30 Days of Night: Light of Day by Jeff Mariotte Page A

to experience the crime scene with every sense, but Alex figured trained crime scene investigators could go in with electronic sniffers if there were particular odors that needed to be isolated. He was all for crime scene preservation, but he wanted to preserve his own sanity as well.
    There wasn’t much to see outside. The complex’s grounds were sparsely landscaped, pebbled walkways flanked here and there by low, carefully trimmed shrubbery. An eight-foot-high concrete wall interspersed with randomly placed frosted glass bricks surrounded the building. Alex tried to see out through one of the bricks but only vague patches of dark and light were visible on the other side, no detail. Over the top of the wall was the windowless brick facade of some other building. When the resident stepped out of her apartment, she would have seen stone and concrete and brick, plane upon plane, but unless a bird happened by she would have felt utterly cut off from sentient life. It seemed like a sterile existence, but then Alex preferred woods and leathers and fabrics, materials that created a sense of life.
    Of course, the apartment’s resident no longer fell into that category herself. Alex swung back around to the door. He couldn’t delay going in any longer.
    Larissa waited in the doorway, helping herself to some last breaths of fresh air. As soon as Alex joined her he caught a whiff of the sour/sweet smell of death and the sharper-edged tang of blood, in spite of the Vicks. “Let’s have a look,” he said.
    The victim’s name was Chantelle Durfey. A single woman, she worked in an administrative office at the university and had a weekend job at a bookstore nearby. From the looks of things, she spent most of her money on renting her nice apartment and not much on furnishing it. Alex would have been willing to accept that she just had a minimalist sense of style that went along with the sterile construction of her building, but the arms of her sofa were worn, the slipcover stained. She had an old TV and a boom box instead of a stereo system, both sitting on cheap composition-board cubes. Another cube, stacked high with hardcover books, served as a coffee table. Curtains blocked off a floor-to-ceiling window that would look out at the same wall he had seen from outside. A leather purse had been tossed to the floor, open, its contents scattered.
    Across a serving bar was a modern kitchen, appliances chrome and black, floor tiled in black and white. Chantelle was crumpled on those tiles with drying blood pooled around her. Her skin was pale, her hair red and curly, her clothing intact but drenched in blood. Alex took latex gloves from his pocket and put them on with a snap. Larissa watched him, then sighed audibly and put on her own.
    “We should make sure the CSIs look around outside,” Alex said. “The way I see it going down, someone waited out there, where no neighbors could see. Maybe just around the corner from her doorway. She came home from a late shift and the perp came up behind her, forced her in, then opened her up in the kitchen. Right?”
    “Maybe,” Larissa said. “You read that new report the government put out? Forensic science has about as much validity as astrology, sounds like. Except for DNA, most new developments don’t actually work, or at least not as advertised. And there’s a huge discrepancy between one lab and another. Maybe if you look in her eyes you’ll see the image of her killer captured there.”
    “I saw a story about the report,” Alex said. He knew Larissa didn’t put much stock in forensic science, and figured she would bring it up as soon as the opportunity arose. “Still, they’ve got those eagle eyes. If someone waited out there they’ll be able to find traces.”
    “And then screw up the evidence before they get to court.”
    “They’re not that bad.”
    “Individuals aren’t that bad. As a class …”
    Alex crouched beside Chantelle Durfey, wanting Larissa to drop the