I park and step out—and start looking for my way in.

I see a few uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives milling around the perimeter. Thankfully, I don’t spot any black SUVs or suited federal agents on the scene. Which means the feds haven’t taken it over yet. But they will. Trust me. Morgan is probably on his way here at this very moment. If I have any chance whatsoever of getting a look inside that house, I’ve got to move fast.

Approaching the building from the side, I get as close as I can before the officer, her brown hair pinned in a tight bun, spots me and holds up her hand.

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to step back, please.”

“I’m a licensed private investigator,” I lie. “Who’s OIC this morning?”

That would be the scene’s “officer in charge.” Typically, the primary responding detective, he or she is the one with full discretion over who has access to the premises. There’s a decent chance I might know the guy, and could ask a favor.

Instead, the cop replies firmly, “Sir, I told you to step back.”

No dice. Swallowing my resentment, I walk around to a different part of the crime scene perimeter. As I near the home’s sagging front porch, I spot my opportunity.

Exiting the front door is a bespectacled African-American man who could pass for James Earl Jones’s fraternal twin. He’s wearing a navy jumpsuit, orange felt booties over snakeskin loafers, and an irritated expression. Behind him are two similarly dressed assistants wheeling a stretcher with a body bag on it. An empty body bag.

“Morning, Quincy,” I call out to him.

The man’s face registers pleasant surprise. Dr. Quincy Johnson, the Orleans Parish deputy coroner, is an old friend I’ve worked dozens of crime scenes with over the years. He pivots and heads my way.

“Rooney!” he calls out with a booming voice. “I thought you’d gotten out of the murder business,” he says, ducking under the yellow tape. He peels off his latex gloves and extends a hand.

“Old habits die hard,” I answer.

Quincy darkens and replies somberly: “Not as hard as the vic in there.”

His words fill me with dread. Here’s a man who’s handled hundreds of grisly homicides over multiple decades. He’s truly seen it all. That he’s even the slightest bit rattled by whatever is inside that house is a very, very bad sign.

“Too early to move the body?” I ask, gesturing to his assistants loading the empty stretcher into a white van parked on the curb. “Forensics hasn’t released the scene?”

Quincy shakes his head. “Not their call anymore. Word just came down. This one’s gone federal. I can’t move a hair on his head until they say so. A real mess, too.”