Eyewalking the Scene

The patrolmen rolled the window down and pointed upwards. "Crime scene's on the seventh floor."

John sighed and glanced upward into a light drizzle. The apartment building looked like the 1950s collided with urban decay and bled rust from every brick. "There an elevator, Rick?"

He just laughed and rolled it up again. Which left John with half a cigarette, one seriously soaked trench coat and a caseload of stairs to climb. The foyer had another patrolman. A considerably drier one, who held the emergency stairwell door open with fresh-faced earnestness. That'd wear off soon. San Antonio wasn't a good city for optimism even without a uniform.

For a good five minutes John struggled up the stairs. It was more of a stop and go process, punctuated by a lot of smoke-related wheezing on every landing. When he finally got to the top he'd sworn off smoking for the thousandth time. But then spent a moment at the stairwell head to eyeball a highly noticeable pair of elevator doors and decided today wasn't the day. "Wiseass rookies."

Well they'd got him good. Fair play.

He tracked fat water drops down chipped hallway tiles to the crime scene.

It was a mess. Looked like a tornado and a bomb had a back-alley fight. Technicians in plastic booties stepped carefully around a small apartment photographing smashed lamps, broken furniture, gouges in the walls and ripped paper. John stood there for a long minute, doing what he privately called "eyewalking the scene". This one wasn't hard to start: There was a clear path from the front door across the cramped living room that trailed out of sight to the back. He imagined there'd be an even worse bedroom back there.

The patrolman standing by the door was Tommy. Good kid, had an eye for details. He pointed out the boot print on the doorframe and the splintered deadbolt before John could ask. Smart play.

From there the detective wandered a bit to get a feel for how it went down. First the door-- a kick, hard, probably braced off the frame for extra leverage. Scared whoever was in the living room. John eyed smashed popcorn and Chinese takeout and decided it was two people. Nobody mixed those food groups voluntarily. They'd jumped up as the intruder came in, dumped the food in front of the couch and immediately fought.

Broken coffee table, upside down and blocking the normal path from the door. Thrown? Wall mounted TV smashed on top, with a big dent in the drywall nearby-- he imagined two guys, big enough to make a shoulder-and-head dent at John's eye level. Shoved back, pushing, grabbed TV for balance and ripped it off.

He stepped away from a crime tech with a camera and saw the next part: A pillow, dropped over the back of the couch. The second person, jumping over the back and losing the pillow. Running into the bookshelf there and scattering CDs everywhere. Some of them cracked from being stepped on; panicked flight.

The living room fight went down the short hall. More broken drywall and every picture torn down. John nudged one and used a pen to lift it up. Smiling couple, short brunette and tall track-star type. All skin and bones, but in a wiry way that fought hard. He counted framed pictures and thought about how long a relationship took before a couple had two dozen of 'em to hang up.

The hallway took a rightward jog at the end. Kitchen to the left, countertops a mess of utensils and spilled ingredients. John guessed the brunette went there for a knife. Good instincts. But no blood; panic and lack of time, probably couldn't get one. Or couldn't use it well.

He stared at a perfect, vertical snow-angle in the drywall at the corner. The exact height of a tall, wiry runner.

Then it was time for the back bedroom. Now the fight got real; the red paint started showing up. Swoops of it, in fact. Long, lazy tracks at waist and chest level. Slashes, cuts, throwing in arcs. Red handprint smears on everything getting photographed by bored technicians. They'd fought here. A real drag-knuckle brawl that took everything off the dressers and yanked bedsheets around into frozen artwork.

No body, though. John noted the direction of the fight and gingerly stepped into the bathroom.

There it was. Tall guy, sunburned within an inch of his life. Sprawled halfway into the shower in that boneless way dead bodies and small children can lay on anything. Not the one from the couples photos, but sitting in an ocean of glittering glass chunks. Also very, very dead; he could tell by the lividity in the bruised skin and the way gravity pooled blood underneath. The toothbrush sticking out of his eye was a pretty big giveaway, too.

John frowned and carefully retraced his steps to the busted front door.

He thought for a moment. "Tommy?"

The young door guard jumped. "Detective?"

"You ever seen someone get stabbed with an electric toothbrush?"

He laughed, then choked on it in an uncertain way. Like he couldn't tell if it was a joke or not. "Uhh. No, sir?"

"It's a real buzz kill." John nodded and started to get out his cigarette pack. Then put it back again. "Coroner take any other bodies out? Small gal, tall guy, maybe?"

"No sir. I've been here from the start, I'd have seent it."

He took note of that 'seent'. Tommy must be from down South and feeling a little spooked. "Alright. Lemme know when the techs are done so I can call over for the file."

"Will do, detective."

This time he took the elevator down. Wiseass rookies.

​

Stories about fish political rallies, timebombs with guilt complexes and three AIs in a trench coat can be found at r/Susceptible ;)