Free The Big Thaw by Donald Harstad Page B

had been seized, bagged, labeled, and would be relayed to the lab in Des Moines.
    Next, the lab team had made several interesting confirmations at the house. The small hole in the wall appeared to be made by a .22 caliber bullet. They hadn’t found any shell casing yet. But it was a fairly good bet that it had been deflected by one of the Colsons’ heads, and was not traveling point-first when it hit the plaster.
    The marks in the carpet were originally bloodstains, somewhat smaller than the dark area indicated, and had been cleaned up. Placing the chairs over them had kept them damp longer than they would have been, and made them more noticeable to me. The stain under the throw rug was not blood. It appeared to have been grease, and was old. They could have taken up the entire sections of carpet, and bagged them. Cut them right out of the floor. They didn’t, but had taken small inch-square samples in several places. Easier to replace for the owner. Not that Cletus had been appreciative.
    The dried puddle on the top of the water heater had been confirmed as blood, too, and had dripped down through a crack in the floor above, near the top of the basement stair. There was a large bloodstain extending between the edge of the stairs and the wall. As one of them said, just like you’d spilled some liquid, and cleaned it up in a hurry. As you moved the rag, you’d push the liquid toward the wall…
    They had found no rags, by the way. Bloody or otherwise.
    Traces of bloodstains had been found in a kitchen drawer, and on a box of white trash bags contained therein. All blood samples were going to the lab. Comparisons to the blood of the victims would be made.
    There were numerous fingerprints on the sliding doors, but they were old. (You can tell older ones if you use print powder, because they don’t jump out the way really fresh ones do.) They’d fumed several items with cyanoacrylate, and had raised many prints. Most of them appeared female, and if the lab team had to bet, they’d say they belonged to Mrs. Borglan. They’d know when they got a set of prints from her for comparison. (Female prints are often finer, and smaller, than male ones.)
    They’d fumed the chairs, and gotten some smudges. Nothing legible. Played hell with the chairs, though.
    All trash receptacles had been checked, and nothing of evidentiary value was present. Same with clothes hampers. Attic in the old half was checked, and nothing was there. Crawl space above the ceiling of the new addition was checked. Nothing.
    They were preparing scale diagrams of the scene, and would have them for us in a couple of days. They gave us a copy of the measurements taken, so we would be able to do our own rough sketches with accurate distances.
    That was it. No murder weapon. No spent shell casings. No foot tracks, except the one on the back door that seemed to match the shoe on one of the bodies.
    Oh. The marks that I had followed to the chair from the archway? The ones I thought were drag marks? They were fresh vacuum cleaner tracks.
    “We’re taking the vacuum cleaner and bag back to the lab with us.” They did that, because sometimes the critical part of some evidence wouldn’t make it all the way into the bag. They disassembled the cleaners completely, down to slitting and opening the hoses.
    Well. You just never know.
    Art spoke up. “It looks pretty much like that’s all the physical evidence, then. Except the bag, and the bodies.”
    We agreed.
    “Anything anybody needs before we let these people go back to Des Moines?”
    Làmar spoke up. “When can we expect your photos?”
    Four days, max, as it turned out.
    But that reminded me. I excused myself, and hurried out to my car, and got the film I’d used yesterday, and hustled it back to our new secretary, Judy. “Could you get these developed, today or tomorrow, rush job?”
    “Sure, I think, I’ll check…”
    “If you could take ’em down? I’m not going to have a chance for a while, and I