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under the effect of gravity—had fixed in a pattern known as postmortem lividity.  The staining was immutable once set.  Puzzled, I again glanced at the drag marks on the carpet.
    I took several more photos, then walked to the other side of the bed, avoiding the pool of blood.
    As Officer Rodriguez had indicated, Susan Larson had once been beautiful.  Now, shallow knife wounds marked her face and neck in a jagged pattern of slashes.  As I’d done with the husband, I folded back the covers, feeling a slight resistance from the crusted blood.  I inhaled sharply as the woman’s body came into view.
    Angry double arcs, the livid pattern of individual tooth marks easily visible, tattooed her upper torso.  Some had suck marks at the center; some did not.  Tissue was missing from several areas where the bites went clean through.  Deeper wounds, apparently made by a sharp-edged instrument, punctured her chest and abdomen.
    Like her husband’s, the woman’s hands had been bound.  They now rested at her sides, tags of rope still cutting into her wrists.  I checked under the bed.  Lengths of matching rope were tied to each of the roller posts, the ends now coiled on the floor like snakes.  Longer lengths lay on the bed between the bodies.
    I took one of the woman’s wrists in a gloved hand and raised it slightly, noting that rigor had begun.  As I replaced the hand, I noticed a series of crescent-shaped cuts on her palm.  I recognized them as self-inflicted fingernail wounds, indicating she had been alive—at least for at least part of it.
    I took several more shots with my camera, shielding myself from the horror by mentally ticking off future elements of the investigation:  Take saliva swabs and impressions of the bites.  Semen swabs, too.  If nothing else, they’ll help rule out the possibility of more than one killer.  There’s a lot of blood.  Maybe he cleaned up afterward.  Go through the bathrooms for blood and hair.
    Carefully retracing my steps, I backed from the room, passing an antique oak dresser on the way.  On top, beside the stump of a candle, sat the couple’s wedding picture.  The groom in the photo appeared nervous and uncomfortable in his tux, but the lens had caught his bride in a moment of unconcealed joy.  In her white satin gown, the woman in the silver frame bore little resemblance to the bloodied corpse on the bed.  Next to the picture I noticed a tightly rolled ten-dollar bill.  Using my flashlight, I illuminated the surface of the dresser, noting a fine dusting of powder.  A careless swirl of finger marks ran through it.
    The killer’s?  Or were the Larsons into cocaine?  Have SID check for prints and get an analysis on the powder.  Maybe there’s a drug connection.  Doubtful, but maybe.
    After an unproductive search of the master bath, I proceeded down the hall.  Along the way I inspected a small guest room, then a second bathroom displaying red smears on the toilet handle and tank.  Upon reaching the end of the hall, I stood outside the final room.  A sticker on the door proclaimed “Skateboarding Is Not a Crime.”
    I opened the door and stepped inside.  Toys and board games crammed the shelves of a bookcase to the right.  A clutter of clothes lay nearby.  Across from the door was a bunk bed.  On the lower mattress, hands folded peacefully across his chest, lay a young boy wearing blue fleece pajamas.  He appeared to be sleeping.  I looked closer.  A small black hole, as symmetrical as a ball bearing, marked the center of the child’s left temple.
    I crossed the hardwood floor, stepping over a bunched-up rug.  Leaning down, I examined the boy’s head wound.  Stippling, powder burns, and a circular tissue-tear bordered the hole, indicating that the muzzle of the gun had been near or touching the boy’s skin when fired.  No exit wound.
    Small caliber.  A twenty-two, maybe a twenty-five.
    Examining further, I found dark fibers imbedded in the skin