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.
But Jim goes right for his SPRINT PHONE upon hearing this news, and we cut to the Versailles and Jim telling Not His Lawyer that "the coroner put the time of death at 10:15. At 10:15, I was here at this casino. Tapes will clearly confirm this, as will a manager..." Conveniently, at this moment they stumble across Roswell's resident Evil Ed, Jim marching right up to him and preaching, "We met last night. We discussed this casino's average payout percentage." Evil Ed pretends not to remember the conversation at all, so Jim lays it on: "You offered me a bribe, as I recall." Evil Ed suggests they take this conversation off the gambling floor, and we cut to a barroom that appears to be empty until...augh! It's a gigantic fat woman in a blue sequined gown sipping water and talking to a ventriloquist dummy! I know. It didn't make that much sense to write it, either. It must be Push, Nevada's very own stab at Wildean aestheticism: quirk for quirk's sake. Evil Ed tells the woman to clear out, and within moments the three men are alone. Evil Ed tells them that he wasn't even in the casino or in the state during this alleged attempt at bribery, and Not His Lawyer finally steps in with his badge and announces, "This is all the paper you need." Evil Ed is mesmerized by the badge, and his not-with-the-IRS qualities increase substantially, though Jim doesn't seem to take much note of it. He must really think the Provo office wields more than its share of power.