Now the blood was on both Hansen’s legs, the left sleeve of his shirt, and the bottom of his shoe.
“Son of a bitch.” He kicked the man’s body, knowing full well he couldn’t get into the rental car covered in the blood of his murder victims. Hansen kicked off his shoes, careful to sidestep the mess. Moving through the house as though he belonged, he went into the kitchen. With the gloves still on he didn’t care what he touched. Grabbing the towel off the fridge door, he opened the cupboard under the sink. Not seeing any fresh rubber gloves, he dug out a plastic grocery bag. Taking it along, he went down the hallway directly to the end and the master bedroom. Using the towel, he clicked on the light and went into the closet. He pulled out a dark pair of dress pants and a black shirt. Hansen had a new appreciation for dark clothing.
Dressed in the dead man’s clothes, he slipped his soiled ones into the plastic bag. Returning to the closet, he dug out a pair of wing tips, unfortunately one size too small, but they’d have to suffice. Cramming his feet into them, he left them untied. He looked back to make sure he left nothing behind, then returned to gather his bloody shoes from the living room and noticed his own red footprints from his stocking feet. Not that it mattered now, as long as he didn’t carry it into the car.
Satisfied he had everything, Hansen turned out the lights and left through the backdoor, checking that the neighborhood was quiet before darting across the street and into the rental car.