detective grabbed a pair of latex gloves from an examiner’s kit.
Then he removed a small notepad and pen from inside his suit jacket. He opened
it to a fresh page and drew a rough map of the room, a map that would fill his
eyes and his brain over the course of his investigation, even more so than the
smile of his wife. He numbered different locations in the room that contained
the various pieces to the puzzle, and then he made a small legend at the bottom
of the page.
Brian walked around the corpse like a
sculptor appreciating his masterpiece. The only problem for this sculptor was that
he was out of clay. The two examiners were parked near an end table in the
living room and were filling out paperwork. Brian studied the fallen shards of glass.
He saw a stain of brown on the carpet. Although the ice had melted, the cubes
left a discoloration on the rug that even a novice detective could deduce. To
its right, another glass rested on its side—the glass that was offered to the suspect.
“Were there any other prints found?”
Brian asked without taking his eyes off the glass in front of him.
“We found about two dozen different
prints,” one of the examiners yelled.
Brian looked up.
“All in and around her bed. Plus there
was more semen inside the room than inside a Maytag at a donor clinic,” the
other one added.
“Well, run the prints,” Brian
instructed.
“They were all more than two days old.”
Brian looked around the floor
searching for a clue, the clue—a smudge, but nothing pulled him. Brian
refocused and lurked toward a splatter of blood on the wall. The dried bodily
fluid had no effect on him. He shifted toward the kitchen, his movements slow, his
eyes wide. The tile reverberated Brian’s brown shoes. He stopped just past the
entryway and drew another map labeling it with more items of interest—groceries
on the table in a bag marked “Al’s Natural Foods,” stainless steel
refrigerator, a red bowl in the sink, blender, coffeemaker. Then, Brian rested
his gaze on an open bottle of alcohol. He prowled toward the object, keeping
his focus on it as it grew in size with his advancement. He wrote “Christian
Brothers Brandy” in his notepad. He left the alcohol in its resting place, but
lowered his head and took a sniff of the poison. It smelled bitter, yet it
enticed him. The booze triggered a memory in his mind buried not in a pit, but
in a hole deep enough to hold a teenager’s self-aborted fetus. It was a dark
time ten years ago when alcohol not only invaded his nose, but also his taste
buds, numbing them to the world around him.
Brian left the kitchen and continued
down the hallway. He kept his hand on the pen as he added to his third-grade
drawing. A picture on the wall of the beach painted with oil-based paint caught
his attention, but then Janice’s handprint painted with blood quickly trumped
it. Police tape circled the blood as Brian studied the intricate ridges and
valleys of the unique thumbprint—the thumbprint from a thumb that would never
again touch.
The open bathroom was to his right, but
Brian continued down the hallway toward the open room. He followed the trail of
blood. The bottom of the door looked clean. Brian entered the bedroom. He added
to his map as the blood trail curved into the bathroom. But before Brian left
the room, he studied a photograph on the nightstand. It showed a smiling couple
in their fifties sitting on a picnic bench, the parents of the deceased by his
guess, parents who just lost their daughter.
Brian entered the bathroom. Blood
smeared the floor and the counter. The white tile had become a canvas for the
color of life and the color of death. Brian glanced at the spotless bathtub
lined with body soaps, shaving lotions, and a razor. As he studied the place
that had cleansed the lady of the house, the place of purity, a perfume
penetrated him. Brian saw the source on the countertop next to toiletries. Colgate
toothpaste, mouthwash, a curling iron, and
Then he removed a small notepad and pen from inside his suit jacket. He opened
it to a fresh page and drew a rough map of the room, a map that would fill his
eyes and his brain over the course of his investigation, even more so than the
smile of his wife. He numbered different locations in the room that contained
the various pieces to the puzzle, and then he made a small legend at the bottom
of the page.
Brian walked around the corpse like a
sculptor appreciating his masterpiece. The only problem for this sculptor was that
he was out of clay. The two examiners were parked near an end table in the
living room and were filling out paperwork. Brian studied the fallen shards of glass.
He saw a stain of brown on the carpet. Although the ice had melted, the cubes
left a discoloration on the rug that even a novice detective could deduce. To
its right, another glass rested on its side—the glass that was offered to the suspect.
“Were there any other prints found?”
Brian asked without taking his eyes off the glass in front of him.
“We found about two dozen different
prints,” one of the examiners yelled.
Brian looked up.
“All in and around her bed. Plus there
was more semen inside the room than inside a Maytag at a donor clinic,” the
other one added.
“Well, run the prints,” Brian
instructed.
“They were all more than two days old.”
Brian looked around the floor
searching for a clue, the clue—a smudge, but nothing pulled him. Brian
refocused and lurked toward a splatter of blood on the wall. The dried bodily
fluid had no effect on him. He shifted toward the kitchen, his movements slow, his
eyes wide. The tile reverberated Brian’s brown shoes. He stopped just past the
entryway and drew another map labeling it with more items of interest—groceries
on the table in a bag marked “Al’s Natural Foods,” stainless steel
refrigerator, a red bowl in the sink, blender, coffeemaker. Then, Brian rested
his gaze on an open bottle of alcohol. He prowled toward the object, keeping
his focus on it as it grew in size with his advancement. He wrote “Christian
Brothers Brandy” in his notepad. He left the alcohol in its resting place, but
lowered his head and took a sniff of the poison. It smelled bitter, yet it
enticed him. The booze triggered a memory in his mind buried not in a pit, but
in a hole deep enough to hold a teenager’s self-aborted fetus. It was a dark
time ten years ago when alcohol not only invaded his nose, but also his taste
buds, numbing them to the world around him.
Brian left the kitchen and continued
down the hallway. He kept his hand on the pen as he added to his third-grade
drawing. A picture on the wall of the beach painted with oil-based paint caught
his attention, but then Janice’s handprint painted with blood quickly trumped
it. Police tape circled the blood as Brian studied the intricate ridges and
valleys of the unique thumbprint—the thumbprint from a thumb that would never
again touch.
The open bathroom was to his right, but
Brian continued down the hallway toward the open room. He followed the trail of
blood. The bottom of the door looked clean. Brian entered the bedroom. He added
to his map as the blood trail curved into the bathroom. But before Brian left
the room, he studied a photograph on the nightstand. It showed a smiling couple
in their fifties sitting on a picnic bench, the parents of the deceased by his
guess, parents who just lost their daughter.
Brian entered the bathroom. Blood
smeared the floor and the counter. The white tile had become a canvas for the
color of life and the color of death. Brian glanced at the spotless bathtub
lined with body soaps, shaving lotions, and a razor. As he studied the place
that had cleansed the lady of the house, the place of purity, a perfume
penetrated him. Brian saw the source on the countertop next to toiletries. Colgate
toothpaste, mouthwash, a curling iron, and
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