Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page A

camera.
    “Evidence marker B,” she called out as she
kneeled down and put the viewfinder back to her eye. “Men’s wallet,
floor, mid-range. Fifty millimeter, strobe.” The flash popped
again, and she continued. “And, forty-nine. Marker B, wallet,
floor, close-up. Fifty millimeter, strobe.”
    I backed out of her way as she stood, but I
continued scribbling the notes she had dictated.
    “Got it,” I finally said.
    “All right then,” she replied absently as she
inspected the top display on the camera then deftly ejected the
flash memory card and handed it to me. Once she had popped in a
fresh card, she looked up and handed me the small protective case.
“That’s it for the main room. Let’s move to the back.”
    Thus far, the process had been nothing more
than routine. Admittedly, since this was a homicide crime scene,
and with knowing that the victim’s body was awaiting us in the next
room, it lent a surreal quality to each shot taken; but even that
didn’t prevent it from approaching abject boredom.
    Still, I had to say I was more than just
slightly impressed by my wife. With every passing moment, she was
demonstrating just exactly how much of a pro she truly was. Even
though she had never said exactly how well she did in the courses
she had taken, I was willing to bet she had aced them. Watching her
now, if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn she’d been doing
this job for years.
    “Rowan,” she asked, looking up at me. “Are
you okay?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine,” I returned with a shrug.
“Why?”
    “You’re kind of quiet.”
    “Just tired,” I replied, not wanting to
embarrass her here with a gush of praise. I’d wait until we were
alone for that.
    “No headaches then?”
    Her query suddenly made more sense. “No.
Nothing to worry about,” I answered then added as an afterthought,
“Yet.”
    “Aye, yet. That’s what I’m afraid of,” she
replied with a sigh then after a brief pause, cocked her head
toward the back of the room. “Come on, then.”
    “I’m gonna go ahead and get a coupl’a guys
started on this stuff out here,” Murv told us.
    “Sounds good,” Felicity replied. “We’ll be
another half hour, maybe forty-five minutes, back here.”
    “That’ll work,” he answered. “Take all the
time ya’ need. By the way, rumor has it the Feebs are on their
way.”
    “That was quick,” I offered.
    “Storm wanted ‘em in the loop,” he replied to
my unasked question. “Federal judge, all that jazz.”
    As crime scenes go, Ben’s assessment had been
for the most part correct, up to and including the fact that
Felicity and I had both seen much worse. For instance, when you’ve
viewed the remains of one of your friends who’d been eviscerated by
a madman, you’ve pretty much pushed the envelope.
    Still, even though the horrific visions of
that, and other things I’d witnessed, would never be completely
erased from my mind, they had at least dulled with time.
Unfortunately, that familiarity had also served to desensitize me
to the offensive sights, or so I had come to believe. The simple
fact was that there were even times when I found myself wondering
about my own capacity for compassion after everything I’d seen.
    On this particular morning, however, upon
reaching the doorway of the bathroom, it became painfully apparent
that not stopping and grabbing a quick bite for breakfast had been
a wise choice.
    As we had worked the main portion of the
room, moving systematically around the clock face just as Felicity
had prescribed, we had made sure to include the dressing area just
outside the bathroom door. But my wife had been doing the actual
shooting, not me. Since the area was too small for the both of us,
I had remained back and out of the way in order to allow her ample
space to work. Because of that, I was only just now witnessing the
abomination that had been patiently waiting.
    Maybe it was the fact that it had been two
years since I’d been directly