DETECTIVE JOHN MATSON bent down low, ducking underneath the thin yellow tape, stepping in front of the red, blue, and yellow lights that illuminated large Victorian before him. He ignored the whispers of the crowd, huddling against his vehicle as they tried to peer closer, their gossiping bodies pressing against the thin, latex barrier. The symbol of that barrier kept them at bay and gasps replaced their whispers as the EMTs carried out the covered, heavy body of Mr. Collins on a stretcher.
John walked up towards the house, only opening his coat, revealing a bright golden badge pinned to his chest to the officer guarding the door.
The young officer nodded with his eyes downcast as he breathed. “It’s a mess in there, detective...” His deep voice trailed off, his eyes closing tightly; he had a peek into the scene that awaited the veteran.
A reassuring pat on the shoulder was all the older detective could give. Beat cops don’t experience scenes like this. Perhaps it was the first time they ordered the young cop to help suppress the overexcited press and frightened neighbors. He hoped that the man could handle the pressure.
John entered the home, stepping away from the trembling officer. Already he paused, gazing at the scarlet streaks along the floors and walls of the foyer. His eyes followed the marks all the way to the mirror at the end of the hallway, glittering pieces of glass decorating wooden floor, surrounding a lump covered in what was once a clean linen sheet, now soaking with deep browns and bright reds. He turned his head to the dining room; cold food on the table, touched. Three plates and three sets of spoons, forks, and knives were set in place. He pulled out a small notebook from his front pocket, sketching these mundane details, committing them to memory with his fingers and eyes.
He looked up from the quick sketch, his deep brown eyes decorated with the start of wizened lines narrowing, watching his partner walk beside him. “Good to see you arrived, Jim. You should get a wife to set your alarm clock.”
“Ouch, low blow from the middle-aged bachelor.” The younger man yawned, looking around the dining room with red and bleary eyes. “Besides, looks like I got here just in time.” He walked next to his partner, gazing into the dining room.
“They were just sitting down to eat, barely got to their food and then...” John turned the page of his notebook, his eyes moving from the tables and chairs towards the entryway, sketching, “Their day, their life just ends. The Collins was a typical suburban family.” Without lifting his eyes up from his notebook, he turned towards Jim. “Did you talk to any of the neighbors outside?”
Jim nodded, his hands running through his light brown hair. “No one saw what happened; the neighbors across the street heard a commotion and called it in; thinking it might be a domestic dispute.” He looked towards the large bay window facing the street, his head tilting towards it. “The fog was pretty thick so it would obstruct any view into the house. They said that their college-aged son was visiting and it may have been him they heard shouting.”
John grunted, turning back to the previous page to doodle in the view of the street, shading the fog and mist that permeated the outside. “So no reliable witnesses, but we can ask them if the Collins may have any issues with rough relatives, angry business associates, someone who may have held a grudge.” He walked to the hallway, following the trail of burgundy splatters to the lump underneath the mirror, kneeling down before it, “A serious grudge.”
His partner looked around, watching as forensics took photos of the surrounding carnage, before his eyes shifted towards the vaulted ceilings, giving a low whistle. “And a serious throwing arm! John, did you see this yet?”
John looked up, his eyes widening slightly in surprise, his lips pressed together as he saw the cracks rippling from one central, heavy dent in the ceiling. His head turned toward from that hole to the weighty smear of blood on the wood floors. “...That...I don’t know how to explain that...but I guess that is how Mr. Collins died.” He turned back to the sheet covered shape, dragging down the fabric. “Did their son do any sports, heavy-lifting...steroids?”
Jim covered his mouth with his sleeve as the linen was pulled away, wincing at seeing the remains of Mrs. Collins. Her head was turned 180 degrees and a shard of glass sticking against her left cheek, another shard in her right eye socket, “I’m not sure. I don’t think even a powerlifting frat boy could do this...” He staggered back, looking away as his mentor began his next sketch. He had to admire John’s fortitude; even if it was unsettling, “I can ask if there were any other footprints near the kitchen door; with all this blood there would be something, can’t just be isolated here.”
John did not look up from his work, his thin fingers gripping his pencil as he kept sketching. His eyes clouded over as he forced away any emotion of disgust and pity from the corpse before him. He studied the twisted neck, sketching torn hole where chunks of flesh used to be. Jim would’ve repeated himself if John did not shut his notebook and stood up, shaking his head before pointing his pencil towards monitor next to the main door. “You should probably call the manufacturer of the security system first.”
His junior partner blinked before turning around, noticing the little technological wonder, “Well...maybe this got a lot easier.”