The Farting Detective

The call came at ten thirty, Tuesday. I remember the time well because I was just getting my mid-favourite-program snack during the commercial break. I stood at the counter and carefully sliced off a nice big slab of cheese. It was cheddar, aged and ripe, my favourite.

The phone rang and I cursed under my breath. I didn't need to bother hiding my swearing from anyone anymore; Kate had left three months before. It was habit, like my favourite show, like my ten thirty snack. I picked up the phone.

"What!"

"Dee? It's Harry. We've got a good one. Middle-aged man, and the Forensic Boys have given us a little surprise."

I hated surprises. "Spare me your crap, Harry. What's this surprise?"

"Can't tell you over the phone. We're at 1623 Blarney Avenue."

I didn't like the sound of that very much. I'd known Harry about seven years, hated his guts for most of it, too. He was the kind of guy who liked to tell you something you didn't already know. He's the kind of guy that everyone tries to avoid. He'd otherwise try to make himself seem better than you for not knowing the latest about Suspect X or Victim Y. He was a small-time weasel, and he'd never go far.

As I drove to Blarney Avenue (a good, solid, middle-class area of town where the problems were usually just bored teenagers busting up billboards or hot-wiring daddy's car for a joyride) I thought about my partner Harry. I'd nearly decked him about half-a-dozen times. I had a feeling that tonight might be number seven.

By the way, my name's Detective Deforest Stevens. If you call me Deforest, I'll probably kill you. Dee's the name, catching murderers is the game. I'm the best. I always get my man (or woman these days.) Tonight was my next case. Tonight I'd get a new challenge. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Sherlock Holmes or an Hercule Poirot. I'm not that smart. I'm just a cop that knows something suspicious when he sees it. I can smell out trouble.

I spotted the place as soon as I turned onto the block. There were enough flashing lights to make a blind man squint. I pulled my own car into the driveway and got out.

Before my feet had touched the pavement, Harry was practically in my face. The man was forty, but looked amazingly like a four-year-old child. His eager eye were bright, and he was slightly breathless. His brown hair was matted to his forehead and his loose tie was crooked, showing off his shirt-buttons which stretched the length of his thin, lanky frame. In short, he looked about as professional as a three hundred pound hooker.

"Oh boy, Dee! This is a good one!"

I clenched my fists as I stood up. Harry didn't flinch. He'd seen it often enough to get the mistaken notion that he was safe.

"Cut the crap. What's up?"

Harry lost none of his enthusiasm as he told me the details:

"Man, aged fifty. His name was William Dawson. Found dead by a neighbour who came over and let himself in. He was discovered on the floor by his chair in front of the TV in the sitting room. Apparently he always watched the TV in the evening. He was found dead at approximately Nine oh Five PM. The wife went out at around seven o'clock and returned at nine thirty . . ."

"Hold on, Harry," I interrupted, "but why are you telling me about her schedule? How did this guy die?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm getting to that, Dee, I really am. I think you'd better let me tell it in my own way. I'll lose my train of thought if I don't, and I don't think we want to waste precious time over misunderstandings about the-"

"Shut up! Just tell me the facts now!"

"Right-er-well, the first coroner's examination ruled out a heart-attack for the reason that his tongue and throat appeared to be slightly scorched. He says that this is common in certain kinds of poisoning victims. When he called in the Forensic Boys, they took away his beer, which was the only thing he was drinking.

"The body temperature when the coroner got here was sufficiently low to rule out the neighbour, who was let off the hook by a call to the pizza delivery boy, and the body temperature was high enough that it was impossible for his wife to have poisoned him before she went bowling. And yes, her bowling friends have verified the times that she was at the alley."

I sighed. You have to understand that every murder case I've solved has been of the mundane, average, meat-and-potatoes variety. Maybe things started out looking impossible, but it only took a few questions, a little footwork, and a bit of thinking, and everything was obvious. Like I said, I'm no Sherlock.

"I want to talk to that neighbour and the wife," I said to Harry. "And who's the coroner and is he still here?"

"It's Hank, and he left before you got here. I think the neighbour's in the kitchen. I'll have to find the wife."

We walked up the driveway to the house. It was a small stucco job, with a couple of garden gnomes in the front. I hate stucco, and I absolutely positively loathe gnomes, flamingoes, bird-baths, or anything else that makes lawn-mowing difficult. I don't know why: my latest ex-wife got the house two years ago in the divorce. I don't have to mow any lawns any more. Our house had stucco and bird baths. It's just as well she got the house.

