nodded. “Was the kitchen door open when you came?” I turned to the patrolman. He was white, baby-faced, growing a little mustache to compensate for it. He was probably twenty-three or twenty-four, frightened that morning. I couldn’t blame him. “Uh. No. No sign of forced entry. It was unlocked, sir.” The patrolman was very nervous. “It’s a real bad mess in there, sir. It’s a family.”
