Nothing.

Maybe if I hit him with something. I look around. There's a hairbrush on the table. Ok, if Bill's alive he's gonna be really mad. I take a breath, jump in the air, and whack the shit out of his leg.

"BIIIILLL!!!!"

Oh fuck. Bill's dead.

I reach for my cell phone, still staring at Bill, and dial my wife.
--RING--
"Hello?"
"Bill's dead."
...
"What do you mean 'Bill's dead?'"
"I mean...Bill...Is...Dead. You know how you do that thing where you breath? He's not doing that."
"Whoa!"
"Yeah. Like Ministry says, he's 'The Dead Guy.'"
"Damn. What are you gonna do? Damn."
"I guess I'll call the cops. They're gonna think I did it. I'll totally be the first fucking suspect."

And I was.

The cops got there an hour later, leaving me to hang with Bill for a while. Oddly, it wasn't creepy now. As much a fan as I am of horror movies, I never once think about zombies. ('Till the week after, that is. Then I'm thoroughly convinced that Bill walks the earth and is eating human flesh.) I just hang out with Joe and head to the kitchen. An hour later four of New York's Fattest walk in carrying coffee cups, assess the situation, question me, instantly assume I've killed Bill, and begin touching his stuff. They smoke cigars in the house, play Floyd's guitars, and touch big wads of cash that were in the bedroom. They laugh and joke, stupidly and loudly, never once being considerate of me or Bill's home or, hell, even the crime-scene! (Cigars - Jesus Christ! "Uh yeah chief, we have reason to believe the killer smoked cheap ass cigars, mostly because there's FUCKING CIGAR ASH EVERYWHERE!!") IDIOTS! All the while I keep telling them that they've gotta find Floyd. PLEASE find Floyd. No response. It's like talking to idiots. An hour later Floyd calls and begins to leave a message. I begin yelling:

"That's Floyd!! Pick it up!! Pick it up!!

5 seconds have gone by.

"Pick up the phone!" That's the boyfriend!"

10 seconds now.

"GET THE PHONE!!!!"

About 20 seconds have now gone by since I heard Floyd's voice. He's about to hang up. Finally a young Hispanic cop gets the phone and rudely says, "Hello? This is the police. Yes, you'll have to come home immediately."

--CLICK--

Crack team of fuckin idiots.

After 6 hours and the addition of several teams of paramedics and detectives, and while I waited in the lobby with the huge, sweet natured rottweiler that all the cops were afraid of, they come to the conclusion that Bill had died of an overdose. Probably one that was self-inflicted. (Read: Suicide. This was corroborated by a note later found.) Floyd has arrived and is being questioned. He's clueless and totally freaked out. Some more cops, detectives this time, take another statement from me and my wife (who's there by this time) and I'm off the hook. But now I'm just pissed.