He was the best. He was the one. The one you called when everyone else failed. He didn’t miss much if anything and even now his eyes shifted from one thing to the next, examining everything, the lifted up rug, the broken vase, the telephone hanging off the wall, all mental images stored in his forever box. Crime scene #345, he saved every one into his head like one massive computer with no delete button. From what he could tell the 40 year old balding man died struggling with his last breath to call for him. Judging from the bleeding his lungs had burst but there was no signs of a struggle. No sign of a forced entry, no this was a professional, the más had just finished his meal…

“Someone get that food tested at the lab, run it for every known and unknown poison, now!”

Yes, it clicked in his head like it always did, he was on to something.