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The patrol officers had left the front door open. They thought they were doing her a favor, airing the place out. But that was a violation of crime scene protocol regarding evidence containment. Bugs could go in and out. Touch DNA could be disturbed by a breeze through the house. Odors were particulate. Airing out a crime scene meant losing part of that crime scene.
It was Monday morning , her first shift of a week running solo , and Ballard knew she would need to get at least one more wear out of her suit and possibly two . That meant not fouling it with the stink of decamp.
She thought she picked up the slight odor of decomposition and death but couldn’t be sure if it had permeated her clothes or was simply an olfactory memory.
The man who was checking the cabinets seemingly at random had gray hair and a mustache.
A runaway. Name was Daisy. She was fifteen and putting it out on the street. Sad case.