CONFIDENTIAL FILE

Man Dead 100 Years Presents Problem

The phone rang the other day and a voice with a hint of Piccadilly in it said hello.

"Brian Kirkwood here," it announced. "I own a small bar in Venice, at 4089 Lincoln Boulevard. I have a bit of a problem."

"I’ll listen," I answered.

"Thank you," Mr. Kirkwood replied. "I feel foolish even bothering you with it, but I just know how much good you do. I just thought-"

"I’m listening," I repeated evenly.

"Th thing of it is," he continued, "I have this human body here in my bar. And I’m having great difficulty disposing of it."

This kind of calls I get all the time. And I know how to handle them.

"Of course, Mr. Kirkwood," I agreed. "Everybody does."

"I
don’t think you understand me," the man went on. "A customer of mine-
Jim . . . Jim something-or-other- dropped it by here seven weeks ago.
On consignment, so to speak. He wanted me to sell it.

"But I can’t. It’s against the law here to sell a human body," he explained.

"Well," I said, "we’re pretty puritanical in the states."

"Frightfully.
They won’t even let me bury him without a death certificate. And I’m
not sure that’s what this Jim chap would want me to do. He hasn’t been
back, but after all, it is his body.

"I mean," he caught himself quickly, "it belongs to him."

"Mr. Kirkwood," I probed. "About this body. Who the hell is he? Or, if you will, it?"

"Most
interesting," he replied. "Been dead over 100 years. A remarkable
specimen. We had an anthropologist from UCLA over here the other day.
He was quite impressed. He said the fellow was a Scandinavian. About
30-35 when he died.

"The studious type," Kirkwood added.

"What?" I demanded.

"I
mean," he explained, "the UCLA professor was the studious type. Just by
looking at this cadaver, he deduced that the man met his end on the
desert. Died in peace, he said. Under perfect climatic conditions.
That’s why he’s so well preserved."

Kirkwood cleared his throat. "Did I tell you about his ears?" he inquired.

"Now don’t," I cried.

"They stick out. He’s no mummy, that body. Mummy’s ears don’t stick out. That’s what the professor said."

"All right," I pleaded quietly. "Let’s get back to the subject. You want to get rid of him, right?"

"I can’t put him up at home," he answered. "My wife has taken a violent dislike to him."

Unclothed Passenger

"Some of the boys around here suggested that I just get on a bus with him, prop him up, and then get off without him.

"I’d have to put a suit of clothes on him to do that, I suppose," Kirkwood added sadly. "All he’s got now is a loincloth."

"Mr. Brianwood," I said.

"Brian Kirkwood, sir," he corrected.

"Mr. Kirkwood," I stated, "what is it exactly that you want?"

"Mr.
Coates," he said correctly. "I’m trying to tell you that I have a real
dead corpse, 100-odd years old. The law says I can’t bury him and I
can’t sell him. And, under the circumstances, he’s now mine to give
away.

"So I ask you, sir, what shall I do with him?"

"Eighty-six him," I replied, hanging up quickly.

And if any of the rest of you folks have a problem, don’t call me. Call Dear Abby.