“That’s the last one,” Freddie said, sounding relieved.

Tearing her eyes off the black bag being loaded into the M.E.’s vehicle, Sam returned her attention to Freddie. “Have you found any connection to my dad in any of Reese’s priors?”

“After we came across the stuff about the shooting, Captain Malone ordered a more detailed run of Reese’s record. He went back to HQ to move that along.”

“Show me what you’ve got.”

As if to fortify himself, Freddie took another deep breath of the cold air before he led Sam into hell.

The smell hit her like a fist to the face. Death. Blood. Bodily waste.

Old toys covered the floor of a spartanly furnished living room dominated by a big-screen TV. Spattered blood coated the screen and the walls behind it. A tan sofa had clearly been ground zero for one of the murders as the cushions were soaked with drying blood.

Crime scene officers sifting through the carnage nodded to her as she entered the room.

“Jesus,” Sam whispered, and for once Freddie didn’t object to her use of the Lord’s name.

He led her past the kitchen where Clarence Reese shot his wife in the back. They went up a flight of stairs to a second floor with three small bedrooms and a tiny bathroom.

Sam noted disarray throughout the house—dishes piled in the kitchen sink, toys everywhere, scuffed walls, pictures hanging at crooked angles, towels and dirty clothes scattered about the floor of the bathroom and a filthy stained rug lining the hallway. Things had been difficult in this household long before today, long before Clarence Reese lost his mind and butchered his family.

In the master bedroom, a king-size bed took up almost every inch of the room. Freddie pulled a box from the closet floor, set it on the bed and then moved aside so Sam could take a closer look.

She slipped on the latex gloves he handed her before she touched yellowing newspaper articles from the aftermath of her father’s shooting, carefully clipped from all the local newspapers, as well as coverage taken from the department’s website. Under the clippings were photos, and various other news stories about her father’s thirty years on the force that ran after the shooting.

“Was it him?” Sam asked in a small voice, glancing up at the family photo that hung over the bed. Nothing about Clarence Reese was familiar to her. He had the stocky build of a former high school football player, coffee-colored skin, brown eyes and a thick shock of dark hair. He was handsome in a quirky sort of way. His wife was white with a plain face, stringy brown hair, dull eyes and a world-weary expression. “Do you think he shot my dad?”