“What do we know about the residents?” she asked.

“Single family. Mom, dad, three kids. Second marriage for both, so not sure yet whose kids were whose. Patrick Harrington would be head of household. Date of birth nineteen sixty-eight. Recently unemployed. Had been working for a local hardware store, but it went out of business.”

“When?” D.D. squatted to study the area rug under the table. Neutral beige; it appeared recently vacuumed. Freshly swept porch, newly vacuumed rug. She added clean freak next to patriotic on her mental list of household traits.

“Couple of weeks or so. Neighbor said the couple bought the whole place at a foreclosure auction eight months ago. They planned on fixing it up, using his skills and employee discount, no doubt, then they’d live in part, rent part. They just got the downstairs completed, however, when, boom, he lost his job. Goodbye, hourly wage. Goodbye, employee discount.”

“Hello giant mortgage with no rental income,” D.D. finished for him.

“Yep. Had to suck.”

“So couple’s stressed.” D.D. straightened up. “What did she do?”

“Denise Harrington worked as a receptionist at a dentist’s office. Mrs. Nancy Seers, lives across the street, said Denise got off work by three each day so she could meet the kids’ bus. That was a priority.”

“Ages?”

“Ummm …” Phil flipped through his notes. “Nine, twelve, and fourteen. Boy, girl, boy.”

D.D. nodded, turned away from the table, and headed back into the kitchen. A frying pan remained on the stove. Smelled like olive oil and chicken grease. Next to it was a giant pot, like the kind used for corn on the cob or pounds of pasta. More signs of meal prep on the counters: a half-used head of lettuce, bag of carrots, partly sliced cucumber.

She looked for additional beer cans, finding three more in the trash. She opened the refrigerator, found it fairly loaded—proof of recent grocery shopping?—with the usual assortment of bread, eggs, lunch meat, produce, and mystery meals in Tupperware. The refrigerator door yielded two dozen condiments and a half-consumed bottle of Cavit pinot grigio. No more beer. So, assuming that a six-pack had been purchased, then all six beers had been consumed.

But six cans of Bud split between two grown adults? Or even mostly consumed by one? Not enough for a drunken rampage. She didn’t buy it.

Jack McCabe from the ID unit had entered. He looked at the food-covered counters, sighed heavily. “It’s been photographed?” he asked.

“It’s been photographed,” Phil assured him.

Jack sighed again. D.D. didn’t blame him. Processing this scene would be painstaking and, most likely, unproductive. But you had to do what you had to do.

“Start with the knife,” she told him.

“There isn’t a knife,” Jack said, staring at the counter.

“There has to be some kind of knife,” D.D. said, gesturing at the sliced cucumber.

“Oh, there’s a knife,” Phil said.