I roll up my sleeves to prepare the body for transport and see Bob Kill making a beeline through the police officers, crime scene investigators, paramedics, reporters, injured graduates, and family members, straight for me.

“Bino! Bino Spectre! What in the name of the devil and all that is unholy are you doing here, son?”

                Before he gets over here, three guesses what guild Bob Kill pays his dues to, and no peeking at the holo-badge dangling from his fat-ass neck. Your only hint is his name. Too late. Those stumpy legs are moving with determined purpose across the chapel today. Mort Guild. Irony of ironies, right? And yes, that’s his real name; it’s not guild-given.  

Bob Kill puts his stogie in the corner of his smile and extends a hand. I shake it, clasping hairy, stubby fingers.

                “Haven’t seen you in awhile, Bob. How long has it been?”

                He clenches the stogie between his teeth.

                “You know damn well how long it’s been. Wasn’t but a few months ago you tried to snatch those two police officers out from under my nose, right?”

“You still pissed off about that?”

                “Son, with you either I’m pissed off or pissed on. Looks like I’m getting it both ways right now.”

                I shake my head and chuckle, desperate now to get this body into my Land Rover hearse.

I for damn sure don’t want to lose another contract because of Bob Kill, but based on what happened the last time he showed up in the middle of a snatch, it’s looking more and more like I will. As long as he doesn’t have documents from City Hall stating the mayor put together a grand jury and the body at my feet is being subpoenaed as evidence, it’s mine.