Special Deliveries

All right, we’re going to just put this to a vote. We’ll put it to a vote, and whatever the majority says, then the issue is settled either way. Because we’ve been debating this for six hours now, and I’m hungry and tired and I just want to go home. Okay, so, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way. All in favor of having a cake party on Friday afternoon because the very last body part of the unidentified drifter who was murdered in 1998 was just finally sent to the precinct by his killer, raise your right hand. Okay, that’s one….two….five…nine. We have nine Yes votes. Okay, everyone who thinks the cake party would be in "bad taste", completely missing the point of how cool it really is that after eleven years and nineteen different UPS packages, each containing a single body part, we finally have the last piece of that dude in evidence, then raise your hand. Hmmm…three…six…eleven….twelve….sixteen…

Twenty-six….thirty-two….okay, I guess we know the answer then, there’s no point in counting further. So no cake party on Friday afternoon. So who volunteers to tell Bill Whitelaw and Gary Gulpis, the men who have been methodically investigating this case for eleven years, that they will not be taking a break to enjoy a little Entenmann’s going into the long holiday weekend because it would be in “bad taste”? Because I’ll tell you something, it isn’t going to be me. What am I missing here? First of all, let’s have a little respect for the killer, whoever he might be. Eleven YEARS of packages? You think any of our kids are going to grow up with that kind of patience? Which reminds me, Mark, that might be something to toss into the ol’ psychological profile: I’ll bet he’s older than thirty, because anyone younger than that has all the patience of a crappy Fourth of July sparkler. Doesn’t everyone remember how excited we got when we realized the killer’s plan to slowly send the body in delightful little vignettes, giving us something to look forward to every few months? Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten our childlike collective glee when a new package came bearing an ear or a tibia---especially you, Darla. We’ve gotten more body parts in the mail than you’ve had dates since 1998, so a little gratitude might even be in order. And keep an eye on the big picture here: we’re never, ever going to get another limb here at the station. An era has passed. It really has.

Okay, I’ll get off the topic. So on Friday afternoon we’ll all just work straight through till three-thirty. What a bunch of killjoys. Scotland Yard has really changed.