Chapter 1: The Fall at Riverfront Towers

As a forensic pathologist, I once worked a case so bizarre, it still creeps up my spine whenever I drive past Riverfront Towers. Even now, the sight of those mirrored windows can make my palms sweat, like I’m about to step into that memory all over again. It started with what looked like a straightforward suicide—a wealthy man with everything to lose, or maybe everything to gain, depending on who you asked. He left behind not just a legacy but a mountain of money: a sprawling estate and a life insurance policy worth nearly two million dollars, just sitting there like a jackpot for the taking. Sometimes, I swear I can still hear the echo of the news helicopters overhead, the static of police radios, and the metallic tang of adrenaline that hit me that morning.

Even right from the start, the local cops were whispering about patricide—sons killing their own father for a shot at the inheritance. I remember catching the way their eyes darted around, the way they lowered their voices in the hallway, as if the word itself might conjure up a ghost. But as I’d learn, the truth was even more warped than any patricide rumor. I couldn’t help but feel a mix of skepticism and curiosity, my mind racing with questions and my stomach twisting with a familiar sense of unease. Was this just another family tragedy, or something far worse?

That morning, our office received a body that had everyone on edge. The tag read Charles Whitaker, fifty-eight, the founder of Whitaker Realty—the man who’d built half the condos along the river. The scene outside was chaos: local TV trucks from WXYZ and Channel 4 still circled Riverfront Towers, their satellite dishes pointed skyward, reporters in windbreakers jostling for a shot. When they wheeled him in, I could feel the weight of the city’s attention pressing through the windows. Charles had jumped from the eighth floor, landing headfirst—his skull shattered, his story splashed across every morning show by the time I had my coffee. The police called it a suicide and closed the book before noon, but the buzz outside didn’t die down.

State law says unless the cause of death is unclear or suspicious, the county coroner can’t just order an autopsy. Suicides—especially the ones that seem cut-and-dried—almost never end up on my table. The system is designed to move bodies along, to keep the gears turning, not to linger over every detail. It always frustrated me, especially after cases where something felt off. I remembered a case last year where we pushed for an autopsy but got stonewalled—family pressure, legal loopholes, you name it. Sometimes, I wondered if the law protected the living more than the truth.

But then Detective Earl Thompson arrived, looking every bit the part: gruff, tired, his shirt rumpled and his tie loose, the kind of guy who’d seen too many late nights and too few victories. He brought in the body himself, a rare move. We’d worked together for years, but the way he avoided my eyes told me this was no routine drop-off. I asked what he needed. Turns out, he didn’t want an autopsy—he wanted a paternity test. That was a first for me. The way he rubbed the back of his neck, jaw clenched, told me he was carrying more than just a case file.

As soon as he said it, I thought, “Well, there’s always a dollar at the bottom of these things.” Money talks, and in my experience, it usually shouts. But what threw me was that the paternity test wasn’t for Charles’s two sons. No, it was for a stranger—Daniel Reyes, a name with no obvious tie to the Whitakers. That set off alarm bells in my head. Who comes out of the woodwork now, and why?

Thompson explained, “Some guy’s claiming he’s Whitaker’s son from way back. He’s got a stack of photos, birth records, all the proof he thinks he needs. Wants to see if he’s really family.”

I let out a short laugh, raising an eyebrow. “And the heirs just rolled over for that? That’s not the Grant and Cole I remember. Those guys never gave an inch without a fight.” I could still picture the shouting matches from past probate battles, the way they’d dig in their heels over the smallest thing.

Normally, if the immediate family doesn’t consent, they can have the body cremated almost immediately. That’s standard practice—funeral homes are quick to comply with family wishes, and once the ashes are scattered, it’s game over for any new claims. The Whitakers had every reason to slam the door on this.

Thompson grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The kid signed away any shot at the inheritance. Says he just wants to know where he came from. If they refused, he threatened to sue with all that evidence. The Whitakers didn’t want the headache. Since he signed off, even if he’s the real deal, he gets zip. So they just said yes.” He shook his head, still annoyed by the whole dance.

I nearly dropped my pen. My hand froze mid-scribble, and I had to blink a few times. I’d never seen a move like that. Why chase kinship now, after Whitaker’s death, and not before? Why stir up the hornet’s nest if there’s nothing to gain? My mind raced with suspicion—this didn’t smell right.

Thompson settled into the cracked leather chair in my office, tapping his thick fingers on the desk, eyes darting to the clock. Our lab was just down the hall, so I promised results in two, maybe three hours. He handed over the sheriff’s official request for a paternity test—no autopsy order, nothing else. In the U.S., that’s unusual; normally, a case this big would come with a mountain of paperwork. But I was boxed in—no cutting, no examining, just a cheek swab and a blood draw. It was all a little too neat, and I felt my frustration bubbling up, remembering the hoops I’d jumped through in similar cases.

While we waited, I tried to keep things light, talking with Thompson about the supposed suicide. But the more we talked, the more tangled things got. Not only was there an alleged secret child, but Charles had recently taken out a major life insurance policy—one of those big ones from Prudential, the kind that covers suicide as long as it’s been active for two years. And, wouldn’t you know it, the policy had just crossed that threshold. It all lined up too perfectly, like a script.

“So, you think this is insurance fraud?” I asked, leaning in, trying to read his face.

Thompson shrugged, flicking ash from his Marlboro into the coffee mug he used as an ashtray. “Can’t say for sure. But with everything he had going for him, why check out now? His only goodbye was a Facebook post—said he’d jump from Riverfront Towers. Then he did.” The stale smoke hung in the air, mixing with the sterile scent of disinfectant.

I nodded, rolling the facts around in my head. “His kids get the payout, right?”

Thompson nodded, his brow knitted. “Yeah. Both sons, Grant and Cole. You know how I knew Charles?”

I shook my head. Thompson looked younger than most of my regulars—early forties, with a cop’s build and a detective’s poker face. I couldn’t picture the connection.

“He was my mentor. Kept me out of trouble when I was a dumb teenager. He went into real estate, I went blue. We kept our distance, but he was like family.”

Once he started, Thompson couldn’t stop. He got this faraway look, talking about Charles—how much he owed him, how he looked up to him, how Charles always had his back. Then his face darkened, and he started grumbling about the sons, Grant and Cole. “They were always trouble, always living off their dad’s name. Grant would blow through cash like it grew on trees, and Cole… well, let’s just say he had a talent for making messes. Even before Charles was gone, they were already circling the company like vultures.”

“Calling them good sons would be generous,” Thompson spat, his jaw tight. “Honestly, keeping him alive this long was probably their greatest achievement.”

I’d known Thompson a long time. He wasn’t the sentimental type, not by a long shot. If he was this fired up, I knew he’d dig until he hit bedrock. I just didn’t realize then how deep this rabbit hole would go.