Jim wanders alone through Push, because he's not being watched at all, I'm sure. He enters a building the front door of which is marked "Push County Coroner." But with no colon in the title, how am I supposed to know where he is, exactly? He walks down one white hallway after another, following the echo of a raspy woman's voice until he finds his way into a room with said woman talking chattily to a long row of covered corpses. She's holding a martini and a cigarette in a long holder and maintaining a sort of overall Sylvia Sidney quality to her. Jim asks to see Oswald Wilkes, and the woman apologizes that he "isn't taking visitors right now." Jim surmises that the office must be closed, then, but she says she's open twenty-four hours a day because that's the approximate amount of time in the average day that crazy people spend being craaaaaaaaazy. No, she's not closed, she tells us, but Oswald Wilkes still "doesn't want to talk to you right now, Mr. Prufrock. He figures you're the one that got him into this mess."
Jim turns toward a gurney and spots a covered body featuring an exposed arm tattooed with -- wait for it, America, and our lucky Canadian affiliates as well -- a serpent. He experiences a set of flashbacks of serpent blah Bodnick's death blee, and he turns back toward Death Becomes Her and asks if she's the Coroner or the Funeral Director. She almost dumps the martini in excitement: "Both! I'm Eunice Blackwell!" She continues on, "Understand, he's not saying you killed him. He's just saying that if it weren't for you, he's be somewhere else, drinking a cold one." She holds up her martini to offer a Figure 1-1 of what "a cold one" might constitute. Jim asks whether Wilkes did volunteer who killed him, and Death Becomes Her offers, "You can read my report. It's over there." Jim walks to a bookshelf and spots a series of journals, categorized by year. The log marked "1984" is about three times the size of all the ones around it, so Jim completely fails to keep his eyes on the prize, turning around and bantering, "I guess 1984 was a bad year in Push." Read the report, dude. Read the report! Ah, well. She's off and vamping. Jim pieces together that "that's the year the Versailles was bought," but Death Becomes Her is too busy talking about freak accidents and unexplained deaths and allegedly subtle exposition as she explains, "One whole family blew up! A fellow named Shadrack. He went to work, and his wife cooked some pancakes for the kids, left the gas on, lit up a cigarette, and kerblooey!" She laughs because "kerblooey" is the greatest onomatopoeia ever, and because she knows I'd puzzle for hours over the correct spelling of both "kerblooey" and "onomatopoeia" as well. Jim asks Death Becomes Her whether he finds that sudden spike in fatalities suspicious, and she crazies right back, "Well, you know what they say. We all have to die, Mr. Prufrock." Oh, good. The report. Oswald Wilkes was killed with a shovel. By a lefty: "Pushed his nose right back in his brain. Oswald joined me instantly. No suffering at all. 22:15, on the nose." Oooh. Military and/or British time. Aye aye and/or tally-ho, Death Becomes Her.