“I will not speak to you without exercising my right to speak to counsel. And neither will my father.” The lids of Harry Owen’s brown eyes were swollen. Had he been crying? Or had he been using drugs?

“I understand, Mr. Owen. But there are a few—”

“I will not speak to you, Detective—” there was a slight emphasis on ‘Detective’, “—until I have spoken to counsel. And nor will my father.”

Mel Owen now watched them, his lips pursed. But he said nothing.

“Understood.” Cooper’s tone was polite, but firm. “We require your presence and your father’s at 11 a.m. tomorrow at the station.”

“I will see if my lawyer is avail—”

“Mr. Owen. We are investigating a major crime. One of the suspects is still at large and could be a threat to the public. You understand that your assistance is vital to this investigation.”

Harry Owen’s mouth tightened. He knew that the media would slaughter him if he, a member of the national public safety committee, failed to assist the police. “I understand, Detective. I will see you at 11 a.m.”

“Thank you, Mr. Owen.” Cooper turned away and spotted the white coat of the Medical Examiner. Detective MacLeod led the ME to the bedroom at the back of the house. Cooper glanced around. No sign of Homicide yet. He wouldn’t be treading on any toes if he checked things out.

As soon as he entered the bedroom of Harry Owen’s parents, his nose was hit by the smell of fear. Sweat, urine, blood.

Death.

A king-size bed dominated the room. The top sheet—in a floral pattern of green and yellow—hung in a twisted rope over the far side of the bed. A blanket huddled on the floor. Thin black skid marks parenthesized the floor at the bed’s corners. Cooper guessed that they were caused by Mr. Owen’s wheelchair.

The Medical Examiner crouched on the floor on the far side of the bed. He glanced up when he saw Cooper. “I am Dr. Guthro, Office of the Medical Examiner,” he said, a warm resonance to his voice that bounced off the cold halogen lighting set up by the investigative team.

“Detective Cooper Ellis, General Investigative Services.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Detective. An unfortunate case, it would appear. Poor woman.” Harry Owen’s mother lay in a tangle of wasted flesh on the floor. The twisted sheet had caught one of her emaciated legs in an ungainly position. Her nightdress appeared to have been pulled down, for her body angle suggested that gravity would have left her exposed when she fell.

Thin, fine shards of glass glittered in her black hair. A pale blue fabric lampshade lolled on its side by her head. Her hands, translucent from disease, now bore the distinctive dark blood clots of death.

“What do you think, Dr. Guthro?”