“I’m not sitting in here by myself.” I open my door too. “I’m not staying out here alone while you’re inside.”

“No wandering off anywhere,” Marino says.

He climbs out to greet four SWAT operators in full tactical gear. Their binocular night vision goggles are flipped up from battlewear helmets. Slung across their chests are M-4 assault rifles fitted with green lasers that are visible only in the infrared spectral range of light.

“Stick with me at all times,” Marino tosses back at me.

The team leader nicknamed Ajax is young and massively built. He’s attractive in a scary way, square jawed with cool gray eyes and short dark hair. I recognize the roundish patch on his right cheek, a healed penetrating wound possibly from frag or a bullet. He hardly looks at me as he hands Marino a black trash bag that has something thick inside it. There are none of the usual quips, none of the typical teasing and banter.

No one is smiling and the plan is simple. His team will clear the house making sure it’s safe while we hang back. This should take fifteen minutes depending on what they find, and we follow them to the entrance. We step over the single ribbon of yellow crime scene tape, and on the front porch Marino digs into a pocket for a key tagged as evidence. The security system begins to beep the instant he opens the door.

“That’s good at least,” he comments as the foul odor welcomes us back. “It doesn’t appear someone entered the house since we were last here unless the person has the alarm code.”

He shuts the front door behind us and it echoes solidly in a cool stillness punctuated by the tick tock of clocks. The four officers are nimble and light on their booted feet as they head down the central hallway and up the staircase, spreading out in pairs with weapons tucked in close and at the ready, leaving Marino and me alone. He sets down our scene cases. He opens the black plastic trash bag. He slides out folded tactical clothing that he stacks on the floor.

WATER SLOWLY DRIPS. Puddles begin to form around my sopping wet boots as I hover near the shut door. When we were here this morning I didn’t hear the clocks.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

I scan the upright stepladder, the dark dried blood we mapped with orange evidence flags that flutter slightly in chilled air blowing through vents. I listen to the dull patter of rain on the slate roof. I’m keenly aware of the clocks.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK