When I moved to Atlanta after high school, Jake moved into the top spot, even eventually becoming one of Dad’s deputy’s. When I abandoned law enforcement for ministry, my relationship with Dad was strained even further. But since I’d been back, Jake’s insecurities had kicked into overdrive.

“Looks like Russ was murdered,” he said. “Pretty damn exciting. Two years without a homicide where we didn’t know exactly who did it, and now we have two in a week.”

I nodded.

“When’re you going to see Mom?” he asked.

“Soon,” I said. “Soon as I can. Next day or so. You?”

He shook his head. “I just can’t deal with that kind of shit. Probably ride over when Dad goes. Next weekend maybe.”

“Nancy know?” I asked.

“Dad said he was going to call her tomorrow, but I told him he shouldn’t. Hell, she ain’t even a part of this family anymore.”

Jack Jordan, looking tired and older than he should have, spoke with the medical examiner in hushed and quiet tones.

The body of Russ Maddox was slumped over in an uncomfortable-looking wingback chair covered in plastic and positioned in front of the television. Like the chair, the entire house looked uncomfortable. If it were lived in, you couldn’t tell it.

“John,” Dad said when he saw me.

“Dad.” I nodded.

I walked over to the chair where Russ’s obese body sat crumpled. His head hung down, the fat gathering beneath his third chin and in large rolls of white blubber around his midsection. He was wearing a white silk robe, which gaped open revealing white silk boxer shorts and a tight white silk T-shirt.

Beside his chair stood an ornately carved wooden TV tray with an open bottle of wine, a wineglass, and a small china plate with caviar and crackers on it.

My eyes widened when I noticed the two long, sharp kitchen knives lying near the plate. The knives seemed to be spaced too far apart from the plate, and they were positioned funny. It was just an impression, but it looked as if they had been added later. I looked back at Maddox. There was no sign of violence or trauma anywhere on his body. In stark contrast to the last death I had witnessed, there was not a single drop of blood.

“That is caviar, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” the medical examiner said.

“Is it generally eaten with large carving knives?”

“Curious, isn’t it?” he asked.

“You ever been accused of exaggeration, Roger?” I asked.

He smiled, but did not comment.

I looked over at Dad. He just shrugged.

“Any prints?” I asked.

“On the bottle, the glass, the plate, the tray—everything but the knives. They’re clean,” Dad said.