The Hitler Suicides

“Well, ain’t this ironic,” Detective Murray Russell growled, glowering at the crime scene like an angry old silverback gorilla.

Detective Alan Coates was examining the bodies. He paused, cocking an eyebrow at his partner. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

“What the hell would you call it?” Russell snarled. “Guy poisons his old lady, then snuffs himself with a vintage Kraut Luger…dressed like Hitler…on today of all days? See? Ironic.”

“What’s a pothead holiday got to do with anything?”

“4/20 is Hitler’s birthday, numb nuts.”

“Whatever, Alanis,” Coates said. “It’s still not irony. Irony is the disparity…”

“Hold that thought,” Russell said, answering his mobile. He grunted into the phone for a moment, hung up and his mood was worse than ever.

“Let the Medical Examiner take care of Adolf,” he said.

“What’s up?” Coates asked.

“Another murder-suicide. Another husband and wife. And get this: hubby is dressed like Hitler.”

“That is weird,” Coates said. “but it’s still not ironic.”

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