Page 11 of Done Dirty

“Vic’s got a full home gym in this second bedroom,” he said. “Premium equipment. Got a missing ten-pound weight from the rack.”

“I guess that blows the theory that Paige was sleeping in the second bedroom,” I said. “You think the building manager is naïve or it’s wishful thinking?”

“I think she had the hots for her neighbor,” Jack said.

We moved toward the bedroom and I noticed the yellow evidence tag on the floor around the back side of the sofa.

“Somebody is missing something important,” Jack said, arching a brow.

A pair of black lace underwear lay crumpled on the ground, small enough that someone gathering their things in a hurry could easily miss them.

I took my camera from my bag and photographed the underwear, making sure to get the label and size.

“That’s gross,” I said. “Who leaves without putting on their underwear?”

“I imagine it happens more often than you’d think,” Jack said.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from experience?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

He grinned unrepentantly. “I’m just saying I can see how something so small can be easy to miss. Especially if you’re in a hurry. Or getting dressed in the dark. Daniels said vic was in the master bedroom.”

“You trying to change the subject?”

“I just thought you’d want to get to the fun portion of the programming. Daniels did say it was interesting.”

“Saved by a dead body,” I said, following him into the remaining bedroom.

The smell hit first—copper and something earthy beneath it, and then I looked down at our victim.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “That’s definitely interesting.”

Who I assumed was Wade Rivers lay on his back near the foot of the bed, completely naked except for the kitchen knife that had been plunged into his groin and the dime store American flag that had been laid on top of his crossed arms.

“Someone posed him,” Jack said.

I took several pictures, zooming in on the flag and knife. “He’s a big guy. What do you think, maybe six four?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, looking around the room until he saw a wallet on the dresser in a black shallow bowl. He picked it up and flipped it open. “Wade Rivers. Thirty-four years old. Six foot five and two hundred and fifteen pounds. Looks like our guy.”

He’d been a good-looking man. You could still see that, underneath the death pallor. His jaw had gone slack and his mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling with the milky, dried-out stare that sets in once the moisture goes.

I walked around the body, looking at the angle and the smears of blood on the floor. “He was killed here,” I said, pointing to the blood spatter across the sheets and pillow near the headboard. There were flecks on the wall as well.

“Not arterial,” Jack said before I could.

“No,” I said, watching where I stepped. “Body dropped to the floor here.” There were blood smears down the side of the comforter to the floor. “See the initial pooling?”

“Mmm,” Jack agreed.

I took more photographs.

“Whoever killed him didn’t leave him here long though,” I said. “They dragged him to where he is now. Blood trail is smeared the whole way, and then he was fresh enough to leave another pool of blood where he is now.”

“That’s heavy blood loss,” Jack said.

“If he was still alive when he was moved it wouldn’t have been for long.”

“It’d take some strength to move a man his size,” Jack said.