“Looks that way,” Etta sniffed and pulled back. “He was poisoned, right? That’s the sign someone killed my baby?”
Flint surveyed the front lawn where no fewer than a dozen security guards stood around smoking cigarettes and talking like it was a family reunion and not a possible crime scene.
“Where is Killer now?” I asked.
“I didn’t touch him,” Etta pointed to the house. “And I wouldn’t let anyone in the house until you got here. I watch CSI. I know how y’all process a crime scene.”
I coughed. If this weren’t such a tragic situation, it would be funny. Everyone seems to think police crime scene investigators can turn around and solve a crime in 45 minutes. Little do they know about the backlog of DNA testing in this country. And the cases keep growing. In 2019, the backlog increased 85%, despite federal funding to ease the logjam.
Flint touched the small of my back. “Ms. Wilks, we’re going to search the house for clues, if that’s okay with you?”
Etta pulled a cigarette and lighter out of her bra. She took a long drag on the cigarette, then exhaled. “Fine by me. Maybe you could get these motherfuckers off my lawn before you go?”
I smiled, then strode over to the group of guards. “Gentlemen and ladies. I’m Celia Saber with Saber Security. We’ll take it from here.”
They gaped at me, then looked over my shoulder at what I can only assume was Flint’s best scowl, then the guards skedaddled.
I turned around to face Flint. “Saber CSI - reporting for duty.”
He snickered, turned on his heel, and we headed inside the house.
