The One-Minute Writer's Friday Fiction! Check it out and get writing!
"Oh my god, what happened here...." said Davis, repulsed at the hell hole of a crime scene he found himself in so early on a Monday morning, no less.
"What, this your first rodeo, kid?" The lead detective gave him a look he hoped he'd never have to see again, and straightened himself up from his crouched position. This was his first day on homicide and he wasn't doing himself any favors in the way of making a name for himself.
Ever since he was a kid, he dreamed of this job. His dad, his grandpa, and all of his uncles were all detectives, serving in some of the darkest places of the city he loved. The day he buried his dad and they handed his mother that folded flag, he knew he had to carry on that famous legacy his old man left behind. There was no one on the force that didn't love that man, and while it was nice to hear them reminisce from time to time, they were sure some damn big shoes to fill.
Snapping him out of his brief daydream, Detective MacLean snapped at him again. "Well rook, what do you make of it?"
Here we go, Davis thought. While he was still learning the ropes and trying not to piss too many more people off, this was his bread and butter. The initial crime scene impression. He had a gift for noticing the less than obvious details of any room he walked into, and he hoped this would help those in charge see past his other not quite honed skills as a detective. Like tiny pangs of nausea that still hit him on those real messy scenes.
"Well, it was clearly staged, the whole thing." he began, garnering strange looks from the techs who were beginning to process the scene. Clearly with the amount of blood that covered the floor, wall and victim, they thought otherwise. Before anyone could jump in and object, he continued. "All the blood, it's obvious. Someone put it there. Take the door frame. See those streaks there? That is clearly transfer from some sort of cloth. you can tell by the fibers that caught on the raw edge of the wood, just there. I'd bet my next paycheck if we look at those sheets over there, we'd find a match. And there's not a single print in any of it. If a struggle took place here, which I think they want us to believe, we would absolutely have at least a partial on the wall. But there's nothing. I'd say that whoever did this killed the vic relatively quickly and then made this mess. He wants us to think it was a struggle, maybe a break-in gone wrong. But it wasn't. That poor girl knew who did this to her."
Davis turned from the blood covered wall to see how MacLean had taken his first impression. Surprisingly, he was already having the sheets processed, doing an initial comparison to the clearly obvious match on the frame. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all...