I followed Harry up the three steps that led into the entrance hallway and followed his pointed finger to the kitchen, while he veered off down another hall--presumably to hunt out the dead man's wife.

There was something in the air of that little house that bothered me. The air was sour and smelled almost like that couple had cats.

I entered the kitchen to see an overweight man. No, he was fat. No two ways about it. He was about forty or forty-five and he was sitting at the table, drinking beer and talking to one of the Uniforms. The U looked up and smiled broadly at me as I entered. He was probably looking for a promotion, the little butt-kisser. I felt like decking him.

"Are you the neighbour who found the deceased?" I said to the man drinking beer.

"Yup. That's me. Found him right there in the next room."

"OK. I've got a few questions for you."

"But-"

"Yeh, yeh, I know. You probably already answered a few questions. Answer mine and you can go home."

I knew from experience that most people liked to hang around behind the Police Lines and rubberneck as much as possible. Maybe let the other neighbours in on what was happening later. Those people were like Harry--wanting to tell you everything in the world, as if you really cared. This guy was probably no different. But I didn't want him around. People who don't have anything to do eventually end up getting in the way.

"Alright then," he said to me. "Ask away."

I sat down at the table and pulled out my notebook. He reached down and scratched his knee. He was, perhaps, three hundred pounds. He wore a white muscle-shirt and longish, baggy shorts. Around his waist was a fanny-pack.

"Now," I said, "what is your full name?"

"Herbert Louis Planck. P-L-A-N-don't-forget-the-C-K."

"And your address, Herbert?"

"Herb. Next door."

"Your full address?"

"1637 Blarney Avenue."

"Now, tell me exactly how it is that you got in, why, and what you saw."

"Well, I usually come over about nine to chat, you know? Maybe drink a few beers, you know?" And so I came over tonight and knocked. Bill didn't answer, but sometimes he doesn't, so I just walked in the back door. It was open. You see, he's . . . um . . . got some tummy troubles and he's always going to the john and . . . um . . . you know, blowing farts and stuff. He's a good guy and all--I mean, he was a good guy--but he . . . um . . . kind of smelled on account of all his . . . um . . ."

"Okay, Herbert. I get the point."

I wanted to drill this guy's head against the wall. I knew his type. Always coming over and drinking your beer, staying too long and being a pain in the arse.

I also knew about flatulence. I didn't like flatulence. My first or second wife, or one of my girlfriends in between--I can't remember exactly--used to flatulate all night as she slept. It got to the point where I had to turn a fan on to blow the air across the room, back onto her side.

I said to the fat man, "Continue, Herbert."

"I let myself in like I always do, got a couple of beers from the fridge, and walked into the den. And there he was. Dead."

"Did you notice anything or anybody suspicious this evening?"

"Nope."

"Did the deceased seem any different in the last few days, or did anything in his daily routine change at all?"

He reached down and scratched his knee again. Through the glass table-top I could see that he was pulling great fleshy chunks from a scab. He looked lost in thought for a few seconds, then finally said, "Well, the last few weeks, his wife and he'd been arguing a little more than usual. That is, more than twice a day."

I thought this was interesting. "What were they arguing about?" I asked him.

"Um . . . I . . . um . . . I'm not really sure, you know?"

It was clear he was lying. I wanted to shake his flabby frame to get the information out of him.

"C'mon, Herbert-"

"Herb. Please."

"Tell me the truth, Herbert. Why were they fighting?"

"Well, I . . . um . . . think it was about his . . . farting, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

"Well, she was a little bit tired of the smell, and I heard her tell him that if he couldn't stop, she'd leave him."

I thought for a moment. Poor woman. I knew how she felt. I looked back at this disgusting excuse for a neighbour and said, "Just one more thing: does these people have a cat?"

Herbert Louis Planck looked confused for a moment, and then he grinned from ear-to-ear. "Nope. That's Bill's handiwork you smell, not any cat."

"Oh my God! Okay, here's my card." I handed it to him. "If you can think of anything else, then give me a call, okay?"

"You got it."

He slowly rose from his chair and lumbered to the door, taking his beer with him.

