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This is another entry in the Flash-Friday-Vol 2-15 weekly contest based on the below photo and the directive to use a detective somewhere in the story. Also, note, I originally had the title “brb,” but have changed it to what it is now. I prefer this one.

Shoes

Blood was everywhere. Well, I guess it’s always everywhere, pulsating beneath our opaque skin, bubbling against the seams. In this particular case, it was splattered on the walls, the ceramic toilet, the tile floors and the shower curtain with the rubber ducks.

Detectives always muse that their last case is the worst case they’ve ever fielded. Most detectives are bullshitting you, though, because they want to seem important.

I’m not lying when I say that this was the worst case I’ve fielded. You can trust me. No, really.

The back of the dad’s head had flaps on the left and right side and brain goo seeping out. Magnum blast. Burned barrel marking on his forehead next to a Revlon “Really Red” kiss smear. High-heel imprints in the blood. Perfume aroma.

His son, the killer, took the bus. I know all of these things because I am him. I am a good detective.

I told you it was my worst case.

death

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