Hank had taken his time processing the scene. There were shoeprints all over the greasy tile floor but most of them had been smudged. Dacie Mae’s were clear enough. He could see the path she had taken in her high-heeled boots and the Sheriff’s more sensible boot prints beside hers. They had been the only two to enter through the dining room door.
The floor had been mopped but not with degreaser. The kitchen staff’s prints from the night before had been wiped away and a fresh, greasy surface had been left for the two people who had come in through the rear entrance early that morning.
Only two people, of that much he was certain. Tommy had come in and walked all around the kitchen, getting everything set up for the day, leaving imprints of his Danskins everywhere he went. Whoever had followed him in had walked in and walked out in one line, smudging both his (or her) footprints into Tommy’s. There was only one clean partial. He had photographed it as well as the muddled trail, taking more photos than was probably necessary. Sometimes, he knew because he’d read it in a book, things could show up under image enhancement that you never would have seen with your naked eye. So, to be careful he took dozens of pictures of the footprints.
That done, he had allowed the body to be removed and had continued processing the scene for several hours on his own. Tommy’s jacket had been hanging by the door. It was now in an evidence bag, waiting to be processed for hair and fibers. It was a long shot but it was possible that someone had brushed up against it on their way out. What he was really hoping for was a nice clean fingerprint on the frying pan handle. That would make this so much easier.
Hank washed his hands in his bathroom sink for maybe the fifth time since he had come home. He was compulsive about it but it was a difficult mindset to break. His home, he tried to remind himself, was not a crime scene. If it was he would be wearing latex gloves. But still he washed his hands after coming in the door, after preparing a sandwich, after picking the dead leaves off his sad potted plant. His mother had bought the plant for him, “So there will be at least one other living thing in that sad, lonely place of yours.”
He wasn't lonely, as she thought he truly must be. He was busy. His job was enough to keep him entertained. There were things he wanted to do with his life that were more important to him, at the moment, than having a wife and children. He was of an ambitious nature. But his mother didn’t understand ambition.
Though she had plenty of her own when it came to grandchildren. ©2013GwennWright
COMING this Valentine's Day!
Viktor and Katherine are back in The von Strassenberg Saga 2.5: Katherine's Journal!
If you haven't begun this gothic tale of love and mystery start today on your Kindle or Nook (also available in a lovely paperback). Reviews are posted below or you can find them on Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11234679-filter