Gemotions

The detective's voice droned on, a monotone recital of bullet trajectories and blood spatter patterns. John listened, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm on the worn wooden table.

He pictured the previous tenant – a gangster named "Fingers" – having his last meal in this very room, the one he was now making his morning coffee in.

"So, he was… taken care of here?" John asked, a grin stretching across his face. It was far more entertaining than the history of the house, which the real estate agent had made out to be quite dull. He leaned back, a genuine smile forming.