Writing Prompt Repost: Photographic Evidence

A repost from the original An Eighth Shot of Espresso blog on Wordpress.

Prompt: Write about a character who finds a family photograph in a crime scene. This item is one of the few clear pieces of evidence they're able to find-but what does it mean? What happened in the crime scene, and what does it have to do with the people in the photograph? Is this the breakthrough the character was looking for, or has the plot only thickened? (From 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writers Block by M. Kirin)

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A light smear of blood stained the photo. It gave a scarlet tinge to the black and white film, but I was still able to see every detail. Six people, three in the front and three in the back. Great-grandmother, grandmother and mother in the front, daughters in the back. All wore high-necked gowns with tight sleeves, their chestnut hair all coiffed to perfection. The youngest daughter in the middle of the back row was a full head shorter than the rest. Her eyes stared at the camera with a defiant fire.

The pure malice in those faces made me shiver again. None of them stood close to each other, as if they couldn't bear to share the same space. If there a group of women who disliked each other's company, it was them.

The forensic guys had pushed the ornate couches and chairs against the wall. Police tape cordoned off the area where the body had been found. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, but it wasn't enough to chase away the gloom. The Linderman Manor had been boarded up and closed off for decades. Rumor had it that ghosts haunted its halls.

I felt a prickling between my shoulder blades, but when I turned around, no one was there. All I heard were the sounds of the forensics team taking samples and measurements from the crime scene.

"The victim was a white female, approximately sixty to seventy years old. Five foot six feet, about one hundred and thirty five pounds. She was dressed in a floral print smock, with a yellow scarf in her hair and a pair of brown Birkenstocks on her feet. An early morning jogger alerted police to a broken window on the ground floor of the East Wing of Linderman Manor. Two policemen arrived on the scene to find the front, back and side doors firmly shut and all windows of the two floors boarded up, save for the window in question. They discovered the victim at the bottom of the spiral staircase, and alerted the station."

I grimaced as I went into the main hall. The victim, as she was described, lay motionless where she had fallen, with a white sheet draped over her. No blood anywhere near or on the corpse, nor on the stairs. She could have tumbled over the railing on the second floor.

I steeled myself as I knelt by her side and gingerly lifted the sheet from her face. Her features gave little clue as to her identity, at least until I compared them to the women in the photograph. It was a close match. The same scowl, heavy set brows, thin lips and narrow jaw.

I flipped the photo to the writing on the back.

"Harriet P. Linderman, aged 100, born May 5, 1883 and died May 7, 1983.
"Catherine Linderman-Passat, born December 19, 1903 and died December 22, 1942.
"Hannah Passat-Brunwell, born December 22, 1942 and died August 11, 1962.
"Eleanor, Cornelia and Rose Brunwell, triplets born on August 11, 1962 and all died on the same day, October 23, 1980."

The coroner had estimate the dead woman's age to be between sixty and seventy. The triplets had died almost forty five years ago, so she couldn't be one of them. Even if Hannah Passat-Brunwell was somehow alive, she would be almost eighty one years old now. So it had to be a relative, but not one of these women. The math didn't add up.

A cousin, perhaps. The woman had carried no identification, so until we tracked her next of kin, her name was a mystery.

"Who are you?" I asked aloud. I sighed and looked down at her face. "Whoever you are, I hope you rest in peace."

Quietly, I pulled the sheet over her face and stood up. Then I noticed faint writing in the lower right corner of the photo, easily missed in a casual glance. I had mistaken it as part of the photographer's mark.

I could barely make out the words: All gone. You're next.

I felt another prickling between my shoulder blades and looked up the staircase to the second floor landing. Suddenly, I was sure our killer was not an ordinary one.

Who are you? I thought.