When he had coordinated everything, he withdrew the list of evidence for the deceased. He skimmed through the notes he’d read a thousand times and moved on to photos of the crime scene. There was blood spatter in the dining room from where Emily was first attacked. The blood trail went up the stairs as she tried to reach the guns in the bedroom. The lower walls were splayed with blood halfway up from the severed artery in her leg. Isaac skipped over the dozens of photos of Emily, unable to stomach the sight anymore. He glanced over the photos of shell casings, his, and the bullet hole in the wall. He finally studied the photos of the shattered living room window and accompanying blood stains. “So damn close….”
Past that shattered window, the Bobbit Rock loomed in the woods.
The pinky and ring finger of the suspect had been recovered from the scene. Isaac stared at the photo of the severed appendages with grim satisfaction. There were no matches for the fingerprints, of course. No matching DNA either. The suspect was either a first time criminal, a mastermind or a ghost. Finally came the police sketch. Isaac bored his eyes into the man who killed his wife and unborn daughter. For a moment, he was sure the sketch would burst into flames from the burning rage he cast upon it. But it didn’t, the killer just stared back, unblinking. Nobody outside close friends even seemed to care about Emily’s death. In murder town, who cared if a pregnant woman got stabbed in her own home? It made 15 seconds on the nightly news, which had to make room for the other murders that day.
“I am going to find you. You son of a bitch!” Isaac vowed.
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