I turned my head and saw Harry with a woman of about forty-five or fifty standing in the doorway. I figured it was William Dawson's wife. I was instantly furious with Harry. He knew better than to let witnesses (and suspects) hear the questioning of others. I felt like knocking his lights out.

Harry spoke. "Dee, this is Mrs. Dawson. Mrs. Dawson? Detective Stevens."

"Please sit down, Mrs. Dawson. Harry?"

"Yeh?"

"Beat it!"

He turned and speed-walked out of the kitchen.

I turned to Mrs. Dawson. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience of these questions, but I promise to be brief."

I looked at her as she sat down. She didn't seem upset at all. She wore a bowling shirt, and black, baggy pants. Her longish, stringy hair was almost entirely grey, and she wore far too much make-up. Her mouth formed a cruel half-grin that I guessed was her permanent expression. She calmly folded her leathery hands together, after pulling her chair in to the table. She smelled sweaty.

"Mrs. Dawson, I presume by now that you've heard the circumstances surrounding your husband's death."

"Yes, he was poisoned." Her voice was like sandpaper on glass.

"Well, that appears to be the coroner's first opinion."

"Yeh, right."

"Do you know anybody or have you heard your husband mention anybody who would have wanted to do this?"

"No."

"Um, had he recently been acting any different than usual?"

"No."

"Seen any strangers around, or anything strange lately?"

"No."

"Isn't there anything at all you can tell me to help me?"

"No."

I thought about this for a moment. "What did your husband do for a living?"

"He was unemployed on account of his . . . digestion problems." She spat those last two words out like sour milk.

"Ah, yes. So I understand. What is your occupation?"

"What difference does it make?"

"None, really, but I need to know just for the paperwork."

"Sure. I worked in a drugstore."

A warning flag shot up in my mind. As much as I admired this woman, I started at that moment to suspect her. I handed her another of my cards.

"If you think of anything to tell me, give me a call."

She took the card and, without looking at it, tossed it onto the table. "Sure," she said.

I got up and left the kitchen. Harry was out front on the lawn, smoking a cigarette. I called down the hallway to him. "Show me where the body was found."

He threw his cigarette into the garden, and came back into the house.

"In here," he said, leading me to another room.

The first thing that hit me as I entered the room was, of course, the smell. The deceased had the most incredibly smelly farts I'd ever encountered. I mean, the whole room was permeated with them. Guilty or Not Guilty (from the extent of the smell, I knew she had motive,) Mrs. Dawson had my full sympathy. Harry pointed out to me where Dawson was found on the floor, in front of the EZ reclining chair. There was a stain on the carpet from the spilled beer. As I bent down to check out the carpet where the body had been lying, my head moved to within a few inches of the seat of the chair. It was a big mistake. This man's chair smelled evil. It smelled like a neglected downtown alley in the height of summer, only ten times worse.

I fought back my mid-TV-show snack as I walked out of the room and out of the house. There would be much to do tomorrow, but first I had to clear my head. I almost decided there and then that I would not investigate the wife. Any man that could make a smell like that, digestion problems or not, almost deserved to die. Almost.


I rose the next day at five am. It was a habit I'd learned from one of my girlfriends before my third marriage. She made me get up every day to stretch for about thirty minutes. I hated stretching. I didn't like getting up before the sun. It was just habit.

I farted as I got out of bed, and everything about the night before came back to me in a rush. The dead man, poisoned. His poor wife, Suspect Number One. The fat neighbour with the scab on his knee.

For breakfast I had a cheese omelette, and as I grated the cheese into tiny little slivers the phone rang. I looked at the clock: only five-fifteen. I cursed to myself.

"What!" I shouted.

"Morning, Dee." It was Harry. I wanted to poke his eyeballs out. "Guess what?"

"Just tell me!"

"The coroner has found no evidence of poison in Dawson's stomach. Says he doesn't know how the burns got on his tongue and throat, but the amount of poison required to make those kind of burns would have left some residue in the stomach. And there was definitely nothing unusual in the beer."

"Is that it?"

"Pretty much, so far. Oh, except the coroner commented on Dawson's intestinal problems which led to his-"

"Meet me at 324 Canal Street. Seven thirty." I hung up before he could respond.

I dumped the cheese into my omelette.

