If you’re going to die alone in a run-down shack with a needle in your arm, it had better be a phonograph needle.
Instead, we found Joe in the alley with the Space Needle in his arm.
I took out my phone, called Seattle, and told them we’d found it.
“Can you stick it in a mailbox?” they said. “The corner of it says we’ve pre-paid the postage.”
“No can do,” I said, putting on latex gloves and sealing the Space Needle in a bag. “It’s evidence.”
It disappeared from the evidence locker last night.
I called Seattle.
No answer.