It was 4:00 A.M. by the time I got to the Lincoln Street Hotel. Fancy cars filled the parking lot. A beautiful fountain with colorful lights complimented the flashing hues emitted from the top of cop cars, yet the ornate architecture was almost mocking the dismal scene. These kids were having a real rager. Apparently some party-goer either jumped or was thrown from the fourth floor; my job was to figure out which one it was. I didn’t really want to see what was left of the kid, but they wouldn’t call it work if it was easy. Talk about a mess. What can you really learn by looking at the smashed body of drunken party boy? Usually in the homicide/suicide question, you’re looking for evidence of struggle, but how can you pin anything on a shattered skull lying in a pool of blood. This is why beer and balconies are a bad mix. Ok, let’s see what we’ve got upstairs. What was I looking for, smashed-face’s suicide note? Ha, he was smashed before he even knew the room had a balcony. This guy was probably so drunk that he couldn’t even hold a pen, much less put a sentence together. So, what do I just find his mother and say “hey, Johnny got a little drunk and had an accident, sorry.” That would sure be easier than trying to sort out this jumbled mass of foggy intoxication. Inebriated women with runny mascara lined the hallway. The boys in blue were still hauling out passed out bros. One of these tank-top twits might be a murderer. Maybe Johnny kissed the wrong Suzy before Billy was too wasted to notice, but something tells me that by the time Johnny was attempting flight there wasn’t a Billy in the room who could walk ten feet, much less throw someone over a balcony. These kids were doing more than boozing here. I waded through the red cups, vomit, and glass bottles onto the balcony. I looked over the rail right above where the kid splattered. There I was where Johnny was standing four floors and several beers ago. Behold America’s wasted youth.
No comments:
Post a Comment