Shock made my knees weak. I fought my impulse to go to Andy, to go to Shelby. I couldn’t, mustn’t do that. Stepping foot into that room would contaminate the crime scene.
So I called out to my friend, “Andy. What happened here?”
Andy looked up at me, his round face pasty white, his eyes bloodshot, his wire glasses askew. His face and hands were bloody. His voice was tremulous when he said, “Someone killed Shelby. Shot her just like that. You’ve got to find out who did this, Jack. You’ve got to find the bastard who killed Shelby.”
With that, my best friend broke down and cried like a little boy. The tough thing-I’d seen Andy cry as a little boy too.
Chapter 3
I FELT THE floor shifting under me, but I knew Andy was counting on me to think straight for both of us. Having a clear head in an emergency, that was supposed to be my calling card. I was Jack Morgan, right?
I told Andy to stay put, made my way back out to the car, and returned with an MD 80, the best camera ever made for shooting crime scenes. It had night vision, GPS, and spoke in a dozen languages-should I ever need to be told I’d left my lens cap on in Farsi or Mandarin.
I snapped off a dozen shots from the bedroom doorway, captured every detail I could think to cover.
While I took the photos, I tried to imagine what could have gone on here during the actual murder.
Apart from the blood on the bed and on Shelby, there was no other obvious trace around: no spray or prints on the walls, or drag marks or drips on the floor. She had almost definitely been killed in her bed. I pictured Shelby cowering against the headboard as the intruder busted up the room. He’d forced her to lie still, hadn’t he? Then he shot her twice-in the chest and forehead. She had bled profusely from the terrible wounds, and then she had died.