The body sat there. Stretched out in a wooden chair. Arms dangling. All the windows were open. A warm breeze blew through the house. The coffee pot was still on. There was bread in the toaster. A stick of butter softened.

No one else was in the house. It was just him, an eighty year old male with no signs of foul play. It was amazing that the body never fell to the floor. His gray head tilted. Shoulders over the back of the wooden chair. It was as if God placed him there.

No pictures hung on the walls. Under his glass coffee table laid a stack of Playboys. Back when the women were naked. The detective scanned through one. It was Dorothy Stratten. Naked. The blonde that screwed that Jewish director. Was killed by a jealous boyfriend. People have hard lives.

Looked like a heart attack.They placed the long body in a bag. Zipped it and sent it off to the morgue. No family, lawyers, or friends to get a hold of. Just him. And a stack of Playboys.