Two men made way inside the hotel. They were detectives, dressed in slacks and snugged top-shelf suits.
The senior, Bradley was accompanied by his junior, Smith. A hotel homicide with one known suspect. The tight-squared hotel room besmirched in blood.
"God damn.." muttered Bradley, as he shut his nostrils closed.
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His partner did the same, as he observed the room. He noticed the dark painted bullet holes and the discolored bed from the victim.
"Let's go," commanded Bradley, with Smith following close suit.
With closer inspection, they noticed a silvered gun glittering under the shriveled bed. Smith with gloves on, gingerly raised the gun.
He read the serial number and wrapped it in a bag, writing and taping a card onto it. "Who's gun?" Bradley called to Smith.
Smith handed the bag to Bradley. "We don't know yet, sir, but we'll find soon enough." Bradley sighed with gruff.
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Besides the bullets etched burning into the patterned rose-gold walls and gun, it was all insufficient evidence.
Bradley and Smith conscientiously explored the room again, searching every crack and hole. However an envoy came and called to them.
Saying the suspect had been identified, and they were now to search his residence. "Sir, you almost done?"
Smith called to Bradley, standing beside the door. "Hold on," he replied, digging deep under the bed frame.
Bradley hands crawled around, though only finding dust and scraps. He sighed and left with his partner, traversing to the residence.
It was a small apartment, resting on the second floor. Wooden tiles placed under their feet, and unkept piles of eaten dishes ands other necessities.
Bradley crossed to the kitchen and found more dirty dishes, piled onto each other and some still decked with fooding.
He ordered Smith to take left; where two doors lay marched. Bradley spanned along the crowded apartment, lumbering around creased clothing.
