There were five large suites on this, the top floor. All were named for Confederate generals. Justin headed for the grandest of the five, the Robert E. Lee (of course), and paused in front of the door.

I took the card from Justin and inserted it in the lock. I opened the door and stepped aside. If anything, Justin’s face was paler now than it had been before. He leaned against the wall.

I caught a whiff of mingled scents through the open door, and my sense of unease grew. After I took two steps inside, I knew by some instinct that this was a crime scene. I had to move with care and not disturb anything. But I still had to check on Godfrey.

Overhead lights illuminated the room, the reception area of the suite. The smells were stronger now, and I approached one of the two couches with dread, certain of what I would find.

Three steps more and I could look down over the back of the sofa.

Godfrey sprawled prostrate on the floor. The back of his head was a bloody mess.

The coppery tang of blood had mingled with the unpleasant scent of Godfrey’s bowels, loosened in death.

I heard a faint roaring in my head. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Godfrey’s corpse. He had to be dead with a wound like that.

But in the faint hope that he was still alive, I steeled myself to walk around the couch and approach Godfrey’s body. I bent down and grasped his left wrist, lifting the arm just enough to get my fingers in the right spot. I detected no pulse, though I held the wrist for what seemed an eternity.

As I put the arm gently back against the carpet, I caught a glimpse of something sticking out from under Godfrey’s waist. My brain didn’t register it for a moment. I was going to throw up if I didn’t put some distance between me and that horror on the floor.

Out in the corridor again, I drew a deep breath of clear air. I closed my eyes for a moment, but all I could see was Godfrey, his head bashed in.

And Justin’s cell phone by the body.

It had to be his. The phone in that room was purple, and Justin had a purple phone.

Justin had his arms wrapped around his body, and he was shivering. He looked at me, fear in his eyes.

What had happened in that room between father and son? Had they argued? Over what? They hadn’t met before today.

But as I looked at Justin, I couldn’t believe he was responsible. He wasn’t a killer, not this miserable, frightened boy.