“Why would she not finish her beans?”

All the officers turned around, staring at me with silent disbelief.

“Wh...why would you say that?” The police officer beside me mumbled, horrified and refusing to meet my eye.

“No, no, uhh... I didn’t mean for it to sound like that,” I quickly backtracked, face glowing red in embarrassment.

“I mean, if you were going to kill yourself, would you bother cooking? Look, it’s still lukewarm,” I said, dipping my finger straight in the bowl on the bedside table.

I glanced around, before awkwardly wiping the sauce on my trousers. It left an orange smear against my light grey jeans and I began regretting my existence. The chief silently passed me a handkerchief and I muttered a thanks, the entire room staring as I rubbed the sauce further into my trousers.

A cough brought the attention away from me as the photographer entered the room. Humming, I walked to the window and looked out. The crime scene was gruesome, much more horrific than anything I’d seen for a while. It was a woman in her 60’s, her neighbours calling the police after hearing screams. On first glance, it appeared like a violent suicide. Deep slashes up her arms, slashes on her legs, with the finale of a knife to the heart. Blood soaked bedsheets. Nasty.

I was hesitating though. I had no doubt that it could be a suicide, but something didn’t add up. It was the beans. My brain was fixated on the beans.

“God, imagine being that determined to die. She must have had so much adrenaline to do all that,” an officer spoke aloud.

“It seems almost too much, you know? Detective, is there anything suspicious?” Another chimed in, staring at my jeans. “Apart from the .... beans?”

Nervously clearing my throat, I walked up to the corpse.

“I mean, there are all signs it’s a suicide. Victim has antidepressants in the bathroom cupboard, we’ll need someone to follow up on her psychiatric history. If you look at the arm...” I awkwardly leaned over.

“Look, hesitation marks. You know... more shallow ones before the deeper, more fatal ones. Getting used to it, that’s why. Dipping your toe in before jumping in. It’s the type of thing you don’t know about unless you’ve seen it before, and almost impossible to fake. No, I’m almost a hundred percent sure these cuts were all self inflicted. The knife placement seems in line with self inflicted, based upon the placement versus the hand.”

I made a stabbing motion, mimicking what I thought had happened.

“The knife handle being that way round suggests right handedness, which I presume she was, because of the way her bedside table is laid out. Again, just a presumption, I’m not as certain about the final stab at this moment. Because something...something doesn’t seem to add up.”

The officers in the room had stopped talking amongst themselves, instead listening to my verdict. The click of the camera was loud and noticeable.

“The beans are warm, right? Well, more lukewarm. If you look at the body, its still warm but it’s starting to stiffen. The beans can’t have been heated longer than maybe fourty five minutes ago, probably less, yet the body looks to be more around the three hour mark. It’s not exceptionally warm here, so rigor mortis isn’t being accelerated. My only explanation is that the beans have to have been cooked after this woman died. Which then creates the question, who cooked the beans and why? Why were they here, where are they now, and did they have anything to do with this woman’s death?”

The camera stopped clicking, the photographer staring at us in confusion, before returning to their job.

“No disrespect detective, but the neighbours clearly said they heard screaming at 1:37 pm. It’s 2:43 pm now. What you’re suggesting is preposterous!” The chief spoke indignantly. “You said it yourself, the wounds are self inflicted!”

I rubbed my neck, suddenly very clammy.

“The body has to be three hours old, sir.” I pulled some disposable gloves on and attempted to open the woman’s mouth.

“See? Rigor mortis has begun to set in. The body can’t be fourty five minutes old, it’s impossible.” Shrugging, I pulled my gloves off and disposed of them.

“So what were the screams the neighbours heard?”

“Either the person who cooked these beans, or they’re bluffing.”