Extracurricular Activities Read Online Free PDF

horrible dream. And that my ass wouldn’t hurt like a mother once the shock of finding a dead body passed. Florence stood sentry at the bottom of the driveway so that she could show the cops where the body was. I guess “it’s in the kitchen” would have been too much of a stretch for them, in her opinion. She was a major player in this drama and she would not be denied.
    The police came quickly. After all, we live in a sleepy suburban town. Unless someone forgets to pay for their Dunkaccino at the local doughnut shop, there’s not a lot going on. A dead body? Well, that was big doings. They really didn’t know what to do with me; I guess they kind of considered me a suspect, but not really. It was clear that I had been shocked and awed by the discovery and that counted for something. I also didn’t look like someone who could wield a chain saw with ease, and the person who had hacked Ray up seemed to have been a professional, given the “signature” of the missing body parts. Nevertheless, the detective assigned to the case—one Joe Hardin—asked that I go down to headquarters with one of the uniformed cops and make a statement. I was more than happy to oblige. Anything that got me out of the house and away from the scene of gore was more than welcome.
    Oh, and there was one more disturbing fact: not only were Ray’s hands missing, so were his feet. And they were nowhere to be found. My entire house had been searched and nothing had turned up.
    Before I left, I asked Detective Hardin if I could make a quick phone call. Despite the way things had been left with Crawford, I knew that he was the only person I could count on to truly help me in a situation like this. Hardin, a hound-dog-faced fellow who looked perpetually sad, cast a glance in my direction and asked me who I wanted to call. I tried to look as convincing as possible and said, “My priest.” I figured it was better than “my lawyer” or “my married boyfriend, the cop.”
    He gave me a dubious look and a nod. Even though I didn’t think I was the most viable suspect, Hardin seemed liked the type who wouldn’t rule anything out before making a decision. Or maybe he thought I was Jewish and was wondering why I had a priest. He weighed my request. “I’m not going to ask why you need to call your priest, but call him if you need to,” he said after a few seconds of thought.
    One of the cops had brought me my bag and I punched the numbers into my cell phone; Hardin walked a discreet distance away, convincing me of my notion that they really didn’t think I was a maniac with a chain saw. When the call connected to Crawford’s cell, it went directly to his voice mail. I left a calm and casual message that gave him the details: Ray was in my kitchen, he was dead, and he had been dismembered. Hey, could you give me a call when you get a chance? Thanks. Buh-bye.
    I didn’t want to push it with Hardin, so I didn’t ask for another phone call. I wanted to get down to the station as quickly as possible, get my statement recorded, and then get out of there. It didn’t occur to me until I was in the cop’s cruiser that I would probably have to stay in a hotel that night because my kitchen was blood soaked. I didn’t think Magda, my cleaning lady, was up to that challenge. She could barely wield the attachments on my Electrolux. But she was a whiz with grout.
    The police station wasn’t far from my house. I had led a pretty law-abiding life up until this point, so I had never been inside its charming Tudor-style walls. I was not shocked to find it clean, well lit, and stocked with Starbucks coffee. I had once been in a precinct in New York City and can testify that it was not clean and that the lighting made everyone look deathly ill. And no Starbucks coffee. The uniformed officer asked me if I’d like a cup of that delicious coffee, but I was so jittery