before.
“This is a crime scene,” Cannon says. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“You may ask,” the buffoon says, “But we were sent to investigate.”
Cannon looks the men up and down. Each one wears a ginormous pair of bowling shoes. “You’re investigators?”
“That’s right.” The buffoon offers a jovial grin.
“Well, they already sent us,” Cannon says. “You guys go find something else to do.”
“We can’t,” the man on the other side of the door says. “We’re on strict orders from the mayor.” He presents a letter from his pocket, careful not to reach across the door frame. It has the mayor’s official stamp on it. Cannon takes it and starts to read.
To whom it may concern, particularly that prick Cannon Roscher,
I, mayor of the fine city of #&*@&*@&*, authorize and encourage the investigation of any violent crime by Occam’s Law Enforcement Agency. For the dubious crime of sleeping with a man I totally had dibs on, officers from Occam’s Law Enforcement Agency are on explicit orders to interfere with and solve any crime that Cannon Roscher investigates. They are ordered to do this indefinitely. If Detective Roscher has any issue with this, he can “call dibs” on the crime scene he is investigating and shove arsenic up his ass.
Signed, your mayor, Oliver Smythe.
That sure is the mayor’s signature. “Man, I never even slept with that guy,” Cannon mutters. He sighs and walks further into the apartment. “Well, I guess I can’t stop you-” he looks up from the letter and sees the man on the other side still hasn’t entered. “You coming in?”
“Ah, you must invite him in,” the buffoon says.
“You a vampire or something?” Cannon eyes the odd fellow.
“Yes,” the man says.
Cannon lifts his eyebrows. It’s going to be a long day. “Uh, I cordially invite you into this humble abode.”
“Thank you, I-” the vampire steps into the apartment and screams. His skin sizzles and starts to turn pitch black. “No! I was invited, please! I don’t want to die!” Dust explodes out from him, and the man is no more. The gray powder covers Cannon’s face. He looks at the buffoon.
“We were worried about that when we hired him,” the buffoon says. “Guess it has to be the owner of the home that invites him in.”
Cannon presses his lips together and takes a deep breath. His hand goes over his eyes. “Look, who exactly are you?”
“Ah, I’ve yet to introduce myself,” the buffoon says. “Officer Frederick Cunningham of Occam’s Law.” He extends a hand which Cannon ignores.
“What exactly is Occam’s Law?” Cannon says.
“Please, shake the hand,” Frederick says. His accent is hard to place. Vaguely British, part Bostonian, and a little bit Swedish, maybe. Cannon wouldn’t be surprised if he made up the accent.
“No,” Cannon says.
“You must shake the hand,” Frederick says. “I can not introduce myself to someone who doesn’t shake the hand.”
“You some kind of ghoul?”
“No, I just have manners.”
Cannon rolls his head with his eyes. The crime scene photographer snickers. Cannon acquiesces and shakes Frederick’s hand, but not without a groan.
“I presume you’re Cannon Roscher,” Frederick says. “You really are a prick.”
“I don’t have all day, pal,” Cannon says.
“Yes, Occam’s Law Enforcement Agency, since you asked, is a private law enforcement and detective agency funded by the mayor. We believe that any and all crimes can be solved efficiently by following the wisdom of Occam’s Razor. Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah, how’s it go again? ‘Theories must not be multiplied beyond necessity?’”
Frederick lifts a hand. His head tilts and his grin takes on a coprophagous quality. “Actually, it’s ‘the simplest answer is most likely true.’”
“Not so sure about that, but whatever,” Cannon says. He takes a look around at the gore and explains the crime scene. Stepping over the entrails, he goes back to the counter to point out the taxidermy that’s on the counter.
Frederick places a hand on his chin. He doesn’t let go of the grin painted on his face for one second. “The simplest explanation is that these people were killed by a murderer. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Cannon can’t think of a single thing to say back to this idiot. He just nods.
“Yes. See, I’ve done my research,” Frederick continues. “Most murderers in the city of #&*@&*@&* are white men.”
“Uh-huh,” Cannon says.
“And, most criminals, and this is a general fact, like to return to the scene of their crime. They revel in the results,” Frederick says.
“That’s true,” Cannon wrinkles his forehead.
“Then the simplest answer would be that our suspect is a white male who has visited this apartment after the murders were committed.”
“Suppose so,” Cannon says.
“Right,” Frederick nods. “Cannon Roscher, I am placing you under arrest for the dodeca-homicide that took place here.”
“What?” Cannon shouts. “You wait one minute,” he says. Frederick is already taking handcuffs from his belt and locking them onto Cannon’s wrists.
“You, being a white man who has visited the scene of the crime, are the simplest suspect for this case. I’m taking you in.”
“You haven’t even examined the crime scene thoroughly,” Cannon says. “How do you explain the stuffed birds?”
“Simple,” Frederick puts up a finger. “The owner of this apartment collected taxidermy.”
Cannon looks around. Underneath all of the blood, the place is well decorated with a clear ‘sea-breeze’ theme. Seashells sit on a shelf, a seagull poster framed on the wall next to it. There’s a large painting of the ocean hanging above the TV. “You see any other taxidermy here? Because I haven’t. These birds don’t fit the theme, the color palette is way off.”
“You have the right to remain silent, prick,” Frederick says.
“The owner of the apartment is clearly the killer!”
“No,” Frederick steps over a heart as he pushes Cannon to the door. “The apartment was clearly owned by the victims.”
“Twelve people in a two bedroom? How is that simple?”
“This is known as Occam's Fallacy. Sometimes, the simplest answer isn’t correct. It’s uncommon, but in this economy large families have been known to gather in the same apartment.”
Cannon’s eyes go wide. He pushes back on Frederick trying to get him out of the door. “Are you listening to yourself? The victims are made up of various demographics. There’s no way they were all related. Have you even read Occam or any philosophy for that matter?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to explain your side to the judge.”
The crime scene photographer’s face droops. Frederick pushes Cannon into the back of his car and drives off. The photographer looks back at all of the blood inside the apartment, the dismembered torsos laying everywhere. He sighs, and starts taking pictures.
This is hilarious. Reminds me of the podcast episode from Podcube https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/podcube/id1589888955?i=1000705314656