I glance around. “Pretty messy,” I say. Chase trails behind me, taking in the scene.

“Yeah. The wife said they had a party last night. The husband’s birthday.”

I wince. Killed after your own birthday party. That sucks. “That’s too bad. He out in the garage?”

“Follow me.” Susan Gaines and I have been in this line of work over thirty years. We both fought our way through our rookie days when law enforcement was basically a boys’ club. Then she left for medical school, only to return to work in the criminal justice system. She and I get together occasionally for a beer and laugh about the old days and try to forget about the struggles.

The team is working the scene, and we weave around them and their equipment. I shout a hello here and there as we pass. They’ve taped off a path of well-trodden snow that leads across the yard. The sun’s shining, and their evidence is literally melting before their eyes, so they work quickly. There’s a side door in the building that had been described as a garage, but there are no cars in here. Chase and I pull on gloves and booties. The little building has all the appearance of a home office. Big desk covered in folders. A calendar with a mountain snow scene tacked on the wall, open to January. A dirty window that lets in weak sunlight. A coffee mug next to a Keurig that sits atop a filing cabinet next to the desk. Blood is drying in a big dark puddle around the body that used to be Dr. Jay Bradley.

“They find the murder weapon?” I ask Susan.

“Don’t think so. There was nothing in here, but they’ve bagged up all the knives in the house.”

I step over to the vic and drop down on my haunches. His head was nearly severed. The wound is wide and ugly. I peer up at Susan. “He was killed here, right?” Blood spatter from his severed artery decorates a nearby wall. Chase is coughing and clearing his throat behind me. “Check the desk,” I tell him, and he moves back and away from the body.

“Yeah. Looks like.” Susan drops down next to me. “The wound would’ve been quickly fatal.” She points with her pen. “No defensive wounds apparent. But I’ll know more after I get him back to the lab.” She stands and heads outside.

I walk through the room, circle back to the filing cabinet. One drawer is pulled halfway out, and there are bloody smears near the handles. It looks like the perp wore gloves. There are also scratches near the lock. I pull out my phone and snap pictures. “The lock has been jimmied.”

“What?” Chase says.

“The lock on the cabinet is broken.” The first drawer yields what looks like research notes, old school-type papers. I lean over and check the bottom drawer. It’s also crammed with odds and ends, news clippings and articles cut from magazines.