Read Online Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars - Free Book Online Page A

second then back to me with a
tortured embarrassment in her eyes. When she started speaking
again, she kept her voice low but stammered through the sentences
as if trying to confess a mortal sin. “There’s something about this
room… Ever since we came through the door… It sounds crazy… No,
more like sick… No, it IS sick… But if… If we were alone right now,
I’d… Right now, I want to…”
    I gave her a knowing nod, and when I spoke I
kept my voice down as well. “I know, hon, I can feel it too.
There’s a residual sexual energy in this room that’s beyond…” I
stammered myself, searching for the right words. “…Intense, is the
only way I can explain it.”
    She nodded back in agreement. “And it feels
far too singular and recent, then. Not like something built up over
time.”
    “Yeah, I got that too,” I returned. “And did
you notice there’s no fear?”
    She gave me a quick nod. “Aye. I did. And, I
really don’t know what to make of that.”
    “Me either,” I huffed. “But something is
definitely odd here.”
    “Is everything okay back there?” Murv called
out from the front of the room.
    “Fine,” I replied, looking up with a quick
wave. “Just took me by surprise is all.”
    “Yeah,” he replied, continuing about his
business with the other tech he’d brought in. “It’s a friggin’
mess.”
    “Are you sure you’re okay?” Felicity asked me
when I turned back to her. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait
outside?”
    “No, I’ll be okay. Really. It was just the
initial shock.”
    “If you’re sure.”
    “I’m sure. Let’s get this done.”
    “All right then.” She gave me a nod. “There
is a set of photoevidence scales in the bag. I’m going to need
them.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    Even though I was more than ready to put
distance between this scene and me, my stomach had calmed
considerably. I knew there was a time when it would have taken much
longer for me to get over something like this, but my own learned
indifference was starting to return, much to my disappointment.
    We had already shot the wide angle and
mid-range photos of the scene proper then moved immediately into
the close-ups. We ran into a problem positioning a photoevidence
scale near the exit wound, so since I had the free hands, I had
been charged with the duty of reaching in and carefully holding it
in place. Felicity didn’t really have it any easier as she was
forced to contort herself into a position where she could shoot the
picture and not disturb any potential evidence. Still, it wasn’t
the most pleasant task I’d ever performed.
    I was certain that the medical examiner would
be taking far more detailed photos and even made mention of it
aloud. However, my wife informed me that this was standard
operating procedure, and she was going to follow it to the letter.
I couldn’t disagree.
    I stepped back out of the way and watched on
as she steadied herself in the doorway while snapping off a series
of pictures to show the location of a bed pillow, which had been
haphazardly tossed into the bathtub. It bore its own
velocity-patterned bloodstains, as did the translucent plastic
shower curtain. Both spatters had their own stories to tell. One
said that the pillow had probably been used to muffle the gun’s
report; the other hinted that perhaps the shower curtain had been
used to shield the killer from the spray. Still, even as Felicity
called out the particulars of the shots for me to record, my gaze
kept being drawn back to the victim.
    Wentworth’s chest and protruding belly were
flaccid and pale, making the red spatters and trickles of blood
stand out in stark contrast beneath each harsh white burst from the
camera’s flash unit. I lowered my eyes to make sure I was writing
in a straight line as I filled the logbook with the details I’d
been given but almost unconsciously returned my gaze to his
lifeless torso.
    The niggling “something not right” feeling
grew into a