Depraved Heart. Patricia Cornwell

      The icons are inert. When I click on the link in my text messages nothing happens.

      Then just as suddenly the link isn’t there anymore, as if I deleted any trace of it from my messages. But I certainly didn’t. The recording has vanished before my eyes like a disturbing dream. It’s gone as if it was imagined, and I look around the foyer at the dark dried blood, the shattered glass, the gory area on the floor where the body had been. My attention stops on the upright ladder.

      Fiberglass, rubber feet, four steps and a platform on top, perfectly centered, and that begins to bother me like many details in this case. The ladder is set up directly under the light fixture, which at some point shattered over the marble floor. If Chanel really lost her balance I would have expected the ladder to slide, possibly to tilt and tumble over as she fell. I scan feathery marks made by her bloody hair at the perimeter of the putrid crazed blackish mess where her upper body had been. It appears that at some point she moved her head.

       Or someone moved it.

      We’ve found no footprints, handprints, nothing that might suggest the presence of a second person including the housekeeper who discovered the body. I recall the bottoms of Chanel’s bare feet were completely clean. Once she was down, she stayed down. She didn’t step in her own blood. It doesn’t appear anybody did, and then I begin looking harder at a scene that is increasingly suspicious as I listen for Marino, waiting for him to come back so we can check on Lucy. I halfway expect another alert tone on my phone, another video link to land, and I keep hoping Lucy will call me. I text her at the same time I carefully scan the foyer, focusing on areas of clean white marble, looking for any indication that someone may have washed the floor in an attempt to alter the scene, to stage it.

      We haven’t yet checked for latent blood, for a trace residue that might have been left if blood is washed away and we no longer can see it without chemical assistance. I’m not sure the police were going to bother since they seem convinced the death is an accident, and I crouch down by my scene case and open it again.

      I find the bottle of reagent. I shake it and start spraying areas of the floor that appear clean. Instantly a rectangular shape and swipe marks fluoresce a vivid blue just inches from the decomposing blood where the body had been. The shape was made by something manufactured, possibly a bucket it occurs to me, and that and other shapes are eerily vivid on the white marble.

      Darkness isn’t required for this particular chemical, and sunlight coming through the transom and the ambient illumination don’t interfere with the sapphire blue luminescence. I see it plainly as I notice a pattern of elongated droplets, some as small as a pinhead, what looks like back spatter that impacted at an acute angle. Medium velocity. What I associate with beatings.

      I closely inspect a blue mist near where the head had been. Possibly expirated blood, and I think of the missing front tooth I recovered when I first got here. Chanel would have been bleeding inside her mouth, and when she was down on the floor, unconscious and dying, she was exhaling blood mixed with air. It appears someone wiped up this area of the floor, attempting to eradicate anything that might not be consistent with an accidental death.

      That’s what it’s looking like but I need to be conservative and cautious. There could be other explanations such as a false positive chemical reaction to something other than blood. Or even if it is nonvisible blood it could have been on the floor for a while. It might be completely unrelated to Chanel Gilbert’s death. But I don’t believe it.

      Next I conduct a quick and easy presumptive test, moistening a swab with distilled water, gently rubbing a small area of the rectangular shape that is fluorescing blue. Then I drip a phenolphthalein solution and hydrogen peroxide onto the swab and instantly it turns pink, which is positive for blood. Next I take photographs using a plastic ruler as a scale.

      “Marino?” I look for him.

      The house is empty except for the two of us. Hyde, the gray-haired Cambridge officer and the state trooper are en route to Dunkin’ Donuts or headed who knows where. I detect sounds in the area of the kitchen. Then I hear a door shut, the thudding distant and muffled, possibly downstairs, and that’s perplexing. I could have sworn everyone was gone, that no one is left on the property except Marino and me. Maybe I’m mistaken, and I listen. I detect more movement in the kitchen area.

      “Marino?” I call out loudly. “Is that you?”

      “No it’s the boogeyman.” I can’t see him, only hear him, and now the sounds are coming from the hallway beyond the staircase.

      “Are you sure there’s nobody here besides us?” I ask the empty foul-smelling air.

      “Why?” Slow heavy footsteps coming closer.

      “I thought I heard a door shut. I heard something thud. It sounded like it came from the basement.”

      No answer.

      “Marino?” I swab several other fluorescing stains and the presumptive test continues to be positive for blood. “Marino?”

      Silence.

      “Marino? Hello!”

      I shout to him several more times but he doesn’t answer, and I text Lucy again. Then I call her ICE number and it goes straight to voice mail, and next I try the cell phone line I usually reach her on. She doesn’t answer that either. When I enter her unlisted unpublished home number I get an error tone and a recording.

      The number you have reached is no longer in service …

      The sound of a door shutting again, distant and muffled. It doesn’t sound like a normal door. It’s too heavy.

      Like a vault door slamming.

      “Hello?” I call out. “Hello!”

      No one answers.

      “Marino?”

      I look around, standing perfectly still, listening. The house is silent, just the incessant noise of flies. They crawl over blood and circle sluggishly like tiny spotter planes looking for the putrefying wounds and orifices, the rotting flesh where they laid their eggs. Their buzzing sounds angry and predatory, as if they’ve been robbed of their unborn babies and denied a carcass, a food supply that was rightfully theirs. The flies seem louder even though there are fewer of them, and the stench seems just as strong with the body gone but that’s not possible.

      My senses are on high alert, in overdrive and the same sensation drifts over me like a noxious vapor. I feel a presence. I feel something evil and curdled inside this house and then I think about what Marino said. Chanel Gilbert was into occult shit, and I don’t know what he meant. Maybe she consorted with the dark side, assuming there really is anything to that, and I remind myself it’s understandable if I’m feeling spied on because Lucy was. I just witnessed it.

      “Marino?” I try again. “Marino are you here? Hello?”

      I envision the door that leads down to a basement where I’ve not yet been.

      I’ve not had the chance to search the house but I’m fairly sure that the door is off the kitchen, which is how I entered when I first got here. I came in the same way the housekeeper had earlier, and I remember noticing the closed door opposite the pantry. It occurred to me it led down into what likely was a laundry area, a cellar, possibly a kitchen for the household staff in centuries past.

      I listen carefully and have waited long enough. I’m about to go look for Marino when I hear footsteps again, big heavy ones. I stay where I am and listen as they get closer. Then I see him near the staircase.

      “Thank God,” I mutter.

      “What’s the matter?” He walks into the foyer and his eyes instantly find the blue luminescent shapes on the floor. “What’ve we got here?”

      “Someone may have tampered with the scene.”

      “Yeah I’m seeing something. I don’t know what but something. Good idea to spray it down just to be on the safe side.”

      “I