“It’s subtle, but you can just see the scratches here.”
Ty crouched down, examining the minute signs of lock picking Joel Fisher pointed at with a pencil. “That’s the only signs we’ve got?”
The detective straightened, crossing his arms. “There’s a partial footprint by the back fence, but with all the rain we had a couple days ago, any tread is entirely obscured. We can’t even get a good estimate on size. Only prints on the door are Miss Parish’s. Officers canvased the neighborhood, but nobody reported seeing anything.”
“Maybe there will be something more inside. You haven’t been in?”
Tall, with a rangy build and a craggy face that spoke of a lot of time outdoors, Fisher shook his head. Ty pegged him around mid-forties, though the job had added some years to that.
“Wanted to wait on Mi
