Small, orange, numbered evidence flags—eighteen of them so far—were laid out on the coffee table and the floor around the body, each one marking a potential piece of evidence for the corporal taking photographs: a blood spatter, a deep indentation in the carpet, a bloody fingerprint on the coffee table, a pipe wrench. Dupree grabbed an orange-flagged pylon. “It’s clear to me now, Mrs. Stanhouse.” He held it up. “Your husband was killed by a very tiny slalom skier.”
