“You know that,” she shoved out, hating that she cared an iota about his feelings.
Trent simply nodded.
“I didn’t get far either,” she started. “Four people between the three rooms, but the guy in seven saw a short, squat man hanging around in the parking lot yesterday afternoon. The two in room twelve couldn’t agree with each other, except for the fact they didn’t see any men. One of them insisted they saw a thin woman, while the other described her as obscenely overweight. They couldn’t agree on the time either but thought it was Saturday afternoon or evening—they couldn’t decide. The guy in room fifteen was too busy carrying on a conversation with his invisible best friend while I tried to get him to talk to me. Apparently, his friend saw a tall, lean man.”
Trent’s lips twitched as he resisted a smirk. “We’re not getting anything from these people. They don’t want to talk to the cops.”
“Safe to conclude, Captain Obvious.”
The sound of a vehicle coming into the lot took her attention. It was a van with Office of the Chief Medical Examiner stamped on the side.
“Look at the timing on that,” Amanda said. Though it would have been more ideal if they’d arrived already and had updates such as time of death, manner of death, and speculative cause of death so she and Trent could get on with their next order of business and dig into the last few hours of Palmer’s life.
As the ME parked, Amanda went over to Becky and got another pair of plastic booties for her shoes. Trent had probably stuffed the ones she’d given him into a pocket. Then they headed to Palmer’s room to check in with the crime scene investigators.
The smiley CSI was just inside the door working her magic with an apparatus that magnetically charged a sheet of mylar. The process would attract any dirt particles and, if there were shoeprints to find, make them plain to see. A forensic investigator once told her that shoeprints are almost as distinctive as fingerprints, each one unique. Numerous factors such as brand of footwear, weight of the wearer, gait of the wearer, history of the shoe made each sole different. Lifting prints in a place like this would be hell though. Amanda couldn’t imagine the cleaning staff was too thorough.
The investigator stood and smiled at Amanda and Trent. “Want back in?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Amanda replied, and the investigator stepped aside. “Actually, while I’m thinking of it,” Amanda started, “it might be a good idea if we collect the garbage outside the office too.”
The investigator poked her head out the door, followed the direction of Amanda’s pointing finger, and said, “You got it.”
“Thanks.”
Amanda and Trent put on their plastic booties and gloves and entered the room.
The slender and older CSI was taking Palmer’s fingerprints. Trent looked at Amanda.
“It’s procedure,” Amanda started, about to explain the CSI’s purpose for doing it.
Trent took over. “It’s to verify the deceased’s identity and it tells investigators right away if he has a history with the police.”
She’d obviously misread why he’d looked at her. Regardless, if Trent had been her pupil, Amanda might have patted him on the back and given him a gold star. But he wasn’t, and for some reason his knowledge and brown-nosing ticked her off.
“Did either of you find a duffel bag?” she asked, moving farther into the room. “Maybe in the dresser or the closet?”
“Not me,” the investigator near the door answered.
“Me neither, but CSI Donnelly’s been working on the room, while I’ve been tending to the deceased,” the slender CSI said, nodding toward the investigator who had been searching for shoeprints.
“Donnelly?” Amanda said. “I’m Detective Steele and this is Detective Stenson.”
“Nice to meet you,” Donnelly said.
“I know who you are,” the other CSI mumbled.
Amanda bristled. “I don’t know who you are.”
“Emma Blair.”
There was an electric charge to the air, far more powerful than any forensic apparatus could be, and Amanda wondered why Blair seemed so hostile.
“Some body called?”
Amanda turned and was pleased to see Hans Rideout. With numerous qualified personnel at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Manassas, a town about a half hour from Dumfries, it was a crapshoot as to who would be sent out. Rideout was one of the best. He had morgue humor down pat and, for a career built on death, he had quite the zest for life. In his forties with a full head of gray hair, he had deep smile lines around his mouth. Sometimes his cheeriness was almost too much to handle, but Amanda was more concerned by the fact he’d know who Palmer was to her.
“Hi,” Amanda said to him.