The stench of burnt flesh invades my nostrils as I walk into the house. Putting the back of one

latex-gloved hand to my nose and mouth, I swallow and get myself together. It's not the first

burnt body I'll smell, and it won't be the last. But I can already tell this scene is shaping up to be a bad one.

From outside, I saw that the back

corner of the house is scorched from the fire that the firefighters put out before it consumed

the entire house. Uniformed officers stand around, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.

Sergeant Reyes steps up as I approach the kitchen.

Reyes, I say with a nod. Where are the bodies?

Two in the kitchen and one in an upstairs bedroom, he says.

It's the Morrison household. As far as we know, it's James Morrison, his wife Sasha, and their adult daughter, Melanie.

It's not pretty. In fact, it's pretty fucked up,

detective. I prop an eyebrow up. It's not often I hear Reyes use what I call cop language.

He's a good Catholic man who says fudge and darn and shoot. Not today. I moved past him and into the kitchen, watching where I step

even though I'm wearing booties over my shoes. Stopping at the edge of the kitchen, I survey the

scene. There's already a couple of crime scene techs inside doing their thing. It's easy to see

where the fire started. At the side of the

scorched kitchen, near a wall, there's a fried and blackened body. I can't tell if it's a man or a

woman's body because the fire damage is so great. There are charred wires that look as though

they've been pulled from the electrical outlet there,

and they lead to the body.

Nearby, there's a second body lying on the kitchen floor in the fetal position.

I can tell this one is a man, because only half of his body has been burned to a crisp.

...