My Honey My Baby

After the coroner removed the corpse, Adams and Farley stood in the corner of the bait shop furthest from the darkening bloodstains and smoked.

Adams said, “Ever seen anything like it?”

“Seen ‘em cut apart, and seen ‘em torn open,” said Farley. “But never seen ‘em quite so specific.

“Think they killed him first and then …?”

“Doc’ll tell us certain, but I gotta hunch they did the hands first. See how one was way over there, but the other was right near the body?”

Adams followed the direction of Farley’s gesturing pen. “Yeah.”

“So they cut one off, he staggers around spewing blood—“ Farley pointed to the gouts of brownish red on the wall and counters—“and when he falls down they cut off the other one.”

“But what about …?”

“The heart?”

“Yeah,” said Adams. He scratched behind an ear. “I mean, why cut out his heart and put it up on the shelf?”

Farley grabbed Adams’ bicep. “What did you just say?”

“I said, why cut out his heart—"

“—and put it up on the shelf.” Farley released Adams’ arm and nudged him. “Go see what’s in yonder CD player.”

Adams stepped carefully over a thickening puddle and opened the CD player behind the counter. He said, “Georgia Satellites.”

“I knew it,” said Farley. “Dumbest fuckin lyrics ever. My honey my baby, don’t put my love up on no shelf.”

Adams recited the lines like a high school poem. “She said don’t hand me no lines …”

And both said together: “… and keep your hands to yourself.”

They stood quiet for a few seconds. Then Farley said, “Go find his girlfriend.”