The local police chief always said “It could be worse.”
A police chief had a peculiar habit; no matter the severity of the crime reported to him, he would invariably respond with “It could have been worse.”
One tranquil day, a call disturbed the peace from a grand residence owned by the affluent Dunwoodys. Police arrived to find the front door ajar and the sound of wailing echoing from within. In the kitchen, Mrs. Dunwoody was a vision of despair, weeping uncontrollably in a blood-stained nightgown. Across from her, Mr. Dunwoody sat composed, casually sipping his coffee, his hands smeared with blood. A series of crimson footprints led upstairs where a shocking scene awaited; a lifeless man lay sprawled on the bed, a knife embedded in his chest, while his clothes lay scattered and a stack of cash adorned the nightstand.
The officers on the scene wasted no time in summoning the chief, despite predicting his inevitable reaction.
“You know his line,” remarked an officer. “It could have been worse.”
Eventually, the chief arrived, flanked by the crime scene squad and detectives. He surveyed the gruesome bedroom tableau, then retreated, his head shaking in disbelief.
As expected, he muttered, “It could have been worse.”
Overcome by curiosity, an officer dared to question him.
“Chief? If you don’t mind me asking—how could it possibly be any worse? We’ve got a dead man here, a household shattered. Mr. Dunwoody has just unraveled the truth about his wife’s secret life, there’s a murder on his hands, and their children’s futures are in tatters… So in what world could this be worse?”
The chief gave him a steady look before replying.
“Well, you see, if this tragic event had taken place one day sooner, I’d be the fellow upstairs.”
