Detective's Notebook, November 15: It was raining. The mother? Crying. Timmy, the son, and friend Jimmy turned in at 11. Timmy said he went to bed on a bunk, woke up on a couch. I think I know what happened.
Little squirt's a couch cushion now, that's what happened. Somewhere in there, beneath polyester layers, foam and particleboard, lay a flattened Jimmy.
I hope it was quick. I hope it really was an accident. We may never know. The truth may have very well ended up lost in the cracks between those cushions right alongside doomed little Jimmy. Was it a jealous friend? Negligent furniture assembly on the part of the distant father? Shoddy craftsmanship and a class action job waiting to happen? Whole thing had my head spinning like a Snudda Lazy Susan from IKEA, just $7.99 before shipping.
Whatever it is, I'll let the station figure it out. I have to get to IKEA. Something about death by meatball.