The evidence was stark and slim.
A photograph of akimbo’d limbs against a whitened sky. A dark bird.
The detectives were at a loss, many losses, and uncertain of how to proceed.
They called in “the expert,” a wizened old crackpot retiree who still seemed to capture things no one else could.
He was sent for and trundled his bulk up the sidewalk later that day, grimacing and cursing his way to the station.
Huffing and grunting, he picked up the picture between leathered forefinger and cracked swollen thumb. He squinted.
“All I can tell you boys, is that it sho’ ain’t no murder. A murder involves always more than the one.”
N Filbert 2012
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