I suspected Dawson's wife, but without any concrete proof of poisoning, there'd be no conviction. Hell, there'd be no charge! What I needed was to find out how it was done. She worked in a drugstore. I know that drugstores sell combs, shampoo, condoms, and even computers these days. But at the back there's always a drug counter. Drugs to heal, drugs to fix, and sometimes drugs to kill. I decided that the ex Mrs. Dawson's drug store would be my first port of call for the day.

As soon as I cut up a little more cheese for my omelette.


When Harry and I got to Phil's Pharmacy, the sky was threatening to fall in. The grey morning never brightened, and there were faint rumblings from the clouds. I hate rain. I hate thunder. I really hate grey days that sound like rolling intestines, reminding me of farting dead men.

I also hated the face of the pharmacist who met me at the back counter. I half-expected his little plastic name-tag (I hate little plastic name-tags) to announce his name as Phil. Instead it said Dick. I handed Dick one of my cards, and Harry did the same.

"Good morning Mr., er, Stevens. What can I do for you?" he asked me.

"Lady named Dawson. Does she work here?"

"Doris? Doris Dawson?"

"Yeh, sure. What can you tell me about her?"

"Well, Mr. Stevens. I can't rightly go around telling tales on my fellow workers, can I? Is this, er, official business?"

"Oh, yeh, it's official. So out with it! Can you tell me anything at all about . . . Doris?"

He paused and fidgeted nervously with my card. I felt like decking him. My fists clenched.

"She's a nice woman," he said slowly, "and she's always on time, and she works hard." He started to warm up a bit. "She is always concerned about the customers, and I think this is indicative of her personality, because she's the kind of woman that always does things for everybody without having to be asked. She's a model citizen in every way. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you were here recommending her for a medal or-"

"SHUT UP! Cut the crap, or I'll drag your sorry ass downtown for obstructing a police officer. What about this Dawson woman?"

Harry leaned over and whispered into my ear, "I gotta go get some seltzer for my stomach--back in a sec."

The man behind the counter said, "Ahem. Okay." He lowered his voice. "She's been taking a lot of strange drugs with her. Our boss doesn't know about it yet, but she's been writing up false prescriptions and buying the drugs herself. I've told her twice that I was going to report her if she didn't stop, but she only laughed. The first time, that is. The second time she looked at me as if . . . well . . . in a way that I didn't like much. I hope you catch her at something bad, the woman's a real harpy. I can't stand her." He raised his voice again. "But other than that a great woman. Loved and respected by all of us here. Now, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yeh. I want a list of all the drugs she took. Now."

He smiled at me like I had just handed him a thousand bucks as a present.

"Why, certainly, sir."

I hate people like that.

Harry returned. "I miss anything?"

I clenched my fists.


We decided to visit Dawson's doctor. I got Harry to contact Central to find out who Dawson's doctor had been. He found out some other juicy gossip as well, and, as usual, couldn't wait to tell me about it. I thought I might deck him.

We met the receptionist at the front desk and identified ourselves. I then asked for Dawson's doctor.

"You must mean Dr. Frankowicz. He's seeing a patient right now. You'll have to sit down and wait, Detectives."

I hate waiting. I hate being told to wait. I especially hated this receptionist. I felt like wringing her neck. Harry meekly sat down and started leafing through a woman's magazine. I stayed standing clenching and unclenching my fists, as the receptionist started to get nervous.

Just then a man and a doctor came into the waiting area, and walked to the front desk. The doctor said, "Marg, please make an appointment for this man for the urologist."

"Yes, doctor," she replied. "Er, this man here is a police detective. He'd like to talk to you about one of your patients."

Doctor Frankowicz opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

"One of your ex-patients, doctor."

"Sir," he spat back, "you will have to go through proper channels. I just can't allow every, er, policeman to barge into my office and demand information."

I smiled and looked over to Harry, who had jumped up and stood beside me. "Harry," I said, "what was that nasty piece of information you found out this morning?"

"Huh?" he asked.

I clenched my fists and said, "About the good doc, here."

"Oh, yeh. Well, he was in the news a while back about selling drugs. Free samples given to him, sold to his patients."

"Right, right. D'ya think he's gotten back into that sort of thing again?"

Harry frowned. "I dunno, Dee. Maybe we should check it out." Harry was serious. He'd never get it right.

Thirty seconds later we were in his office, talking to him like we were all best buddies.

