Archer waved him away. “It’s complicated.” Sam let the subject drop, and Archer grabbed the tape barring their path and removed it. Leading them further into the alleyway, he glanced over his shoulder. “Well?”
Aaron’s gaze caught on the dark red stain on the road.
He swallowed, unable to look away. The earlier excitement he’d felt disappeared when faced with the grim reality. He and Harry hadn’t been part of the pack wars. They’d been human at the time, and they’d only heard stories. He’d witnessed some gruesome injuries since—shifters fought amongst themselves sometimes—but they all healed.
He bent down, drawn to the blood stain, and just managed to stop himself from reaching out to touch it. The stain spread out, covering a significant area—no one had healed from this injury. When Aaron breathed in deep, he caught Charlie’s scent and was struck with an image of his wry grin as Aaron helped him up after the fight.
And now he was gone.
No. He took back everything he’d thought earlier. This wasn’t the least bit exciting.
Charlie’s scent wasn’t the only one he picked up. Turning in a slow circle, rising to his feet, Aaron caught more, too many to count. It seemed as though an army of people had been through that alleyway, and apart from Charlie, Aaron didn’t have a hope of identifying anyone.
But one thing he knew for sure—all the scents were human.
“Anything?” Detective Archer stood there with his hands on his hips, watching them, expression hopeful. Curly blond hair fell over his forehead as the breeze ruffled it, piercing, blue gaze fixed on Aaron.
Aaron felt a stab of guilt that he hadn’t been able to pick out a scent. Not one that they were after, anyway. He shook his head and tried to dispel the feeling of failure. “Nothing, sorry.”
“Nothing at all?” Archer sounded sceptical, and Aaron rushed to explain.
“I mean there’s plenty of scents around here.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “But all of them are human.”
Archer failed to hide his disappointment when he turned to the others. “What about you?”
All three of them shook their heads, and Archer’s shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” Sam said, glancing around at the bins and the bits of rubbish littering the road. “But whatever scents there were have either disappeared or are masked by everything else.” He wrinkled his nose in the direction of the nearest industrial wheely bin.
Aaron concurred; the smell was awful.
“Fuck.” Archer ran a hand through his hair. “I was hoping you’d find something. A pack scent at least.”
Detective Coldwell walked over to stand beside him. “Is that usual?” he asked, directing his question to Sam. Aaron stepped back a little, more than happy to no longer be the focus of attention. His gaze was drawn once more to the dark stain on the ground.
“What, that there’s no scent?” Sam asked.
“Or that it can be masked by a stronger smell? I thought your senses were more acute than that?”
Sam blew out a breath and spared the bin another glance. “What time do you think he died?”
“Between twelve thirty and three thirty Saturday morning. Roughly,” Coldwell answered.
“Hmm. So the shifter who murdered him—assuming it was a shifter—would have left here…” He glanced at his watch. “Roughly fifty-two to fifty-five hours ago.”
“Sounds about right.”
“If whoever it was stayed only long enough to commit murder, then left immediately, the scent left behind would’ve been little to start with. Then add in the stench from the bins, the blood, and the scents left by all the people who worked the crime scene…” Sam held out his hands. “It’s possible that whatever was here is simply undetectable under everything else. Even with our enhanced sense of smell.” He sighed. “If you want the best chance of catching your killer’s scent, then you need to arrange to have a shifter help you as soon as the body’s discovered.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.” Coldwell turned to Archer and they had some sort of silent conversation before Coldwell walked back to the car and returned with a brown folder.
Detective Archer took it from him, then faced Sam again. “You said earlier, ‘assuming this was done by a shifter’?”
Sam shrugged. “Well, you have no forensic evidence, do you? Or we wouldn’t be here since all shifters are required by law to have their DNA registered.”
Archer reached into the folder and pulled out two glossy colour photographs. Aaron got a good enough look as Archer handed them over to see what they were. “I’m not an expert on shifter-inflicted wounds by any means, but fortunately, our forensic pathologist is. He conferred with one of the doctors from the shifter run hospital, and both of them are of the opinion that this wound”—he tapped the photo—“was inflicted by fully extended shifter claws.”
Sam, with Isaac now beside him, studied the photo. Without giving it much thought, Aaron drifted closer to get a better look.
