“The crime.” Byron gestured at the kitchen. Blood spatter had arced across Maylene’s floor and cabinet fronts. A plate and two drinking glasses sat on the table, proof that there had been a second person at the table—or that Maylene had set out two glasses for herself. So she might have known her attacker. A chair was knocked backward on the floor. She’d struggled. A loaf of bread, with several slices cut and lying beside it, sat on the counter cutting board. She’d trusted her attacker. The bread knife had been washed and was the lone item in a narrow wooden drying rack beside the sink. Someone—the attacker?—had cleaned up. As Byron tried to assign meaning to what he saw around him, he wondered if Chris simply didn’t want to talk about the evidence. Maybe he sees something I’m missing?

The lab tech, whom Byron didn’t know, stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t step in the blood on the floor, but if he had, his shoes were already covered by booties. The absence of his kit seemed to indicate that the tech had already done what he needed in this room.

Or wasn’t going to be doing anything.

“Here.” The tech held out disposable coveralls and disposable latex gloves. “Figured you’d need help getting her out of here.”

Once Byron had the coveralls and gloves on, he looked from the tech to Chris. The attempt at patience vanished; he needed to know. “Chris? That’s Maylene, and ... just tell me you’ve got something to ... I don’t know, narrow in on whoever did this or something .”

“Drop it.” Chris shook his head and pushed away from the counter. Unlike the tech, he was very careful where he stepped. He walked toward the doorway into Maylene’s living room, putting himself farther from the body, and caught Byron’s gaze. “Just do your job.”

“Right.” Byron squatted down, started to reach out, and then looked up. “Is it safe to touch her? I don’t want to disturb anything if you still need to collect—”