The Last Squawk (Microfiction)

Bjork and O’Rourke stood on the sidewalk, staring at the body outlined in chalk.

“The things you see,” said O’Rourke. He let Bjork have his gawk; the younger detective gaping, unable to talk.

“Is that a fork?” eventually managed Bjork. He pointed to the implement sticking out of the victim’s eyestalk.

“Technically detective, I think it’s a spork.”

“Spork then, whatever, you culinary dork.”

“It’s not dorkish, it’s detail, a spork’s not a fork.”

Bjork rolled his eyes and turned back to the late Mr York. “Poor guy,” he remarked, “Of all the ways, death by spork. Might leave that out of the obituary, hey O’Rourke?”

The old detective’s lips twitched, but he ceased idle talk. Jokes were slightly poor taste and it was a public sidewalk.

“Help me understand; you and maître d' have a talk?”

“Bit disturbed,” nodded Bjork, “But nothing to report. Nice guy, really, from upstate New York. Come in normal, he says, order wine, pop the cork. For her coq au vin, him linguini with pork. They talk and they laugh, and they laugh and they talk; our waiter waits other tables, then he hears this weird squawk – looks over to see she’s stabbed him with a fork.”

“In the eye?” asked O’Rourke.

“In the leg,” answered Bjork, “And the arm and the cheek and the throat – didn’t balk.”

“A passionate woman,” mused Detective O’Rourke.

“And stunning,” replied his partner, “Like off a catwalk. Apparently staff had been scolded for stopping to gawk.”

“Bet they’re regretting that now,” muttered O’Rourke, leaning over slightly to better view Mr York. He looked at him a moment, then pointed to Bjork. “The wound’s fairly mangled; must’ve stabbed with some torque.”

“Like you said, passionate – or just good with a spork.”

“So she loses her mind, starts to stab,” began O’Rourke. He took a slow step, careful not to scuff chalk. “He barrels out the door, trips on the sidewalk. Then she leans over him, shrieks, and-”

“-right in the eyestalk.”

“At sixty-seven years old; what were you doing Mr York?”

“He was a building site manager,” noted Bjork. He flipped over his notes and continued to talk. “A company downtown, Bloch Kein & Salk. You can see from his shoes – they’re spotted with caulk.”

“Eyes like an eagle; or should I say hawk?”

“And on the subject of birds…” muttered Bjork. His voice trailed off and the pair ceased to talk. For a moment they just stared at the late Mr York, all splayed out and stabbed on the city sidewalk. It wasn’t the body that caused them to gawk; their days mostly started with corpses in chalk. No, it wasn’t murder that baffled O’Rourke.

It was the brightly coloured parrot now sitting protectively on the victim’s chest.

“Help, I’ve been murdered,” screeched the bird.

“Yeah, see, that just doesn’t fit,” said the junior detective.