We had 30 clues and 30 parts, here's what we ended up with:

Death is a convenient way to end a story, but it is also a compelling beginning for someone else.

The blood is red when it's drawn, brown when it dries and something like a sour burgundy in between. The patterns of the spray on the stone floor were layers of three: brown, red, burgundy, but mostly brown.  Brown patterns, curled up on each other in flowers and dots against the dust gray stone.

It wasn't actually stone, but gray tile--once polished--made to look like granite and pasted over cement. Wasn't that silly? To produce a facsimile of rock just to cover up rock? But such was the NYC subway system. We have whole collections of stuff to cover up the living organs of this reclaimed swamp.

"When did he die?" Jimmy hovered over my shoulder, nervous because he was not supposed to let me into crime scenes. Not anymore anyway.

“I would think how is slightly more relevant,” I replied. Especially since some of the blood was still wet. Shouldn't time of death be obvious?

“I am hoping against hope that you don't actually know how he died. The man looks like he exploded, anyone who knows anything about this is a sick puppy.”

“Woof,” I flashed him a look and a smile over my shoulder. Despite the mess none of the blood spatter patterns left the gray section of tile. The green borders that carved the platform up into boxes and lined the bright textured yellow edges were completely untouched. The fluorescent lights above us flickered nervously as I touched the skin of the dead man's cheek. No gloves, the way I need to, and the way Jimmy hates. In a few hours they would pull my prints off the body and Jimmy would get chewed out for letting me in. But that is worth the risk if I get what he needs.

I felt a shiver run through me as the scene unfolds: visions shimmering and withering like a faint mirage around me. Unfortunately for us all, I recognized the killer immediately. Even though his victim did not get a clear look at him, it was enough for me.

I looked around the station: the wooden benches, the lone pay phone, mosaics in blue, green, taupe, and yellow, the small magazine stand next to the exit. Above our heads one of the street corners had been vandalized by “Ken” who carved patterns into the cement with a stick. I noticed it on the way down. On the walls I could still see images of our killer and ... silvery silhouttes of ... a student in heels, brown portfolio, black purse. A dumpster diver in a backwards baseball cap and two old ladies standing scandalized as they watch him from a white and black horizon line.

These seemed like odd scenes, certainly not imagery you want to memorialize, but they fit so perfectly with the flickers of violence dancing in my head. And this was the game:  I tell Jimmy what happened.  Jimmy, the consummate professional, points out the forensic evidence that supports that. From our duet a macabre narrative springs forth, and from that arrests are quietly made, bad guys quietly put away. Or that's the theory anyway.

But this time I said something else, because this wasn't a mugging gone wrong or a crime of passion, or even a serial killer.  It was different.

"This isn't someone you can arrest," was what I said.  "So maybe this case is better left cold."  Funny thing to say, the body was barely cold.

"What is it? The Angel of Death?" he laughed, but paled a little when I said: "You're close." I studied the mosaic "P" on the wall to avoid his scrutiny.

"Well we can't just throw out the case.  Is this ... I dunno ... someone else's jurisdiction?  Something your family takes care of?"

From a normal person standpoint it was kind of an absurd question, there is no supernatural interpol.  No such thing could possibly exist. From another standpoint he was exactly right, this is exactly what my family does.  Mostly in Europe...

Clues still unsolved:

Aug 29th: Orange flags on Greene. Look down (3)

Aug 30th: Find Bowser on Bayard St (9)