Brian Zeller

Brian Zeller crouched beside the body, not touching it until he'd taken a few photographs. In the lab, it all started with small details: the direction of a splash, the position of a finger, a barely noticeable fiber on a sleeve. The body didn't lie—only those who jumped to conclusions did.

"Body temperature?" he asked, reaching for the thermometer.

“About thirty-five,” Jimmy answered.

Brian frowned and glanced at the thickly curtained window. The room was cooler than outside, meaning his time of death needed adjusting.

He carefully removed a light-colored fiber from the victim's collar with tweezers and placed it in a bag.

"Everyone looks at the blood," Zeller muttered. "And the killer leaves himself where no one wants to look."

He stood up, glanced at his colleagues and added:

— Pack everything. Even what looks like trash. Especially what looks like trash.