He moved the flashlight side to side, slowly moving forward... following the steady rhythm of blood drops on the pavement accompanied by gobbets of flesh that appeared from time to time, at the edges of horizontal swings of the body as the murderer swayed his booty. The fog was getting heavier: as long as it didn't turn to rain, he could continue to follow the path left by the killer.
He just knew he was following a path. Who the victim was, was unknown to him; killed by whom, he did not know; where this path would take him, he had yet to discover. Just his luck to be following such a path while a lunar eclipse was happening. Blood in the sky, blood underfoot. The air was thick with the smells of the city: motor car exhaust, industrial chemicals, squashed worms on the road after a heavy rain. Just as well. It helped to mask the smells of the murder he was following.
He stopped, and shone his flashlight on a hunk located on the pathway. It was the forefinger and thumb from a right hand, still joined together. So relaxed, now that tendons couldn't be holding them tight against whatever foe they were fighting. And such a delicate hand they came from. Her manicure was beautiful. A sea-shell pink nail polish finished the look, now too, too, pink for such whitened, drained fingers. Alas, it's a lass.
He straightened his back and reached into his right pocket for his cigarettes. This wasn't going to be easy. It never was, when they were as young as his daughter. He always wanted to think of her as grown-up and independent, but cases like this always drove her back to childhood in his mind. And made him feel vulnerable.
The smell of the match changed the night for him. It stopped being Hallowe'en, and became just another night of investigation. Standard procedures to be followed. Leads to be developed, people to be questioned. Paths to be followed. First of all, paths to be followed, in spite of the moon, in spite of the fog, in spite of the desire to go home and call his daughter.