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When we arrived, Jack Olson was lying in a pool of blood on Carl Jacobsen’s study floor. The wall behind him, including the white frames around the broken window, was a mess, sprayed with dark red bits and blobs of Jack. He looked surprised at being dead. Carl looked angry at having killed him. Detective Jonasson sent me outside to look around.
There were no flowerbeds back here, and the grass was so dry from the summer heat that it crackled underfoot. Hoppers leaped around me as I sweated in the shade from a shagbark hickory.… Read the rest