“When one tries to rise above Nature one is liable to fall below it…”
— Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Adventure of the Creeping Man’

Nursing a hangover and up most of the night,

cop’s up at crack of dawn. Chalk and a pool of blood.

Corpse with its throat gashed out. Knife clasped in outstretched hand.

“Drug deal gone bad,” the know-it-all promoted

to detective sergeant, full of his theories, thinks.

Cop moves around the corpse as if kicking the tires

of some clapped-out car he has his eye on buying.

“The shape of the cut is wrong,” he states. “This is the work

of animal not man.” Channeling Sherlock and

the Baskerville case. Dupin on the Rue Morgue.

Chest out, the cop is in his element. He knows

his stuff. The little-minded man has finished

all the courses and the paperwork. Briskly

with chubby index finger he describes the shape

of the wound about the victim’s neck. “Ripped out,

not slashed,” he snorts, mouthing the words with relish

to the younger man, amused by the way he winces

at the thought. “Cover it up!” Cop barks out to the clean-

up crew. Careful with pronouns he is careful not to be.