The man in front of me blew a stream of smoke. He did it unconsciously. Drag in, breathe out. He wasn't addicted though, he wasn't shaking as he smoked, and he didn't get a new cigarette when he smoked down to the filter. He was a stress smoker, and a chipper. I smiled. He couldn't get addicted if he tried. He had a habit, not an addiction.
"So tell me, what kind of hands did the body have?" I steepled my own.
"Normal hands. Soft, I think. Big knuckles. I told you, hands like my guitarist." John Watson dragged in more nicotine-laced vapor. He stared at the floor. Embers from the cigarette lit up his thin lips and beaky nose. He rocks the chair back and forth, a counterpoint rhythm to his breathing.
His life was unintentionally filled with rhythm. He was a musician. John couldn't help it. In a way, he craved it. Without knowing it, he had created a tiny haven of perfect balance and counter balance. He was ex-military doctor, of course. He was meticulously clean, and the tiny red marks on his forearms from injecting drugs were in a neat line.
"What about his fingertips?" I inquired.
John's knuckles gripped the chair, turning white. Once he came to a conclusion, that was the only one. Nothing else could be right. He was used to having things his way, either from being the only doctor on the field, to being a lead singer. And he was the singer. His fingertips weren't calloused like a guitarists were, and his voice was too melodic for a back-up singer. He was too controlling for a drummer.
"Normal. Normal person's fingertips. What were you expecting, Mr. Ham. Holmes. Whatever you are."
"Holmes. He didn't have calloused fingertips?"
It was in the way he sat really. Like he was being photographed. He was a poser. He didn't like attention, but it fed him. It was his release. He didn't love the crowds. He loved the way they made him feel, strong, powerful. He loved the release they brought, the release of adrenaline, of his anger. Of his pain.
"No! He didn't! Look, I didn't examine the dead body inch by inch, I'm not screwed up!" He yelled at me.
I bit my lip to stop my smile. Right on time. It had only taken him three minutes in front of me to explode. Once he had his own solution, he put blinders on his eyes. He couldn't see any other possible way.
So narrow-minded.
"So no callouses?" I repeated.
Smoke streamed angrily from his mouth. "No." He huffed out.
I smiled. "Your guitarist is still alive."
John snorted. "Don't lie to me." He blowed more smoke and it mingled in his blonde hair. He was clearly frustrated. "You know what? Why don't you just find him? And if you find him, I'll pay you money so that you can afford to rent this tiny apartment, deal?"
"You believe I don't have money?"
"Obviously not. If you had money, you'd have an actual flat, with an actual kitchen, not a microwave oven and one burner."
He was caring. "I don't use either of them. There's currently a head in the microwave."
His eyes widened in shock. He marched over to microwave, leather boots pounding across the floor. I turned to watch him. He yanked open the door, then started choking.
Well, it did smell... a bit wretched. Probably rotting or something. The singer slammed it shut as fast as he could and stumbled back to the rickety chair I had pulled out for him.
"Good God, you really do have a head in there." He stared at the peeling wallpaper, molding ceiling, dusty shelves, and scattered crumbs. "You can't live like this."
I laughed. "Oh, Mr. Watson. I can. I've been doing it for quite some time. You run along back to your tour bus, and I'll start on the case! And I'll contact you when I've finished. Should only be an hour or so." I opened the door and promptly waved him out.