I’ve been on this job for nearly twenty years—four years patrol, a few years traffic, then a decades worth of homicide. I’ve seen some sick shit over the years, but this case took the cake.

Candyland was never as quiet as the real estate commercials made it sound. Behind the mulberry bushes and lemon grass, hid a sour patch of secrets, lies, and deceit. Yeah, we have some good residents, but under all that sugar, there is plenty of salt. The confectionary smiles and waves are all for show. We’ve definitely had our problems. There was that prostitution ring being run out the back of Gumdrops, a daycare center. We found out that “Candicane” was being sold to kids by the school teachers. Then the Muffin Man had all his gingerbread shit going on. This town hasn’t ever been the almond joy we let the world see, but nothing, and I mean nothing, compared to the Sugar Shock Suicides.

Three victims, three different walks of life, all dead and labeled as suicides by the city coroner. The details never really sat right with me, but I just report the findings, the big wigs label the outcome. My job stops just shy of the medical stuff.

The first victim was Robert Mints. Old guy—really nice—he was the type of guy that gave Christmas cakes to the mail men. His friends got suspicious when he didn’t show up for their weekly card game, so naturally, they went to check on him. Things got a little sticky when they checked his back porch. He wasn’t going to be attending anymore games, not the way they found him. According to the coroner’s report, he stuck a double barreled Twizzler to the side of his own head, pulled the trigger and blew his spongecake all over the porch swing. Crumbs were everywhere.

The second victim was found in her pool. Candice Apple, Candy for short—she was a teacher. She was new to the neighborhood and nobody had anything bad to say about her. Quiet type, she stayed to herself mostly buried in books and school work. When we found her, she had nearly two gallons of chlorinated lemonade in her lungs. The coroner said it was a textbook, self-induced drowning. Apparently Ms. Apple, popped the tab on some chlorine cola, and poured two jugs full down her trachea. The marks on her neck were completely left out of the report.

The cases were all covered in nuts, but nothing came close to Ann Cupcakes, the lawyer. She was the assistant district attorney, and a damn good one. Initially, the suits kept us from working the scene while they made calls to the bureau, but eventually we got in. Cupcakes saw the most work. When the whole thing went down, we found her body pinned between a car and her garage wall. The car had to be moving fast, because her taffy was pulled out and sticking all over the car port. However, the coroner ruled it another suicide. She cited that Cupcakes used an app to drive her car full speed into her own chest.

What got me thinking about these cases was the contents of Ann’s purse. As an ADA, she saw her fair share of dangerous criminals, so she kept a gun on her at all times. If I were a suicidal lawyer with a concealed weapons permit, I would’ve just popped a 9M&M into my mouth and ended my night. Who goes to the trouble of running themselves over?

None of it sat right with me. I knew these weren’t suicides. Any asshole with eyes could see that, but I was the eye-having asshole that had to prove it. And if I was going to do that, I needed a real suspect. And I think I had one—the coroner, Coroner Pixie Stiques.

To be continued…

Copyright Jamale Davis 2020 and all rights reserved and all that other legal shit.