been through a shredder. I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my ability to piece those pages back together, but I saved it anyway.
And somewhere along about the middle of the bag, I found a plain white t-shirt. Men’s size XL. The front of it was covered in blood from the neckband to the bottom hem.
At least, I assumed it was blood. It was a dark brown crunchy substance that had, when wet, soaked through to the other side of the shirt. And if it was blood, I didn’t see how anyone could have survived losing that much of it.
Of course, I don’t know that much about blood loss. I tend to get dizzy when I donate blood, so clearly I believed that even a pint was too much to lose. And I don’t know how much blood it would take to soak through a t-shirt.
Okay. First things first. I needed to find out if it was even blood.
The internet is an amazing invention. It allows you to find just about any information you may need with a few clicks of a mouse.
If, that is, you know how to correctly word your query.
I knew for a fact that just a few simple chemicals could be combined to show whether or not a substance was blood. I knew this because I’d watched all those crime shows on television.
I just didn’t know what those chemicals were.
An hour of web searches later I found it. Hemastix. The website used terms like “blood reagent material that will turn shades of green if blood is present.”
Okay. Scientific Geek-Speak translation: this stuff tests for blood.
I discovered something even better than that, though. Hemastix are available in pharmacies. They’re used to test for blood in urine samples. I could pop out to my local CVS and pick some up.
So I did. The t-shirt I shoved into a plastic Ziploc baggie and took with me in my purse. God only knows what someone finding it would make of the fact that I had a bloody t-shirt in my purse, but I didn’t care. I just knew that I didn’t want to leave it behind.
It probably would have been safer in my apartment.
I was halfway to the nearest pharmacy when my phone rang.
“Hey! I think I’ve figured out what those numbers mean. Can I come over?” Malcolm sounded excited. I hated the idea of telling him that I no longer needed his help, but I didn’t know what else to do.
No time like the present. But I wanted to do this face-to-face. Breaking up with a partner-in-crime might not be exactly like breaking up with a boyfriend, but I felt that it deserved at least the same directness.
“I’m on my way to pick something up at the pharmacy. Give me an hour or so?”
“Sure. I’ll see you then.”
It actually took me about an hour and a half. I had to go to three different pharmacies to find the Hemastix. I probably should have called first, but I was too excited about the possibility of figuring out if this stuff really was blood. Don’t ask me why. I knew that it was blood. I wasn’t going to have to prove it in any court. The Hemastix weren’t necessary. I suspect I wanted the Hemastix to prove I was right just because that would make me feel like I was doing something significant, like I was adding to what I knew.
Malcolm was waiting outside my door when I got home. I reached into my purse to pull out my key and—of course—it caught on the baggie full of bloody shirt, ripping the Ziploc bag and spilling it onto the floor.
Malcolm bent to pick it up. “What’s this?”
“Something I found in the trash bag.”
“That looks like blood.”
“I think it is. I got some stuff to test it. What did you figure out about the numbers on that page?” We moved into the apartment and I locked the door behind us.
“They’re stock exchange numbers. I thought they looked familiar. I think this is information about what the guys on this list have been investing in. And if I’m reading it right, they’re making big piles of money.”
“Big enough to kill for?” I asked.
“More than big enough. Think that’s what happened to the guy who was wearing
And somewhere along about the middle of the bag, I found a plain white t-shirt. Men’s size XL. The front of it was covered in blood from the neckband to the bottom hem.
At least, I assumed it was blood. It was a dark brown crunchy substance that had, when wet, soaked through to the other side of the shirt. And if it was blood, I didn’t see how anyone could have survived losing that much of it.
Of course, I don’t know that much about blood loss. I tend to get dizzy when I donate blood, so clearly I believed that even a pint was too much to lose. And I don’t know how much blood it would take to soak through a t-shirt.
Okay. First things first. I needed to find out if it was even blood.
The internet is an amazing invention. It allows you to find just about any information you may need with a few clicks of a mouse.
If, that is, you know how to correctly word your query.
I knew for a fact that just a few simple chemicals could be combined to show whether or not a substance was blood. I knew this because I’d watched all those crime shows on television.
I just didn’t know what those chemicals were.
An hour of web searches later I found it. Hemastix. The website used terms like “blood reagent material that will turn shades of green if blood is present.”
Okay. Scientific Geek-Speak translation: this stuff tests for blood.
I discovered something even better than that, though. Hemastix are available in pharmacies. They’re used to test for blood in urine samples. I could pop out to my local CVS and pick some up.
So I did. The t-shirt I shoved into a plastic Ziploc baggie and took with me in my purse. God only knows what someone finding it would make of the fact that I had a bloody t-shirt in my purse, but I didn’t care. I just knew that I didn’t want to leave it behind.
It probably would have been safer in my apartment.
I was halfway to the nearest pharmacy when my phone rang.
“Hey! I think I’ve figured out what those numbers mean. Can I come over?” Malcolm sounded excited. I hated the idea of telling him that I no longer needed his help, but I didn’t know what else to do.
No time like the present. But I wanted to do this face-to-face. Breaking up with a partner-in-crime might not be exactly like breaking up with a boyfriend, but I felt that it deserved at least the same directness.
“I’m on my way to pick something up at the pharmacy. Give me an hour or so?”
“Sure. I’ll see you then.”
It actually took me about an hour and a half. I had to go to three different pharmacies to find the Hemastix. I probably should have called first, but I was too excited about the possibility of figuring out if this stuff really was blood. Don’t ask me why. I knew that it was blood. I wasn’t going to have to prove it in any court. The Hemastix weren’t necessary. I suspect I wanted the Hemastix to prove I was right just because that would make me feel like I was doing something significant, like I was adding to what I knew.
Malcolm was waiting outside my door when I got home. I reached into my purse to pull out my key and—of course—it caught on the baggie full of bloody shirt, ripping the Ziploc bag and spilling it onto the floor.
Malcolm bent to pick it up. “What’s this?”
“Something I found in the trash bag.”
“That looks like blood.”
“I think it is. I got some stuff to test it. What did you figure out about the numbers on that page?” We moved into the apartment and I locked the door behind us.
“They’re stock exchange numbers. I thought they looked familiar. I think this is information about what the guys on this list have been investing in. And if I’m reading it right, they’re making big piles of money.”
“Big enough to kill for?” I asked.
“More than big enough. Think that’s what happened to the guy who was wearing
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