A/N: New chapter! Enjoy-and we love hearing from you!

The Day of Love and Friendship

Chapter 3

By the time the two men and three women came downstairs, Sara and Lissette had photographed every inch of the butcher shop, including the meat cooler and all the cabinets. Lissette had a basic fingerprint kit and they had used it until running out of lifting tape. Discovering an empty cash drawer probably meant someone had stolen money. Sara had wrapped the meat mallets in white paper, knowing bleach water had destroyed any evidence on the hammer end but thinking the handles might reveal fingerprints—or something.

The three women continued to cry and moan, upset about answering the simplest questions about the shop, turning to each other for comfort. The wife, a pale, thin woman wearing a dress that was too large and wrapped in a shawl, had noticeable abrasions on her face—from hitting her head on the counter when she'd seen her husband's body. The daughter had the youthful appearance of teenagers everywhere, wearing slim jeans, a pink shirt, attentive to her mother; her face swollen and streaked with tears. Sara's quick observations were of three distressed women yet the friend's face seemed to be the one in shock. The impression was a thought quickly forgotten as questions and talk spun in a dozen directions in the crowded shop.

Grissom carried several bags containing the bloody clothes of the wife and daughter; all three had said the wife had bent over her husband's body when she came into the shop and the daughter had tried repeatedly to stop her mother from hitting her head on the counter. They had been fingerprinted to rule out their prints from others found in the shop, especially the cash drawer and mallets.

Juan, who had a small notebook filled with his notes, finally suggested sending the women home with several neighbors, thanking them for their assistance and assuring the wife and daughter the police force would not stop until the killer was found.

The funeral home van arrived and two men zipped Alex Mincho, the butcher, into a body bag. Two other men arrived with pieces of corrugated tin to cover windows and doors.

Long after sunset, the group made their way to the police station; people crowded the streets but parted to make an eerily quiet path for them. The station, a blue painted building with several benches in front, consisted of two rooms, a closet-sized bathroom, and a long-ago closed in porch outfitted as a kitchen on the ground floor. Upstairs, according to Juan, were files and supplies and the chief's office.

The shock of the murder had ripped through the community as quickly as a tsunami with an odd reaction. When they arrived at the police station, they found food. A dozen foil-wrapped packages, bags of chips, fruit, and other containers had been left in the front room. A dozen or so people stood in a vigil of sorts across the street from the station.

When they entered, the woman at the front desk said, "At first I tried to refuse it, but people wanted to do something." Quietly, adding, "They want this person found. Everyone knows—knew Alex—he was a good man."

When one of the policemen said, "Let's eat," it did not take a second suggestion for all of them to realize a forgotten hunger as they opened packages, tore into foil-wrapped dinner plates, and gathered chairs around the table. It was during this impromptu dinner that Juan opened his notes and asked if they could work through what was known.

Sara and Lissette nodded, mouths filled with cheesy empanadas, and motioned for Juan to read notes.

Sara and Grissom glanced at each other realizing they had reviewed similar notes on dozens of cases in their past, knowing it was often one key piece that solved a crime.

The distraught women, wife, her friend, and the daughter, had readily talked about finding the butcher, an island born and skilled man, dead in the shop. The daughter had been the first, going in the back door and finding her step-father on the floor. She had called her mother; less than five minutes later, the mother and her friend had arrived.

"The friend—she is called Aurora—called me. She is separated from her husband and lives in the upstairs apartment. Maggie, the wife, and Aurora have been friends for years."

Sara asked, "What's the daughter's name?"

"She is Neva—works at one of the hotels. I know of her—she has a boyfriend who is married but separated from his wife." Juan shrugged as he said, "I think they all go to the same church."

He continued, occasionally reading his notes as he talked, "The daughter had worked at a hotel until mid-afternoon. The wife and her friend had eaten lunch with the—Alex—they talked about Aurora paying more rent if she was going to stay longer in the apartment. Then Alex had returned to work to get the shop ready for late afternoon shoppers. It's a one-man operation—the wife works in the morning for one of the tourists shops and usually helps out in the shop later. Her friend does sewing—like decorative stuff for tourists." He shrugged his shoulders, saying, "None of them could think of an enemy—anyone who would hurt him." Juan looked at Grissom, asking, "What else did they say?"

Pushing his empty plate away, Grissom said, "They were cooperative—we can check their workplaces but I think they were truthful about where they were prior to lunch. The daughter came in by the back door—didn't knock—and saw her father—her stepfather—she said that several times. She stayed near the door, called her mother who was there within five minutes." Grissom rubbed his hand across his face, his forehead puckered in a frown. He said, "When the wife arrived, she fell to her knees, lifted his head and got blood on her dress—we've got it and the daughter's shirt—when she got up, she began banging her head on the countertop."

Looking at each one around the table, he continued, "I don't understand that action—she bruised her face, has some scratches here and here." He pointed to his cheek and hairline. "Of all the things I saw and heard, her actions were strange to me—but maybe it is a way to show grief?"

Everyone murmured a puzzled response before Sara turned to the young policeman who had talked to the crowd outside, asking, "Tony, what did you learn? Anyone see anything?"

Tony's face broke into a quick smile then became serious. "We know Alex—everyone does. He is a deacon in his church—a good man. No one had any negative words—and no one saw anything or anyone." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small notebook, saying, "I took everyone's name that had anything to say—a few had been there when Juan arrived but they had not seen anyone running away."

Sara asked, "What do we do with the evidence? Fingerprints, the clothing, the meat mallets?"

As Juan was about to answer, the woman from the front desk arrived at the table with a laptop. She said, "The chief is here—on screen with WhatsApp to talk to you."

For the next hour, interrupted several times by a poor connection, each of the officers, Grissom and Sara related to the local chief what they had seen, heard, collected. At some point, the chief asked for the fingerprints, the clothing, and the mallets to be sent to Quito on a plane that left at dawn.

"I can get them to the state lab quickly—it will mean I cannot return tomorrow but the evidence will get top priority if I take it to the lab." On screen, the man smiled. "It is in good hands—this murder of our butcher! Dr. and Mrs. Grissom are well-known criminalists in the U.S., solving many crimes. Thank you for helping us!"

Sara was not certain when she had volunteered to be part of this investigation but the police chief showed unquestioned confidence in praising them. As if he'd read her mind, Grissom's arm went around her shoulders; his fingers squeezed her arm.

At that moment, the screen pixilated losing the chief's face and an instant later, his voice was gone. Several minutes passed before Juan's phone rang.

The chief, finishing up his call with instructions, gave more suggestions and directions and finished with "You will find this person—perhaps before I return. Dr. Grissom and Mrs. Grissom, thank you for being the expertos en delincuencia for us."

Juan showed relief that the burden of solving a murder had been passed to the Grissoms; he and the other officers expressed optimism as they packed everything collected into bags and envelopes. Lissette managed to send all the photos to the chief as Tony and Juan prepared to take the box filled with evidence to the airport.

"Go with us," Juan said to Sara and Grissom. "We will get you home in an hour—we can use blue lights to the airport but we have to drive slow—sometimes a tortoise goes to sleep on the road."

Sara decided she wasn't going to miss a trip like this. Laughing, she said, "Come on, dear—we don't want to miss this."

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