The approaching blue lights caught the rookie patrol officer’s eye. He glanced at his watch. “Bet he’s gonna be miffed.”

            “Yeah,” Sergeant Yow replied, as he knelt over the body and took a closer look. “Dead body in an alley ain’t no way to start a weekend.”

            “Hey, Sarge, did you know him?”

            Before he answered, Lt. Clark Dixon closed the door of his sedan, and headed up the alleyway to meet them. “Guess you could say that I did. I used to visit the church where he was a preacher.” Waving Clark over to them, he shook his head. “What a shame. What a cryin’ shame.”

            Clark stepped up to them as they exchanged sighs, then he shone his light on the body. “Any ID? Know him?”

            “Yeah, I knew him,” Sarge replied, holstering his light and turning down his radio. “Newsome, Lieutenant. Shannon Newsome. Used to preach… great guy. Big baseball fan. Reds, I think.” He nodded in the direction of the church, just down the road from their spot. “Reidsville Christian, there, Lieutenant.”

            Clark knelt down and checked out the body. “Are you sure? Are you positive?”

            “Why, yeah, boss. That’s him. Why would you doubt?”

            Clark pointed to the body, which looked like it weighed over 400 pounds. “Just wondering,” he said, scratching his head. “How could he get through the door into the church? Not to speak ill of the dead, or anything. But I gotta ask.”

            “Oh, that? Well, Jerry Jarrell, the door security guy at the church, resisted unlatching the inactive door for a good while. Said he couldn’t shake down people as good. Then there was tradition and all that. Caused a big stink in the church, nearly a split. Finally they had to open up both outside doors so Newsome could get in. It was a big move by the guys but the elders agreed that it had to be done. All of ’em voted for it ’cept one.”

            “One? One dissented?”

            “Yep, some Wilson guy. Said somebody’s gotta speak for all the slender people. Said if he could sport a 28 waist then everybody should.”

            With looks of guilt, the others tugged nervously at their belts.

            Clark gloved his right hand then carefully examined the left hand of the decedent.

            “Whatcha think, Lieutenant? Heart attack? Stroke?”

            Before he answered, Clark checked out the body thoroughly. He looked up at the sergeant and the rookie. “Nah, nothin’ like that. Seems to me it’s a clear case of DOD.”

            “DOD?” the rookie asked.

            “Doughnut Overdose,” the sergeant snapped in reply.

            “Classic case and signs,” Clark said. “Look at the fingernails,” he said, lifting the decedent’s left hand. “See that? Flakes of sugar frosting. That’s the dead giveaway.” The sarge snickered in a loud breath, as Clark continued. “No pun intended.  The weight coulda thrown you off thinking diabetes, something like that.” He gestured to the back door of the bakery. “What a shame. I guess right here’s where he fell to his addiction. This alleyway where we stand.  Not the first to go that way.” He stood and brushed off his slacks. “Not the last, either.”

            Sarge picked up. “Started going downhill back in ’14, they tell me.” He thumbed to the bakery. “When this place opened up.”

            “Just curious. Any idea which doughnut it was that nailed him?”

            Clark gave an emphatic nod. “First thing that I noticed when I grabbed a look at him.” He shone his light on the victim’s ripped, dirty jeans, the seams of which were bulging, crying out for relief. “See the raspberry drops? There, on the pant legs? Tell-tale signs. You gotta look close, but there they are.”

            “Oh, yeah,” the rookie said in reply. “Gosh, Sarge, sorry. I missed that.”

            Laughing nervously, Sarge pulled out his notebook. “Tell ya the truth, I did, too.”

            Clark continued, kneeling and patting the side pockets on the victim’s jeans. “Hear that kinda crunching sound?”

            “Yeah,” Sarge answered.

            “Yeah, what is it?” the rookie asked.

            “That’s the wax paper,” Clark replied. “Definite sign there’s a problem. Got enough in both pockets, I’m thinkin’, that  it could only mean one thing, that he…”

            The Sarge interrupted, “You don’t mean…?”

            “Yep,” Clark replied. “Doughnut holes. My guess? He ate the whole box.” After a moment of pause, more out of respect than anything else, he continued. “Got anything else on history?”

            Sarge drew his spiraled notebook from his shirt pocket. “Called a couple of church elders. Got the rundown.”

            “Let’s have it.”

            “They said Newsome had to retire early from the ministry.”

            “Heart?”

            “Naw. Leaders were afraid the stage couldn’t support him any longer. Wood platform started creaking as loud as the Praise Team Singers could sing, whoever they were. Ms. Newsome, that’s his old lady, works at some hospital, or something. Got desperate, didn’t know what to do. Started slippin’ the preacher stuff, you know the drill. Slimfast in his shakes, sweetner in his…”

            “Let me guess: She started raiding his candy draw. Replacing his stash with sugar-free chocolate?”

            Sarge nodded. “But he always ended up here.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Nah, that’s… uh, wait. There is one other thing.”

            “What?”

            “Well, one of the elders I spoke to,” Sarge said, flipping over a couple of pages, “name of Seacrest, Seacliff, something like that, started beatin’ himself up over this thing. Said he shoulda done more, helped out quicker. Recalled a time when Newsome was cryin’ out for help.”

            “When was that?”

            “Happened in church one Sunday morning. Of all places, right? Newsome’s preachin’ this sermon. Right in the middle of it, he jumps down from the pulpit and runs, like, out and around the church --- all of a freakin’ sudden. So the congregation’s sittin’ there in disbelief, wonderin’ what on earth’s going on.”

            “Sugar rush?”

            “You got it. ’Cept what most didn’t know, when he runs outta the place, he runs down to Huff’s.”

            “Huff’s, the convenience store?”

            “Yeah, back when this bakery was just a dream. Newsome loaded up on Krispy Kremes and Debbie Cakes real fast. Ate ’em on the jog back. When he ran back into the sanctuary, people sittin’ at the front swore they could see the crème on his chin.”

            Just then, the EMS truck pulled in, its audible backup alarm chirping as it drove slowly to the group.

            Clark blew out a breath. “Let’s bag him, boys. The autopsy will be the icing on the cake.”

            For the first time, Sarge forced a grin. “Thanks for not saying icing on the doughnut.”