#7 - Oh, Brother...

Click!
Blindness filled my vision for a split moment as the flash of white light illuminated the darkened scene.  My camera fell from my face slowly, the smallest of grins tugging at my cheeks. 
“Preston, we need more detailed photos of the crime scene.”
My superior, Mariah Pragg.  She was a no-nonsense cop with piercing eyes and lips like a constant lemon was held cradled within her teeth.  She watched me for a few moments with her intense, luminous gaze.
“Right,” I answered back quickly while taking a step away from my current focus.

Gore was all around me, threatening to cling itself to my shoes should I take a wrong step.  The body of a man was laid out upon the now reddened carpet, his face mostly unrecognizable due to several deep lacerations that decorated his lifeless, beaten face.  The rest of him was sprawled, likely from the struggle that ensued for his life.  Unluckily for him, those efforts went to an obvious waste.
This was just like any other scene that required my expertise, and yet I couldn't stop that smile from sneaking it's way upon my face.  I couldn't help it; this case was certainly different.
“Preston?” Pragg had called out at seeing my unmoving camera.
I shook my head. 
Can't lose my cool.
“Sorry,” I recovered quickly while bringing the eyepiece to my face.
Snapshot after snapshot was taken.  I wasn't really trying.  I just wanted to look like I was working to keep Pragg tamed. 

I leaned down, the weight of my camera stretching at the skin of my neck.  I snapped a few shots of the victim's face, attempting to capture each small detail of his mangled, broken face and body.  I always enjoyed this part the most.  It made me feel like the most important person of the entire scene, especially in a situation like this.  The remainder of the man's beaten facial features seemed surprised; he likely was struck from behind first and finished off from the front.  One intact eyeball was open wide and staring, currently straight at me.  The once-resisted smile resumed it's creeping journey across my mouth. 
“So what do you think about this man?”
That was the other person I knew.  Carl Frosten.  We had went to a bar one time and now he considered me his absolute best friend.  I wished I had never taken him up on his offer to drink.
“Young male, probably in mid-twenties,” I began ringing off the usual facts, “Likely struck from behind.  Would explain the way in which he fell.”
I showed him the detail of the way the body was lying while longing for him to leave me alone and go bother Pragg for a while. 
“Why you smiling for, anyway?” he inquired.
I didn't look at him.  I didn't want to give anything away in my face.
“Just interesting, I guess,” I said with a cool confidence. 
A beat of silence ensued.  I felt his presence lift from my side, followed by footsteps backing away from me.
“You know, you're weird sometimes man,” he called out, “Good thing you're on our side, huh?”
I gave him an absent wave without turning.  My eyes were focused upon the victim.  My smile never faded.
“All right crew, let's pack up,” Mariah's voice called out suddenly, “We're done here.  We'll let police deal with cleanup.”
With that, I hoisted myself to full height and turned away from the murdered man while forcing my face into a neutral position.  It was not an easy task to accomplish.  It isn't an everyday occurrence that one sees their own brother's bloody murder.