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.
150 words
@nickjohns999
This story was written for Jeffrey Hollar's Monday Mixer
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