Death was on an old bathroom floor that hasn't been renovated since the 1960s fighting off the rigor mortis. Dr. Ariel Rivera didn't know how it got there, but she was determined to find out. She pushed back her hair and touched the surface of the body with her gloved finger tips.
There was an orange light that circled the room like a buzzard over its prey. Ariel noticed it when she walked into the bathroom, but ignored it because of the body of a 63 year old woman. She had a toothbrush shoved in her neck and bruises beneath her eyes. The woman's face had the gleam of a highly Windex glass. Very shiny and squeaky clean.
The orange light reached Ariel just enough to cast her shadow on the bathroom fixtures. Each time a detective walked by it interrupted the shadow that was cast.
“Time of death?” asked a detective as he stood next to Ariel Rivera.
“A couple of days,” she answered. “She was punched several times in the face and then someone shoved that toothbrush into her neck causing her to bleed out.”
“Was she killed here?” asked the detective.
“Yes,” she answered as she pointed to the blood that accumulated under the toilet and the baseboard heater against the lower part of the wall.
After the detectives surveyed the room they came to a conclusion that the old woman wasn't robbed. Her valuables were still intact.
"What do you make of this situation?” The detective asked.
“I don't know,” Ariel replied stepping back from the body and removing her gloves. “Someone just didn't like her.”
The detective grimaced.
“Maybe the person who did this was so attracted to death, he killed her just to find out how it feels.”
“Do you think he enjoyed it?” he asked.
Ariel looked around the bathroom and then at the woman on the floor. “He didn't hate it.”
Dr. Ariel Rivera walked out of the bathroom and slowly paced herself until she was outside. She started walking through the yard. The rain had stopped, and the cool breeze took control. The moon came out of hiding from behind the clouds. She looked down and saw footprints leading into the neighbor's yard.
“Detective,” she called.
He came out and stood beside her.
“Footprints,” she pointed. “The rain left it for you to follow. They are not fresh, and I would say if you follow it, you'll find a witness or the killer at the end of it.”
He swallowed hard.
© 2017 Frank Atanacio