It was on these cold, midwinter nights that Donald Mallard would help himself to a cup of tea and catch up on the week's television reruns. Abby had talked incessantly about the week's CSI, which according to his guide, would be replaying in the next hour. He channel surfed in the dimly lit room, batting away the corgis.
An familiar title sequence played on the screen. 'Hm. I suppose this is better than that depressing evening news.', he told the dogs. 'If Jethro collects the DVD's, then this will certainly do for us, no?', he chuckled.
His memories were of a huge house on the Scottish moors, filled with books and the air of eccentricity.
On Sunday Mornings, after Church, Mother would sit with him in the library, pulling down ancient texts from the high shelves. Little facts and bits of trivia were memorized from the stacks of paper.
The design of Native American arrows, the lineage of King George, the engine of an automobile were all recreated in that room, with items from the shops and things found lying in the roads ,and given little imaginative nicknames.
He never thought any of it was strange at all, until she had brought skeleton the home. It was all strung up on a stand, a white shining skull grinning at him through the bowler mother had put on it's head. 'Well, I suppose you've got to start about people, Donald. Quite an interesting study, so I've heard. By next week, we'll have this poor man here all drawn up in a nice chart.'
He gulped. Lately, there'd been a cluster of murders in the next village over, transient men mostly. Knowing his mother's tendency to find use out of any old abandoned object, he really had to wonder if they were engaging in criminal activity. And considering his slightly overactive imagination, suspicions were building quickly. Mother dumped a large Gray's Anatomy on the table. 'This is a little gift from that professor down the street. The one with the corgi puppies? Must remind me to buy one of those!'
At first, the body scared him, but slowly, he began to think. If this was a murder victim, could he perhaps study it and find who had killed him? Maybe then, if he went to the police, they would never even consider that anything his mother had done was criminal. Yes....what a good idea.
In the next week, a crude drawing took shape on the Mallard's floor, meticulously labeled and measured. He was looking for a murderer now, and one didn't make mistakes in looking for murderers.
He wrote little tiny notes in the sides, of what the mans life and death could have been like. Perhaps he was sliced apart, the glued together to be put on display by three witches to their coven.
On one Tuesday, Mother had one of her 'distinguished friends from the university' over for tea. 'Ah. I've come for my body.', the deep gravelly voice at the door said. It sounded like the type of man who would mercilessly hack a man apart, the put him on display.
He could hear mother leading the man up. He bit his lip, shoving his sketch away and ducking behind a box. 'I apologize for the mess, Mr. Chadwick. My son has been making some notes.'
The 'Mr. Chadwick' thumbed through the sketchpad left on the floor. 'Very good for his age, I must say.
Oh, Donald didn't think that that old thing was a murder victim, did he? One of my students outright accused me of those happenings down south. What young minds conceive puzzles me!' He felt a blush creep up his face. 'No, this old chap was a privileged gentleman, charitable, even in death. I find that once the students imaginations calm down, he's quite a valuable teaching aid.'
Beet-red, he crouched even lower in the corner. To think that he assumed those things! 'Donald! What are you doing in the corner? Mr. Chadwick here finds your observations exceptional, and you hide in a corner?', Victoria Mallard was suddenly above him.
The professor, as if reading his mind, grinned. 'These are nice, son. However, morbid imagining best have their place in horror novels. If you'll note, his bones were not sliced apart and glued back together. There would be signs of that kind of trauma.', Mr. Chadwick pointed out, adding to his deep blush.
Jethro would have enjoyed that man, who also counted 'Do not assume' as one of his personal rules.
Ducky however, doubted Jethro was enjoying this. Izzie was seeing Denny in little hallucinations, and God knew how much Jethro hated hallucinations.
He grinned at the ring of the phone[likely his old friend complaining] and sighed. Perhaps the old saying was true. The smallest things, a little false murder, discussing soaps with a federal agent, really were the biggest. Because they were the foundation, the base, for the job, the friendship, the promise that there would always be something to build on, something to work for. For now, he was contended with this, enough to weather Jethro's rant, he thought.