![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Acting like Chief of Police mixed with everything that would make someone say, "No shit, Sherlock!", Griffin stalks around, a pair of pliers in one hand and a notepad in the other, a pen hiding somewhere in his hair. Hanging over one shoulder is a messenger back, with who-knows-what inside.
While the murders only effected the one neighbor he might have exchanged ten words with in his lifetime, and another pseudo-Midwesterner, it's been enough to make Griffin feel a little on edge. Or, at least enough to want to do a little investigating of his own. Currently, he's kneeling on a huge oriental rug, ass high in the air and chest to the ground as he investigates a few threads on the rug.]
Huh. Blood...? Or, ketchup.
[Wouldn't you know it? He sticks his finger in it and tastes it, frowning.]
Damnit, i's ketchup.
While the murders only effected the one neighbor he might have exchanged ten words with in his lifetime, and another pseudo-Midwesterner, it's been enough to make Griffin feel a little on edge. Or, at least enough to want to do a little investigating of his own. Currently, he's kneeling on a huge oriental rug, ass high in the air and chest to the ground as he investigates a few threads on the rug.]
Huh. Blood...? Or, ketchup.
[Wouldn't you know it? He sticks his finger in it and tastes it, frowning.]
Damnit, i's ketchup.
