Blood was on the fridge. Up the base of the cupboards. Splattered across the floor.
“Whoever killed these men had blood all over them,” I said.
“You mean Bob, right?” Kayden’s voice was flat. “Bob killed these guys?”
“I don’t think so.” I stood. “If Bob did this, he’d have had blood on his clothes, his face, and his arms. He didn’t have any.”
“He could’ve washed it off. Changed his clothes.”
I shook my head. “Look at this scene, Kayden. The smashed bottle. The broken cupboards. Someone fought hard in here, and blood went everywhere. A fight like this leaves marks. Scratches. Bruises. Blood. Bob didn’t have a mark on him.”
Kayden looked around the kitchen. “So, if not Bob, then who …” He stopped. Swallowed. “Frank.”
“Bob said Frank had been hiding here for weeks. The Hendersons came looking for Frank last night. They didn’t make it back out.” I pulled out my phone and photographed the knife block, then the knife handle protruding from Bruce’s torso.
Kayden let out a long breath. “Son of a bitch.”
“It’s still a big ask, though,” I said. “These were big men. And the last time I saw Frank, he didn’t look like someone who could take down one Henderson, let alone two of them.”
Kayden looked at me sharply. “When did you see Frank?”
“A couple of months ago.” I straightened and looked up at the ceiling. The bullet hole I’d put there stared back at me. I photographed it. “He came out of Bob’s office at the station.”
“Frank would never go to a police station.”
“Well, he did. Do you think he’s capable of murder?” I asked.
Kayden puffed out his cheeks. “Frank hated these bastards.” His jaw tightened. “And they came after him. Frank wouldn’t go down without a fight, that’s for sure. Maybe he just got lucky.”
I pointed at the knives lined up on the floor. “That’s my guess, too. He knew they were coming and got ready.” I stepped back and photographed the knives in context with the door behind them. “That’s not panic. That’s preparation.”
Kayden’s jaw was tight, working against the pain he wouldn’t admit to. “Come on.” I touched his good arm. “Let’s see if there’s a bandage somewhere.”
I steered him down the hall to the bathroom.
“Oh shit,” he said as we stepped in.
The bathroom told its own story. Blood smeared across the sink’s lip and down the cabinet door below. Bloody fingerprints were on the tap and the white sink. The medicine cabinet hung open, and everything was dragged out and dumped on the counter. A tube of antiseptic cream was squeezed flat. Band-Aid wrappers littered the floor. A roll of medical tape sat open on the edge of the sink, the end pulled out and torn off.
“Jesus, someone patched themselves up in a hurry.” I pulled out my phone and photographed the sink, cabinet, and fingerprints. “It wasn’t Bob,” I said. “He didn’t have a mark on him.”
“Could’ve been Bruce or Wayne.”
I looked at the blood on the sink, the empty wrappers on the floor, and thought it through. “Wayne was hog-tied, and Bruce was knifed. My guess is that whatever happened to them, happened really quickly. They didn’t have time to patch themselves up.” I crouched and photographed the wrappers. “Whoever killed them got injured in the fight and came in here after to treat themselves.”
“There’s a lot of blood here,” Kayden said, nudging a roll of medical tape with his finger.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like enough to be life-threatening.”
“Really? You can tell that?”
I nodded.
“So, the killer takes time to patch themselves up after killing two men?” Kayden said. “That’s risky.”
“Yes, and this is evidence.” I looked at Kayden. “Sorry, we can’t touch anything in here now.” I pressed my hand to his chest. “How bad is it really?”
“I’ve had worse.”
