Muirfield could hardly contain himself. He saw that Mario Villalobos was off down the hall. This might top all the macabre gags that old homicide detectives pulled on each other, if Chip Muirfield could think of something really funny to do with the slice of tattooed flesh which he slipped into a small evidence envelope.
While Melody Waters roamed the autopsy room enjoying the show on the other tables, Mario Villalobos returned and noticed that Chip Muirfield was so intensely interested he looked ready to crawl inside Missy Moonbeam.
“If I were you, Chip, I’d stand back a bit,” Mario Villalobos said, lighting a cigarette, promising himself to cut down before he ended up under the swashbuckler’s knife.
Chip Muirfield was so enchanted by the ragged bloody shell that used to be a girl from Omaha that he ignored the older detective’s admonition.
Mario Villalobos looked at the butter- brickle three-piece suit worn by Chip Muirfield, hesitated a moment, and then said, “Even Boris Karloff wasn’t so eager, Chip. If I were you I’d step back just a bit.”
But Chip Muirfield didn’t seem to hear him, so Mario Villalobos went for coffee. The pathologist pulled off his gloves and called it a wrap. The technician looked up at the clock and … Jesus Christ! Days of Our Lives was going to start in three minutes!
That did it. He reached for the faucet over the gut pan to get this baby zipped. He wasn’t paying any attention to a young surfer-cop in a butter- brickle suit. He was eying that clock like a death-row convict and he cranked the faucet full blast. The water hit the gut pan with a crash. And Chip Muirfield was wearing Missy Moonbeam.
His butter- brickle three-piece suit was decorated by a geyser of blood. A piece of Missy Moonbeam was plastered to his necktie. Another little slice of her hit him on the lapel. A swatch of Missy Moonbeam’s purple gut plopped on his shoulder and oozed like a snail. But worst of all for Chip, who was yelling and cursing the technician-who couldn’t care less-Chip Muirfield had a wormy string of Missy Moonbeam’s intestine dangling from his sunburned surfer’s nose.
Chip Muirfield and Melody Waters couldn’t come along on the trip that Mario Villalobos made to the Wonderland Hotel that afternoon. Chip and Melody had to drive straight to Chip’s apartment in Venice so that Chip could change his blood-spattered clothes. Then they hastily dropped off the butter- brickle suit at a local dry cleaner’s.
When the pants presser who was working the counter saw all the bloodstains, he said, “My gosh, what happened?”
To which a very cross and cranky Chip Muirfield replied, “I cut myself shaving. Just write the frigging thing up. I’m in a hurry.”
Chip Muirfield’s smart mouth ruined the remainder of the pants presser’s miserable day. The pants presser was getting sick and tired of chemicals and starch and burning his fingers on the hot iron and he didn’t need some prick poor-mouthing him just because he asked about some bloodstains. Suddenly the pants presser found a little envelope in the pocket of the suit. It had something soft in it. Maybe a few bucks folded up? Serve the prick right if the pants presser nicked him for it, which is what he decided to do. He looked around slyly and tore open the envelope and …
“Get over here right away!” the pants presser screamed into the phone to the desk cop at Venice Police Station. “Get the homicide detectives! Call the press room! Get the six o’clock news team alerted!” Jesus Christ, he better shave and change his shirt before the television crew got here!
The Venice detectives arranged a stakeout for that evening at the address given by one Chip Muirfield, who was a new tenant and unknown to his neighbors. When the young man finally showed up with a tipsy Melody Waters, who had told her accountant husband that she had to work all night on a murder case, they were jerked out of Chip’s car by four
While Melody Waters roamed the autopsy room enjoying the show on the other tables, Mario Villalobos returned and noticed that Chip Muirfield was so intensely interested he looked ready to crawl inside Missy Moonbeam.
“If I were you, Chip, I’d stand back a bit,” Mario Villalobos said, lighting a cigarette, promising himself to cut down before he ended up under the swashbuckler’s knife.
Chip Muirfield was so enchanted by the ragged bloody shell that used to be a girl from Omaha that he ignored the older detective’s admonition.
Mario Villalobos looked at the butter- brickle three-piece suit worn by Chip Muirfield, hesitated a moment, and then said, “Even Boris Karloff wasn’t so eager, Chip. If I were you I’d step back just a bit.”
But Chip Muirfield didn’t seem to hear him, so Mario Villalobos went for coffee. The pathologist pulled off his gloves and called it a wrap. The technician looked up at the clock and … Jesus Christ! Days of Our Lives was going to start in three minutes!
That did it. He reached for the faucet over the gut pan to get this baby zipped. He wasn’t paying any attention to a young surfer-cop in a butter- brickle suit. He was eying that clock like a death-row convict and he cranked the faucet full blast. The water hit the gut pan with a crash. And Chip Muirfield was wearing Missy Moonbeam.
His butter- brickle three-piece suit was decorated by a geyser of blood. A piece of Missy Moonbeam was plastered to his necktie. Another little slice of her hit him on the lapel. A swatch of Missy Moonbeam’s purple gut plopped on his shoulder and oozed like a snail. But worst of all for Chip, who was yelling and cursing the technician-who couldn’t care less-Chip Muirfield had a wormy string of Missy Moonbeam’s intestine dangling from his sunburned surfer’s nose.
Chip Muirfield and Melody Waters couldn’t come along on the trip that Mario Villalobos made to the Wonderland Hotel that afternoon. Chip and Melody had to drive straight to Chip’s apartment in Venice so that Chip could change his blood-spattered clothes. Then they hastily dropped off the butter- brickle suit at a local dry cleaner’s.
When the pants presser who was working the counter saw all the bloodstains, he said, “My gosh, what happened?”
To which a very cross and cranky Chip Muirfield replied, “I cut myself shaving. Just write the frigging thing up. I’m in a hurry.”
Chip Muirfield’s smart mouth ruined the remainder of the pants presser’s miserable day. The pants presser was getting sick and tired of chemicals and starch and burning his fingers on the hot iron and he didn’t need some prick poor-mouthing him just because he asked about some bloodstains. Suddenly the pants presser found a little envelope in the pocket of the suit. It had something soft in it. Maybe a few bucks folded up? Serve the prick right if the pants presser nicked him for it, which is what he decided to do. He looked around slyly and tore open the envelope and …
“Get over here right away!” the pants presser screamed into the phone to the desk cop at Venice Police Station. “Get the homicide detectives! Call the press room! Get the six o’clock news team alerted!” Jesus Christ, he better shave and change his shirt before the television crew got here!
The Venice detectives arranged a stakeout for that evening at the address given by one Chip Muirfield, who was a new tenant and unknown to his neighbors. When the young man finally showed up with a tipsy Melody Waters, who had told her accountant husband that she had to work all night on a murder case, they were jerked out of Chip’s car by four
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