“I think he’s dead,” said Henry.

“Of course he’s dead, that’s why it’s called a morgue,” I rubbed my face, feeling my own skin flake, and made a mental note to take my name off the rookie training program.

“Morgue is French, for morgue,” added Roland, who was the finest librarian in the county, before joining the academy to become my living footnote.

“Right, I mean I think he died from the fall,” Henry pointed at the deflated football of a head. He took my jab rather well.

Roland sighed and I braced myself. “We all fall sometimes…” he uttered.

“Ok, keep going,” I replied. “Henry,” I added quickly as Roland opened his mouth.

“So he was cutting a branch, the ladder gave way, and he fell,” As he pondered this, the low buzz of the examination light filled the room, offering its own opinion, “No, that doesn’t explain the serum markers… maybe he had a stroke, and pushed the ladder out when he fell…”

“Good start,” I nodded. The only thing better than making a deduction was watching someone else’s. “And what’s the difference?”

“His insurance money?” Henry scoffed.

“His family’s insurance money,” I corrected. I could feel my pulse in my throat now.

Roland shook his head slowly. “The real enemy is capitalism,” he declared.

“But why call in the detective department,” Henry shrugged, “It seems pretty… plain?”

I straightened and cleared my throat. I don’t care if it’s pathetic, I fucking live for these moments.

“Because his widow’s first husband died the same way,” I savoured each word, leaning into the light.

Henry’s eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. Goddammit I nailed it.

You know what, rookies are alright.