He wrote that down and underlined it twice.
"Here's where we are," he said, when I was done. "The lab says human. It doesn't say whose. The state crime lab can try to develop a DNA profile from the samples. The gut sheds cells, and sometimes you can pull a usable profile out of them, sometimes you can't. It's not like on television. It's degraded, it's messy, it takes weeks even when they put a rush on it, which they're doing, because it's a felony with a paper trail and the sheriff has a dog." He smiled slightly. "Then we need something to compare it to."
"You could ask her for a swab."
"I did," he said. "Yesterday. Her lawyer called me back in forty minutes and declined on her behalf. Which is her right." He tapped his pen on the pad. "So we'll do it the old-fashioned way."
"Which is?"
"Trash day in Heron Bend is Thursday, isn't it?"
I looked at him. "You're going to go through her garbage."
"Once a bag's at the curb, Mrs. Kowal, the Supreme Court says it's abandoned property. Anybody can take it. Raccoons, scavengers, nosy neighbors." He finished his coffee. "Me."
"Is that what detective work is? Garbage?"
"About ninety percent," said Detective Amberley, standing up and brushing a little shepherd fur off his trousers. "In this case, maybe a little more."