TITLE: Blessed are the Dead
Another boyfriend pissed off at me over a dead body. The silence on the other end of the line confirms it. Snapping my cell phone shut, I turn my attention to the view out my windshield.
Flashing red and blue lights and yellow crime scene tape mar the beauty of the trees framing the distant San Francisco skyline.
"One-Eighty-Seven," a cop's voice crackles through the speakers of the police scanner bolted to my dashboard. It's the California penal code for murder. "Looks like a double."
Two bodies? I forget about my limping love life -- the clock is ticking. The paper goes to bed in four hours so I've got to hustle.
A group of people clusters at the bottom of a driveway that snakes its way up into a thick stand of trees. The crime scene tape strung between two trees blocks the drive and the cops aren't letting anyone any closer.
Peering up the hill, I can just glimpse a hint of the A-frame house with its huge deck on stilts facing the bay. The view off that Oakland Hills deck must be spectacular, with tonight's sunset transforming the San Francisco Bay into a glowing pink and orange inferno, sending sparks off the rollicking waves. I can't help but think how the two dead bodies inside that house will never see that stunning vista again.