As always I came upon the scene in medias res. The train had derailed and tumbled down an embankment, crushing a house.

And it’s occupant, or I wouldn’t be here.

I flashed my ID to the cop at the taped off perimeter.

“So, wierd as it looks?” I asked.

“You aren’t going to believe it sir. They say they need a TOD on the clown, think he’s been dead since before the accident.”

“Clown?”

“Yessir. Clown. You better just go on inside.”

As I entered I knew why they were curious. The accident was only a couple hours old, and already the stench of death permeated the place, clinging to the flowered wallpaper like tar.

I entered what was the living room. The train’s cowcatcher had scooped up a sofa and an old gramophone, it’s horn bent and mangled.

The victim was indeed a clown, with a hooped costume barely concealing his avoirdupois and adorned with a fancifully large daisy boutonniere.

“Well” I said to the officer in charge, “obviously it was murder.”

“So, you see zee gunshot wound, yes?”