Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

David donned his own gloves while Robertson droned on—relating who found the body, how it was reported and the presumption of suicide. After the private finished scanning the porch and the gravel in front of the windows, David entered the house and caught sight of the remains hanging in front of him. A rolling office chair lay on its side not too far from her. The smell of excrement seeped through his face mask. He paused, listening to the buzz of flies.

The skin between his shoulder blades itched. Her head was at the wrong angle. It seemed to be broken, not at all consistent with a slow strangulation implied by the chair. “Damn.”

Brushing his arm, Robertson paused next to him. “Mother-Fucking-shit-eating-cock-sucking-no-balled-bastards.”

“Exactly.” David closed his eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. Why couldn’t things just be simple? Five. Six. Was it too much to ask? Eight. Nine. Ten. “I’ll check the back door. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the murderer will have left a bloody fingerprint behind.”

Robertson snorted.

A man could dream. After the private panned the open space, David walked to the back. Damn. French doors. He tried the knob. And locked. Had the killer gotten inside another way?

“You think Wheelchair Henry and the others knew?” Robertson focused on the chair.

“No. The idea of suicide pissed him off. Learning that a murderer had gotten into his world would have made him livid.” No soldier like the perimeter breached on his watch. David pulled down a vertical blind slat and peered outside. Mud spotted the concrete. Hot damn! The perp had left tracks on the patio. Not many, true, but it might be enough to ID the bastard. “Robertson, Santa left you a present on the patio.”

The private shifted his attention from filming the kitchen to glance at David. “I told you I was good, Big D. The ladies must have told the Red One just how good I was.”

“You’re confusing the Naughty and Nice lists again.”

Robertson finished panning through the kitchen and headed toward the patio. “You mean they’re not the same thing?”

“I’m going to check out the upstairs before our witnesses arrive.” Crossing the room, he eyed the pictures on the wall. Art mostly. Had the grieving mother purged the family photos as a means to cope? Unlikely, Wheelchair Henry had indicated that she wasn’t coping. So what happened to them?

“Sure thing, Big D.” Robertson untaped a small measuring tape from the side of the camera. “I’ll get the footprint recorded then meet you up there.”

Taking the carpeted stairs two at a time, David quickly reached the loft. Boxes filled the open space. A bunny peeked over the edge of one. He wrinkled his nose. That was a different smell. Not alcohol precisely, but kind of sweeter and fuel related. Perfume, maybe. It wasn’t exactly an appealing scent. But then again, what did he know. The stuff probably sold for hundreds of dollars an ounce at Macy’s.

Crossing the loft, he headed for the double doors of the bedroom. A king-size bed took up most of the space. Blue light flickered from the TV hanging on the wall. His gaze skimmed around the room. Single glass of wine, half full. Nearly empty bottle of wine. Mussed bedcovers. All the weird wood cut signs of encouragement were upright. So, no signs of a struggle.

Did that mean she knew her murderer?

Or had she been too drunk to wake up?

He’d make sure to request blood alcohol levels. Grief drove lots of folks to the bottle. Of course, there weren’t many who had any booze left. He made a mental note to check for a wine cooler.

“Sergeant Major, we’re back.” Wheelchair Henry’s thready baritone entered the room.

“Be right down,” he shouted back. Walking forward, he followed a cable from the wall-mounted flatscreen to a Blu-Ray player sitting on a dresser that had seen better days. He eyed it and the matching nightstand. The things were probably designed to look like they were flea market rejects. With his gloved fingers, he picked up the open DVD case and checked the cover. Joshua’s birthday party. Nothing like a dead kid’s birthday party to lift your spirits. Returning the case to the dresser, he spied the face down picture frame.

Could he get lucky twice in one day?

He turned it over. Man, woman and two kids in a posed portrait. Not from Wally world either. So if Mom and kiddies were dead, where was Dad? He eyed the blond hair, the blue eyes and the smirk. The perfection set David’s teeth on edge. He might be the kind of guy to blame his wife for the death of the kids.

Taking the photo, he headed out of the room. The neighbors would know. Especially if the guy was as big of an ass as he looked. His footsteps echoed on the steps.

“Hey, Big D.” Below, Robertson peeked over the top of his camera. “Can you right the chair for me before I run out of memory.”

“Sure thing.” David angled back toward the front of the house and the hanging body. Only the shadows of his witnesses could be seen through the door. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

He carefully set the chair upright. A good foot and a half gap separated the woman’s feet from the chair seat. “With the casters, she couldn’t have stood on the back rest to slip the noose on.”

Robertson nodded before clicking the camera off. “And let’s not forget that her neck is broken.”

Yeah, there was that. “You begin processing while I do the interviews.”

“Toss the kits inside, will you?” The private ejected the SD card from the camera. “There’s not enough room on this one for the photos.”

David waved with the picture frame on his way out. “Will do.”

Tucking it under his arm, he tugged off his gloves, making sure to tuck one inside the other. Not that he’d touched anything dangerous. He hoped. He just found it hard to write with them on. When he stepped onto the porch, all eyes turned toward him. “Be with you folks in just a minute.”

Wheelchair Henry nodded. The women didn’t move. The boy paled.

Now that was an interesting reaction. Given the state of Stash’s body, David would have thought the kid would be a little more inured to death and violence. Then again, maybe no one should grow accustomed to violent death. There should be some innocence left in the world. Crouching next to the kits, he removed his electronic pad then set the bags inside the door and partially closed it.

And his gut told him they were innocent.

He prayed it wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part, because he was about to break protocol and interview them together instead of separating them. Not that they didn’t already have time to get their stories straight.

A minute passed while he set up the file for Denise Powers. After clicking on the witness icon, he typed in the first name then deleted it. He couldn’t call the ex-Green Beret Wheelchair Henry. Glancing over the pad, he locked gazes with the old man. “Please spell your name for me.”

“H-E-N-R-Y D-O-B-B-I-N-S. Colonel, U.S. Army, Retired.”

David resisted the urge to salute. After entering his name, he waited for the request for a fingerprint. “Just put your thumb here, sir.”

Wheelchair Henry set his thumb on the unit until it beeped. “Things have gotten pretty technical since I mustered out.”

Nodding, he waited for the screen to change. While the system had gotten a bit overwhelmed at the Redaction’s height, the ease of recording deaths had meant families learned the fate of their loved ones at the speed of their internet connection. Too bad it had done nothing to slow the spread of the disease. “You should see the new stuff. It’ll make this look like Fred Flintstone’s car.”

“And the kids operating it won’t even know who Fred Flintstone is.”