The trail of blood did not need the sedulous attention of a detective. It could have been followed by a five year old boy and his dog.
I paused at the threshold, taking a last comforting drag before flipping the butt into the long grass. Where the hell was the uniform on guard? I’ll rip him a new arsehole if he’s in there stamping all over my crime scene. The blood became a Jackson Pollock finger wall smear inside the mortuary door. I fought the overshoe onto my loafer and stepped inside.
“Hello?” the antiseptic echo bounced off the bare walls.
A bandana, original colour unguessable, now red from having been used to mop the mess, lay discarded in a doorway. And a black boot – still attached to its former owner. I had found the officer. A soft footstep alerted me far too late and I glimpsed the flailing razor.
This story was written for Jeffrey Hollar's Monday Mixer