"Dawson, eh? Let's just take a peek at his file, shall we? Ah, yes. He had a fairly serious electrolyte imbalance, mostly centred in his intestines. He was on medication, and one of the side-effects was the increased flatulence. It was a shame, really, but the alternative was for him to get sicker and sicker. Unfortunately, detectives, most doctors don't want to work on better drugs to prevent this effect."

"Why not?" Harry asked.

"Er . . . it's not particularly good PR."

"Oh," he said, "of course not . . ."


Our next stop was Hank, the coroner. Hank was the kind of guy who always forgot you were there. You always felt like you were just another corpse. I didn't like that much.

When I met Hank, he was poring over some report or another, chewing on a cheese sandwich. He didn't notice me until I cleared my throat loudly in his ear.

"Hi, Dee. Hi, Harry."

"The Dawson stiff. Are you sure he wasn't poisoned?"

He turned a page, frowned, and turned it back. "Yes. Nothing in his stomach." He picked up a pencil and made a tick beside one paragraph, then turned the page again.

"I've got a suspect with the means and the motive. I just need some proof that he was poisoned."

Hank turned the page again. "Positive he wasn't, Dee." He made another tick and took a bite of his sandwich.

I felt like breaking his fingers one by one. Instead, I slammed my hand down onto the page he was reading and said, "Dammit! I need proof! You said that his mouth and tongue were burnt. That it was poisoning."

"Hey, Dee," Harry said, "take it easy!"

Hank ignored my hand and his report, as if they were not worth his attention any more. "Well, at first that was my conclusion, but I checked his stomach. No poison. We're still investigating, of course, but what can I say? Maybe he burnt himself drinking coffee."

I took my hand off his papers. "Let me know anything," I told him. I turned. I had to get out of there as soon as possible.


So we drove back to the station. I hated going to the station. I hated paperwork, I hated sitting at my half-desk, and most of all, I hated the Old Man. He was the kind of guy that always pretended to be your father. Maybe suck you in a bit, and then chew your ass out from underneath you. I can't tell you how many times I've felt like decking him.

When I walked into the Detectives' Office, the Old Man was standing, talking with some U. He saw me walk in, and waved in his friendly "How-the-hell-are-ya?" way. I grunted and gestured something with my arm. He turned back to his conversation, and Harry said, "They're gonna suspend you some day, Dee. Ya gotta take it easy!" I nearly decked him.

I sat down at my corner of the desk, opened the big front drawer and pulled everything on top into it. I forced the drawer closed and put my head in my hands and my elbows on the desktop. It was my thinking pose. I knew it was the Dawson woman, but it'd never stick. She wasn't home when her husband died, and Hank couldn't find any poison in the body. Well, I thought, not in the stomach anyway.

Something went off in my mind, but before I could figure it out, the Old Man walked up and asked us, "How's the Dawson case, you two?"

Harry started rifling through his little pocketbook, but I just said, "It's the wife. I'm sure."

"Uh-huh? Tell me all about it."

See what I mean? Just like my damned father. Well, I told him, since keeping him happy keeps me paid.

"Well. Dee. Harry. Keep working on it, but in the meantime I have another problem that I'd like you two to work on." He handed me a file holder. We'd gotten suckered again.

What with one case and another (man found in pieces in an industrial meat shredder; woman found dead with a suicide note, though she'd been shot eight times) I didn't get to thinking about the Dawson case until three days later. And in a damned strange way . . .


I had just finished a hard, good day's job interviewing suspects and gathering information on a car-bombing incident. I knew who the guilty party was (I always do) and I decided to go to Chuck's Kitchen to celebrate.

Chuck's Kitchen was the kind of place that looks like a dive, but serves up the best cooking in the world. I started going there when I was pounding a beat as a kid, and I still went there whenever I wanted to celebrate a good day. The chile there was incredible, and the burgers defied description. The owner, Chuck, had been there for a very long time. He was old, but he still had it in him. He knew me by sight.

He was behind the counter when I walked in at five o'clock. He was mixing up some coleslaw between drags from his cigarette. He looked up and smiled at me as I entered.

"Dee! Come on in! What brings you down to this end of town?"

"Hi, Chuck. I came down for a bowl of your chile."

"Sorry, my friend. We're all out today. How about some of my pork and beans?"

