“Who’s here?” D.D. asked now, meaning the other investigators.
Neil rattled off several names. Their other squadmate, Phil, the family man. A couple of crime scene techs, latent prints, photographer, the ME’s office. Not too big a party, which D.D. preferred. Space was small, and extra officers, even so-called experts, had a tendency to mess things up. D.D. liked her crime scenes tight and controlled. Later, if things went wrong, that meant it would be on her head. But D.D. would rather shoulder the blame than ride herd on a bunch of uniforms.
“What else do I need to know?” she asked Neil.
“Won’t tell you,” Neil announced stubbornly.
She glanced at him, startled. Their other squadmate, Phil, was known to go toe-to-toe with her. Neil not so much.
“If I tell you and I’m wrong, you’re gonna be pissed,” Neil muttered, no longer looking at her. “I don’t tell you, and I’m right, you can feel good about yourself later—and take the credit.”
D.D. shook her head. Neil would be an excellent detective, if only he didn’t hide behind her and Phil so much. He seemed content to let them be the forward members of the crew, while he spent his days overseeing autopsies at the morgue.
She wondered if the medical examiner, Ben Whitley, was here. Neil and Ben had been dating for a little over a year now. Not an office romance, per se, but an industry one. Made D.D. uneasy about what might happen in the event of a breakup. On the other hand, given that she was forty, unwed, and now mother to a ten-week-old baby boy, she figured she wasn’t in any position to give personal advice.
Life happened. All you could do was ride the ride.
She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and felt the full weight of her ride’s current sleeplessness. Jack had been snuggled into his carrier when she’d left him this morning. All wide blue eyes and fat red cheeks. When she’d kissed the top of his head, he’d waved his pudgy little fists at her.
Did a ten-week-old baby know enough to miss his mommy, because a ten-week mommy sure knew enough to miss her baby.
D.D. sighed one last time, squared her shoulders, and got on with it.
FIRST SCENT THAT HIT D.D.’S NOSTRILS WAS the overwhelmingly astringent odor of ammonia. She recoiled as if she’d hit a wall, her eyes already tearing up as she frantically waved at the air in front of her, an instinctive motion that made no difference.
She glanced down and noticed the rest of the story: piles and piles of animal feces, which accompanied at least a dozen pools of urine.
“What the hell?” she demanded.
“Puppy,” Neil supplied. “Cute floppy-eared yellow lab. Was shut up for multiple days with the body. Obviously, not good for housebreaking. Puppy survived on toilet water and a box of crackers it chewed its way into. Animal control already took her away, if you want a puppy for Jack.”
“Jack sleeps, eats, and poops. What’s he gonna do with a puppy?”
“Hmm,” Neil said, nodding sagely. “It’s probably just a phase.”
D.D. stepped carefully over the puppy piles and followed Neil through the tiny living area into the even tinier kitchen. She waved to a couple of crime scene techs as she went, easing around them in the tight space. Each nodded in greeting but kept working. Given the smell, she couldn’t blame their desire to get in, out, and done.
Off the kitchen was an open doorway that appeared to lead to the single bedroom. Inside, D.D. spotted her other squadmate, Phil, sitting at a tiny desk with his back to the kitchen. He was wearing gloves, his fingers flying over the keyboard of the vic’s laptop. As their technical expert, he was the most qualified for preliminary data mining. Later, of course, he’d deliver the laptop to the techies for a full-scale forensic eval. But in any investigation, time was of the essence, so Phil liked to see what he could learn sooner, rather than waiting for the full forensic analysis, which would follow weeks later.