Page 46 of One of Us Is Guilty

To the left of the kitchen was a small bedroom. The double bed had been stripped to the bare mattress, and there was a wardrobe, achest of drawers and some shoes arranged on the floor in a line below the window. Bloch took her time examining the mattress. No traces of blood.

Generic art hung on the walls of the bedroom, black-and-white photographs of the Manhattan skyline. Same in the living area and the short hallway leading into the apartment.

Apart from the bloodstain on the carpet, there were no signs of a struggle, no signs of violence. Nothing out of place.

Bloch sniffed.

‘You smell that too?’ asked Lake.

‘What is it?’ asked Bloch.

The odor was strangely familiar, a chemical of some kind.

‘Smells like a solvent of some kind,’ said Lake. ‘It’s like the solvent forensics use to lift fingerprint DNA. Although this is way more concentrated.’

The odor was strongest close to the front door, around the staining on the rug.

‘Maybe something used to treat the bloodstain?’ asked Bloch, then knelt down and sniffed at the floor.

She recoiled, holding her wrist over her nose.

‘No, they haven’t used anything on the carpet. I can still smell the blood.’

Lake went into the bathroom. Bloch returned to the bedroom and began going through the drawers. Underwear, socks, sweaters, jeans. Dresses and coats in the wardrobe. She went into the kitchen and began pulling open cupboards and drawers. Just ordinary kitchen items. She abandoned the kitchen, moved to the living area.

A coffee table between the couch and the TV had a glass top. A dozen pens sat in a coffee mug. The mug was old and had a faded picture of a windmill on one side. There had been some writing on the back, but it had faded away. It had been through too many cycles in a hot dishwasher. Two large heavy books were arranged beside it. One on coffee and one on industrial design inarchitecture. A thin coating of dust lay on the top of the first book. Bloch opened the books, leafed through the pages.

She stood, examined the bookcase, took a few books at random and flicked through the pages – nothing.

Lake came around the corner, said, ‘Check out the bathroom.’

She followed him.

The bathroom was tiny: toilet, baby sink, low bathtub with a shower and a yellow curtain. White tile on the walls, a single extractor fan on the wall and nothing else.

There was the same chemical smell in the bathroom, especially around the small sink.

‘I already checked the whole room with a black light. No trace of blood, saliva – nothing,’ said Lake.

‘Look for prints,’ said Bloch.

She reached into Lake’s bag, took one of his bottles of fingerprint powder and a large brush and went into the kitchen. She coated the brush in the powder and began to quickly cover the counter, the drawer handles, the sink. Then went back to the bedroom, dusting the door handles, wardrobe and drawers, even the shoes on the floor.

‘I got nothing. What did you find?’ asked Lake.

Bloch stood, shook her head.

‘You ever seen anything like this?’ asked Lake.

‘No, you?’

‘Never. Let’s get out of here.’

They packed up, and were walking toward the front door when Bloch stopped. A framed print hung on the wall. On the other side of this wall was the bathroom. It was painted white, just like the other walls, but this print caught her attention.

It was Monet’s waterlilies. Colorful, vibrant.

Wrong.