Detective Fred Morrisey and his partner, Detective Ron Hayden, boarded the commuter train and headed to the car where the forensic pathologists was examining the body. The pathologist didn’t look up when he heard the detectives approaching. “Cause of death was a gunshot that pierced the heart. Death would have been instantaneous. Time of death was between one and two hours ago,” Dr. Winslow said.

The setting sun was casting long shadows across the interior of the train and Morrisey knew that Winslow would be eager to get the body back to his lab so he could start the post-mortem first thing in the morning.

Hayden opened up a backpack that was on the floor next to the body. Inside was a laptop, a book, and some files. There were also some business cards. “He was a CPA,” Hayden said. “Probably heading home from his office in midtown.”

“His name is James Townsend and he lived in Montclair. He was 44,” Morrisey said, the victim’s wallet in his hand. “Robbery wasn’t a motive. He has a couple of hundred bucks and all of his credit cards still in it and a Rolex watch is on his wrist.”

“Witnesses?” Hayden asked Dr. Winslow, who nodded his head to just outside the train. Hayden went out to talk to the uniformed officer who was first on the scene. Most witnesses had scattered after the shooting and before the cops arrived, so there was not much to be gained from interviews. Meanwhile, Morrisey was still with Dr. Winslow, who was just finishing up his preliminary examination. Morrisey moved closer to the body. He started sniffing.

Dr. Winslow noticed and told Morrisey he didn’t recognize the scent of the deceased’s aftershave. “It’s not aftershave,” Morrisey said. “It’s an expensive perfume, Louis Vuitton Symphony. My ex-wife used to wear it and I’ll never forget its citrusy-ginger scent.”

The next day

Detective Hayden rang the doorbell at the stately home in Montclair. A stunningly beautiful woman who was wearing a headset answered the door and the two detectives held out their badges. “I’m sorry, I have to get off the phone,” she said into the mouthpiece. “The police are here.” The woman removed her headset and opened the door wider, inviting the two men inside.

“Please have a seat in the living room. Can I get you anything?” she asked cordially.

“Do you own a handgun, Ms. Townsend?” Morrisey asked.

“Please call me Tiffany, like the jewelry store. My husband did,” she responded. “He kept it in his safe in his home office. I’ll get it for you.”

“We’ll come with you, Ms. Townsend,” Morrisey said. As they headed to the office, Morrisey walked close enough to the woman to get a whiff of her citrusy perfume. When they got to the office, Tiffany open up the safe, pulled out the gun box and handed it to Morrisey. The small key was in the box’s lock.

“Does anyone else other than you know the combination to the safe?” he asked her while giving the gun box to Hayden, who, wearing gloves, took it out and smelled the barrel. He then nodded at Morrisey.

The woman admitted that only she and her deceased husband knew the safe’s combination. Morrisey took out a pair of handcuffs. “Are those necessary?” Tiffany said. “I’ll go with you, but that cheating bastard deserved what he got. He was going to divorce me and marry some mousy, glasses-wearing number-cruncher at his accounting firm. I mean look at me, detective,” she said, doing a slow, sensuous twirl. “I’m gorgeous.”

“Well, Ms. Townsend, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?” Morrisey said, “in people or in perfume.”

Later, back at the station, Hayden said to Morrisey, “That was quick and clean. Not like last month’s chainsaw murders case.”

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Written for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix Lucky Dip, where the story cubes are sun, chainsaw, headset, handcuffs, body outline, laptop, perfume, and tram/train