Chuck's pork and beans were my second choice, so I said, "Okay, and make it a big bowl. I'm starving."

So that's what I had for dinner: two big bowls of pork and beans, a grilled cheese sandwich, and some coleslaw. It was a good meal, except for the indigestion, and I chatted with Chuck for a little while over coffee. I left Chuck's at six-thirty (thirty minutes past his normal closing time) and went home feeling very satisfied.

At around eleven o'clock that night, however, I started feeling the flatulent effects of my dinner. I could hardly control myself as I walked around my apartment. I farted constantly, loudly, and smellily.

As I bent over to brush my teeth I let another loud one rip, and I thought that it was a good thing nobody was standing behind me: they would have been gassed to death.

And then a flash went through my mind. I dropped my toothbrush, left the tap running and raced to my telephone book. It was, of course, black, and held hundreds of names of ex-girlfriends. It also had the home phone-number of Hank the Coroner, and Harry.

First, I phoned Hank:

"This better be good, Dee."

"It is. Do you have your files for the Dawson case with you?"

"No, they're at the morgue."

"Be there as soon as possible."

"Dee! I-"

I hung up.

Next, I phoned Harry.

"What, Dee?"

"Phone up that Frankowicz loser and have him and yourself meet me at the morgue in half-an-hour."

"But-"

I hung up.


When I got to the morgue, all three were waiting for me. It was nearly midnight and both Frankowicz and Hank were pretty mad. That suited me fine. I hated them both. Harry was standing behind them, smiling with a confused look. I wanted to deck him.

"Doctor, you said that Dawson was on medication that made him, um, fart a lot, right?"

"That's right."

"Hank, your report yesterday said that the chemicals you found in Dawson's blood and intestines were abnormal, but you figured they were on account of his digestion problems, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, boys." I pulled out a piece of paper. "Compare what you found in his body with the drugs he was taking, and with this assortment of drugs here." I laid the paper out in front of them.

They started comparing notes, mumbling things to each other, and generally acting like egghead geeks. I hated that. I watched them as they ticked off some of the items on my list with items found in Dawson's body. Then they started getting excited, scribbling strange chemical formulas on the paper and tersely calling out chemicals to each other. At one point Hank ran to his bookshelf and pulled a huge book out and carried it back to the table. They became more agitated and tense. I felt like grabbing them and bouncing their heads off of each other.

Eventually they finished, and Hank turned to me.

"Dee, what appears to have happened is that these chemicals were added--in a very exact quantity--which would react with the chemicals resulting from the imbalance in Dawson's intestines to form, um, er, toxic gasses.

I thought about it for a moment and asked, "And these poisons were, um, er . . . released when the deceased . . .um . . ."

Frankowicz spoke. "That's right. When he flatulated."

I sighed. I had to admit it: I really liked this woman, and I admired her sense of irony. And I was going to regret doing what I was about to do.

"C'mon, Harry. Let's go."

Harry looked confused. "Go where? And what were you guys talking about?"


Mrs. Dawson opened the door.

"Hello, Detective." She didn't sound surprised even though it was nearly two o'clock in the morning.

"Mrs. Dawson, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of your husband."

She looked sad. "I was expecting this," she said. She opened the door wide to allow me and Harry into the house. We walked in, and I noticed that there were air fresheners everywhere. The smell in the house was not nearly as bad as it was a few days before.

I read her her rights while Harry began searching the house. A few minutes later, as I was ready to lead a handcuffed Mrs. Dawson to our car, he came back with two books: Medical Chemistry and Beginning Enzymology. Harry couldn't wait to show them to me, pointing out all the highlighted areas of the book, which Mrs. Dawson had obviously used to form her poisonous concoction. I clenched my fists, and felt like decking Harry. I very nearly did this time, too.

Finally I said, "Alright, Harry. Phone for backup to help you search this place, and I'll take Mrs. Dawson downtown."

"Okay, Dee."

I led Mrs. Dawson to the car, put her in the back, got into the front and drove away.

"You can't blame me," she said.

"I don't, Mrs. Dawson. I'm just doing my job."

She continued, "I mean, the smell . . . it was just all so horrible! Day after day . . ."

"I know," I said, "we're all human."

There was a short silence of maybe a few minutes, and just before we got to the office she said, "I just couldn't cut it."

I sighed and said, "I know, I know."


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