As soon as I exit the police cruiser, I gag on an unwelcome laugh.

I walk towards the scene, a lowly apartment building in the suburbs barricaded with caution tape. Joining my fellow officers, I stare at a heap of fabrics. One of the gloved officers tosses the sheet aside—it required more effort from him than a normal blanket would—revealing a mildly mangled body with a tissue box as a foot and a paint can for a head.

Again, I swallow down a laugh; humor is not usually appropriate at the scene of a murder. “And the victim? Or perhaps… the perpetrator…?” I ask my deputy, who points to a woman shivering with anxiety.

Slowly, so as not to exude intimidation, I make my way towards the victim, “Afternoon,” I start, “can you explain to me the details of the event?”

“I uh… I was going about my day when I heard my unit door open. It was my ex-boyfriend; I guess I forgot to take back his spare key.”

“I see,” I mindlessly reply, busy jotting down notes.

“It was all a blur,” the woman pauses to collect her thoughts, ”Next thing I knew he was chasing me and… and he stepped in a tissue box—my apartments not the cleanest.”

“Go on.”

“It uhm… slowed him down, so I threw my weighted blanket on him; it’s about twenty pounds. That really threw off his balance; he ended up face planting into one of my paint cans—I’m an artist, you see.”

“Oh my.”

“Yeah…”

“Thank you for your time, ma’am.” I say, pocketing my notes and rejoining the clique of officers, “Victim’s statement,” I hand off my notes to a subordinate, “take it back to the station.” He answers with a curt nod and departs to a cruiser of his own.

“So what happened?” A police woman chimes.

“Killer was so disoriented he killed himself. On accident.” I pause to let the stupidity set in, watching their expressions, “Worst assassination attempt if I’ve ever seen one.”