Free Occam's Razor by Archer Mayor Page B

and went looking.”
    I glanced from one to the other, registering what wasn’t being said, and decided to deal with it later. “This might sound dumb,” I said to her, “but you’re sure both people are dead?”
    Raymo rolled his eyes. “Wait’ll you see ’em.”
    We both ignored him. Snow answered, “The child is cold and stiff—I’m guessing hypothermia there. The woman’s head is almost severed from her body, and the blood’s frozen.”
    “Where’s the victim’s mother?” I asked Raymo.
    He jerked his thumb at the nearest patrol car. “I put her in my unit.”
    “She okay?”
    “Yeah. She didn’t see anything—too short to reach the window. You can’t see the real gory stuff from there anyhow—that’s why I called Rescue. Wasn’t sure she was dead.”
    I crossed the lawn and climbed the rickety porch steps again, accompanied by Willy and J.P., all three of us looking like bulky ghosts. Ron stayed behind. “Did either of you touch anything inside?” I called out to both women as an afterthought.
    They shook their heads, Melissa adding, “We were wearing gloves anyway.”
    “Okay. Thank you very much. We might be asking you for fingerprints, hair samples, and shoe impressions later. Just so you know.”
    As they left, I gestured to Ron. “Could you check out the mother? See how she’s doing and get a statement.”
    He nodded as I pointed to Raymo. “Switch cars with Washburn and go back to the office to write up your report. We won’t be needing you anymore.”
    His expression showed he took my full meaning. He turned away without comment and stalked off, stiff with anger.
    Willy laughed softly. “Asshole.”
    I wasn’t in the mood. “Then don’t start acting like him.”
    He smiled and held the door open for me, unrepentant. “Yes, Mother. You know he’s going back on patrol—show you who’s boss.”
    “I know.”
    The building’s interior was as cold as the outside, although much better lit. We stood in a short, narrow entrance hall as J.P. unfurled a roll of brown construction paper and began laying it before us like a red carpet, ensuring nothing of value would be picked up by our shoes and carried out of the house. It was a little compulsive, given that we were already wearing surgical booties, but he didn’t get to do this often.
    The woman was lying between an obviously ransacked living room and the kitchen, still as a fallen mannequin. As described by Melissa Snow, her head was almost detached, and blood surrounded her like hemorrhaged syrup. The biting cold seemed suddenly to sink in deeper.
    J.P. took a series of photographs before getting to one knee just clear of the frozen pool. “Multiple stab wounds to the chest,” he reported, not bothering to look back at us, his head enveloped in vapor from his breath. “Defensive cuts to the hands and forearms. Fingernails look intact—might be some of her attacker’s tissue there. Hard to tell right now.” He glanced up at the walls. “Given the blood-spatter pattern, it looks like she put up a fight but never ran. It all happened right here.”
    Willy Kunkle was flashing a light into the darker corners nearby. “Probably an acquaintance attack, and she was either a real slob, or somebody was looking for something.”
    “Any weapon?” I asked J.P., flexing my cold fingers inside their thin latex gloves.
    He took a slight hop over the body into the kitchen beyond. “Nothing obvious,” he said, looking around. He began taking more pictures.
    Catering to his tidiness, I took the roll of paper and prodded it down the hallway to the back of the house with the tip of my white-swathed boot, leaving Willy and J.P. behind.
    Past a communal bathroom and some disgorged closets, there were two bedrooms, both with lights on. One was obviously an adult’s—a woman’s clothing was strewn about; cosmetics, jewelry, and a hair dryer were scattered across a scarred bureau and a night table. The bed appeared permanently unmade, but