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“No physical evidence left behind. Air temp turned down to throw off not only the time of death reading but also to slow decomposition to not alert neighbors with the smell, and nothing taken that could eventually be traced back to the victim.” Slade slowly stood, and I cringed at the sounds coming from his knees. “Anyone else annoyed with this fucker?”
I raised a blue-gloved hand and nodded.
Jameson huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve seen enough here. You good?” he asked Slade, who nodded. “SSA Riggs asked for a place for me to set up, large enough for a murder board, but she said y’all are out of space?”
“Yeah, we’ve hired a bunch more officers and detectives in the past year.”
“You can use my office.” Both men slowly turned to face me. Slade was his normal grumpy self while Jameson wore a surprised expression. “What? I do most of my work in the morgue. The office is more of a formality. It’s not much, but….”
Jameson nodded. “Sounds good to me. I’ll try to keep the mess contained to not take over your space. We’ll be working close together since there’s little evidence to go on. The bodies will have to tell us everything.”
“I’ll finish up here.” I gestured around the room. “And make sure the shoe print is documented.”
Slade edged toward the bedroom door, tugging off his gloves as he spoke to Jameson. “Do you want to talk to the neighbors with me or head to the station with a uniform?”
I couldn’t hear Jameson’s response as they walked down the hall, the words muffled. That didn’t stop me from watching them leave, though. Two very different body types, neither less attractive than the other.
Slade had the massive build with broad shoulders, thick thighs, and muscular arms, and I could picture him tossing me around, manhandling me the way only men in my dreams could accomplish. Whereas Jameson had a cockiness about him that spoke to knowing exactly how to use his lean frame to make you crave more.
“Excuse me, Dr. Evans.”
“Yes.” I turned, jumping back a bit when I nearly bumped into the crime scene tech. I inched backward, slightly uncomfortable with the way he stared at the body. “Did you need something?”
A chill swept down my spine when his bloodshot eyes slid from the dead man to me. His dry lips cracked with a slow smile as he tucked a few stringy locks of greasy dark hair behind his ear. “Is there anything else you want me to focus on?” He lifted the camera between us and gave it a shake. “I photographed the scene and the shoe print.”
“What happened to your hands?” I asked, ignoring his words, focused on the exposed patch of irritated skin between the standard-issue latex gloves and the cuff of his long-sleeve shirt.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said in a rush, dropping the camera so it dangled from the strap around his neck to yank both sleeves down. “Just eczema.”
I nodded slowly, letting him think I bought the lie. Because I knew for a fact that it wasn’t eczema. It was a chemical reaction. Clearing my throat, I forced my gaze anywhere else to keep from badgering the poor guy.
“Take pictures of the hallway and the point of entry that the officers pointed out earlier. Zoom in on the locks used on the back door. Detective Taylor will want to compare them to the other crime scenes.”
With a clipped “Okay,” he hurried off down the hall.
Odd man.
Though that wasn’t uncommon in this line of work.
After releasing the body to be transported to the morgue, I grabbed my bag and carefully made my way out of the house and onto the quaint front porch, sipping the mostly melted drink that Slade brought as I walked.
That man was an enigma. I couldn’t figure Slade out no matter how much time we spent together. Which was the complete opposite of Jameson. We’d flirted a lot while working together in Nashville, though it never turned into more since I was married. But now I wasn’t, Josh somewhere far away from here, no doubt still pissed that I found the courage to leave him. After years of his backhanded comments and—
Oh shit. Did I turn my hair straightener off?
My stomach dropped. I thought I did. I usually did out of habit. Yet….
“What are the odds of a major fire starting because of a flat iron being left on?” I asked the officer who stood beside my white Tesla. “And if a fire starts and takes out the entire row of townhomes, will I be held liable? There could be animals trapped inside,” I said, voice rising with my panicked thoughts. “Or people. Sleeping. It’s still a little early. Shit, I can’t go to jail for manslaughter. I don’t even know how to make a shank!”
Ignoring his slightly alarmed, more confused stare, I hurried around to the driver’s side and swung the door open. After tossing the black bag into the back seat, I pulled away from the curb and zipped quietly through the residential streets. As I drove from the crime scene toward home, all kinds of devastating scenarios played out in my head. The worst being that I stood trial facing the death penalty because my careless mistake caused the loss of hundreds of innocent lives.
Sure, there were only four townhomes in my section, but I didn’t know how many people lived in the other three units. I’d never done a census of my neighbors. Hell, I didn’t even know what my neighbors looked like. Between the long hours at work and having an unhealthy obsession with Netflix true crime documentaries, I’d never run into anyone.
A relieved sigh rushed past my lips as I parked along the curb in front of my house, no visible flames or smoke emitting from the roof. Chuckling at my idiot self, the crazy things my vivid imagination came up with which would no doubt give me a heart attack one day, I climbed the concrete steps, keys in hand, only to pause when something caught my eye.
The toe of my sparkly shoe nudged the frayed edge of my Christmas-themed welcome mat where an unfamiliar slip of paper lay tucked beneath.
Shit. I really need to switch out the doormat, considering Christmas was six months ago. But is it too late to put out the spring one?It was technically summer, even if the daily fog and gloom didn’t make it feel that way.