[center][h1][color=8882be]Ashley Gallagher[/color][/h1][/center]
[center][h2][color=8882be]Smith Residence[/color][/h2][/center]

Ashley had to admit, the way his mind instantly snapped into its analytical state as if this crime scene were any other twisted his gut, the villainy of perfunctory routine mixed with heart-deep horror he supposed. He tried not to think about the cold face under the white sheet and occupied his thoughts only with small choices, things he could break down, focus on.

Something lead him to the bedroom, bet it the investigation or simple sentiment. The room was untouched, clearly, the bedspread left disheveled from what was no doubt a sleeping Richard at some point. Ashley moved forward with a shuffled gait, listening to the brush of his shoe soles against the soft, beige carpet. It was soothing in a way, the rhythm of it. He moved until he felt the gentle bump of the bedside table against his upper thighs and reached out, cradling a picture frame in his hand.

The photo was not a display picture of a dog in a cowboy hat, it was not a false representation of happy suburban living, it was proof of it. The faces of a happy family stared back at him, taunted him. 

“Describe what we are dealing with, and I will help you with this case. I want to know everything.” 

It was with a shaking hand that Ashley set the photo back down, turning to look the very devil in the eye. “You look good, Calvin.” He offered, albeit satirically, though it was clear his heart wasn’t in the mockery. “You’re getting old.” He folded his arms, looking the man over. “You who they sent me to work with? They’re quick with replacements.”