He took one last look around the darkened room. The yellow light from the window basked the furniture in a golden hue, an Egyptian temple to the dead.
Everything was in it’s rightful place – the knife back in the draw, clean but for a single incomplete fingerprint on the blade. The lock was scratched just enough to show illegal entry, the TV placed carefully on it’s side, as if dropped when whoever carrying it was disturbed. Again, the same smudged fingerprint on the screen, this time clearly visible in the dust.
A few cushions lay strewn around the couch for effect, as if whomever visited had been checking for money down the sides. Leather, expensive – the owner had good taste. Had. His gaze took in the body by the table. Still warm, framed in it’s own blood, the chest a canyon of drain holes through the sweat stained blue shirt. Messy, unplanned, frantic, desperate. His knuckle still hurt from the force of the blows. Lucky the man hadn’t made a noise, hadn’t suspected a thing until the knife blade had punctured his lung. Too late to scream then. Far, far too late.
Carefully he switched his clothes, admiring the stain on the front with the critical air of an artist. Another one to go with the garden waste into the incinerator. Cremation seemed fitting, somehow.
One last look around the room. The scene was set.
Chief Inspector Turman let himself out. He’d be back later.