Tomahawk Steak

One of the best meats to cook is a Tomahawk steak. Still on the bone. The bone serving as a handle for the meat and then you can just scrape the meat off. This was what Jean was cooking in lieu of company arriving. She purchased the slab frozen initially.
It was like 3kg stiff, hard and heavy. She had to defrost it for about six hours and then place it on the grill. Let the juices cook and keep turning it so the meat could get tender. 
Delicious. 
There was a knock at the door. It was Detective Reardon. He had his plain clothes on. He stood smoking a cigarette at her front door.
Awful manners
"Mrs. Parker?" Detective Reardon said. 
"Please, please come in." Jean said. 
Mr Reardon was ushered to the dining table. A glass of water already prepared along with the cutlery laid out.
"I can't stay long." Reardon said. 
"Oh nonsense." Jean said. 
She put a plate down in front of him. Reardon was surprised. He never usually ate at these kinds of talks. It was unprofessional to eat. 
But once it was placed down in front of him, he couldn't bloody well resist. A Tomahawk steak. A huge one. The juice and flat glistened. It looked delicious. 
"Well, I can't very well say no now can I." Reardon said. 
With knife and fork in his hands, he tucked in. The meat peeled off the bone with delicious ease. One bite sent him into a frenzy. It was fantastic. 
“This is marvellous by the way. Absolutely fantastic. Did you cook this yourself? Wow, it’s tremendous. Anyway…”
Reardon took another huge bite.
His mouth half full he continued: “For the life of us. We have no idea what killed your husband. We have a man in custody. A rival that worked on the factory floor with Mr. Parker. As you know, your husband suffered blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Multiple hits. The head caved in.”
Lovely talk for the dinner table.
Mr. Reardon gestured to the back of his head with his fork (meat still hanging off it).
“Dreadful.” Jean said.
She bowed her head and a tear trickled down her cheek.
“But we cannot determine what killed him. We’re scratching our heads. We just can’t fathom what it was that killed him. Do you mind if I smoke?” Reardon said.
He put the knife and fork down and slapped his belly.
Smoke away detective.
Jean wasn’t surprised they couldn’t find the murder weapon. Nor was she surprised that they had arrested Tom for the murder. She had it all planned out perfectly. It took four hits on the back of the head to kill her pathetic husband. And nobody suspected the weak frail wife.
“Did you like the steak?” Jean asked.
“Loved it.” Reardon said.
And nobody will ever find the weapon that caused her husband’s graphic end.
Because the lead detective had just eaten it!
 



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