Buddy stepped in. "Do you have any idea who might have been capable of such a crime?"

"A psychopath."

"You got a name to go with that personality, bro?"

Hunter stiffened. "I wish I did."

"Why's that?" Buddy asked.

Hunter glanced at his father. "Obviously, so you could catch him before he hurts anyone else."

"Noble," Matt murmured. "What a guy."

Hunter stood and met his brother's gaze evenly. "You got a problem with me, Matt? This town too small for the two of us?"

"And here I thought I was the cowboy in the family."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I have a problem with disloyalty. And with cowards." Hunter laughed without humor, throat tight. "And you see me as both."

"I do."

At times like this, he saw his brother so clearly. He'd always had to be right. Have the last word, have it his way. He had demanded the lion's share of their parents' attention. Adoration from the girls. He couldn't be simply part of the team, he'd had to be the star.

Hunter hadn't required adulation. He had been happy to let his twin have it.

But he had drawn the line when his brother had wanted him to stop thinking for himself. Matt had expected his brother to like who and what he did, to think like him. No, Hunter corrected, not expected. Required it of him. Of anyone who remained in his circle.

"You're not engaging me in this, Matt. There's no point in it."

"Like I said, bro, a disloyal coward."

"Because I won't fight with you?" Hunter demanded. "Or because I left, went on with my life? Because I didn't give one hundred percent loyalty to the great Matt Stevens? Is that it?"

"Boys-"

That one deeply uttered word shattered Hunter's veneer of control; anger burst through, white hot, blinding. Memories with it. His father had intoned that warning a million times growing up, from as early as Hunter could remember.

Only then, he had been one of them.

"You hate that I can think for myself, don't you, Matt? I'm not your dutiful little soldier and that makes you crazy."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, bro."

"If you tried leaving your personal oyster shell, you would have realized you're not the be all and end all, Sheriff Stevens. But then, maybe that's why you never did."

Angry color flooded Matt's face. "You were always jealous of me. You still are. Because I got the girl."

"Leave Avery out of this."

"She's always been a part of it. You couldn't handle that it was me she wanted, not you."

Hunter met his eyes. "Wanted you? If that's so, where's she been all these years? Seems to me she left you behind."

Matt took a step toward him. Hunter curled his hands into fists, ready to throw the first punch. Eager.

Buddy stepped between them before he could. "Thanks for coming in, Hunter. We'll be in touch."

CHAPTER 17

The West Feliciana Parish Coroner's office was located in St. Francisville. An elected official, Dr. Harris served all the parish, one of the smallest in Louisiana. The coroner examined the circumstances of death, performed toxicology tests, called time and manner of death and signed the certificate of death.

Avery had learned all this from the man's wife when she'd called to make an appointment. She had also learned that Dr. Harris had served for almost twenty-eight years. His office employed two deputy coroners, both physicians, and handled an average of eighty deaths a year. If he determined an autopsy was required to establish cause of death, the body was transported to Earl K. Long Hospital in Baton Rouge. There, a forensic pathologist would perform an autopsy. Unlike big parishes in the state, West Feliciana Parish didn't have the funding to employ its own forensic pathologist. That had surprised Avery.

Dr. Harris was a charming sprite of a man, with a wreath of thinning gray nair an«a twinkle in his eye. Not what one expected from a parish coroner.

"Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Harris. I appreciate it." He smiled and she went on. "Your wife told me you've been the parish coroner for twenty-eight years."

"On and off. Took a hiatus to tend to my own practice, can't do it all, you know. Or so the wife tells me."

"But you came back."

"Being a perfectionist is a devil of a thing to be. Can't let go. Couldn't stand to see the job not being done right."

He leaned toward her, eyes twinkling with amusement. "They got a joker in here who called cause of every death cardiac arrest. Didn't look at medical records or any other circumstances surrounding the death. Several times the man had a nurse sign the certificates of death. Couldn't stand it. Agreed to come back. Twice."

He sat back, then forward again. "The thing is, ultimately we all have cardiac arrest, but that's not always what sends us off."

"Do things like that happen often?" she asked, thinking of her father. "Cause of death being miscalled because facts slip through the cracks?"

"Not when I'm in charge." He searched her gaze, then smiled gently. "How can I help you, Ms. Chauvin?"

"As I said on the phone, I'm looking into my father's death."

His expression puckered with sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." She hesitated, searching for the right direction to proceed. "I learned from your wife that you handle about eighty deaths a year. And that you or one of your deputies go to the scene of every one."

"That's correct."

"She also told me that neither you nor your deputies perform autopsies, that those are done in Baton Rouge."

"Yes. By the forensic pathologist. Dr. Kim Sands."

"And you requested an autopsy on my father."

"I request one for every suicide. I have her report here."

"And she classified my dad's death a suicide?"

He nodded. "Her findings were consistent with mine."

Avery folded her hands in her lap to hide that they shook. "What did Dr. Sands call Dad's official cause of death?"

"Asphyxiation."

"Asphyxiation?" she repeated, surprised. "I don't understand."

"There's no reason you should," he said gently. "It's a little known fact that most victims of fire die of asphyxiation. In your father's case, with his first breath his airways would have filled with fuel vapors and flames. Death came quickly."

He crawled a couple feet toward the door. "Are you saying he died instantly?"

"Death is never instant. In forensics they speak of death coming in terms of seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days and so on. In your father's case we're looking at seconds to minutes."

She struggled to separate herself from her father's pain and focus on the medicolegal facts. "Go on."

"The presence of smoke and soot in the throat and lungs is one of the ways the pathologist determines the victim actually died in the fire."

"Or if he was dead before he was set on fire." "Exactly."

"And Dr. Sands found both in his throat and lungs?" "Yes." He reached for her father's file, flipped it open and read. "Yes," he repeated.

She cleared her throat. "What else would the pathologist look for in a case like my father's?"

"To confirm cause and manner of death?" She nodded. "Hemorrhages in the remaining soft tissue. Evidence of drugs or alcohol in the toxicology tests. We test blood, urine, bile and vitreous fluid. Each serves as a check for the other."

"And in my father-"

"We found trace amounts of the drug Halcion in his system. It's a sleep medication."

She straightened. "Sleeping pills? Are you certain?"

He looked surprised by her response. "You didn't know? I spoke with Earl, the pharmacist at Friendly Drugs in Cypress Springs. Your dad had been taking sleeping pills for some time."

"Who prescribed them?"

He thought a moment, then held up a finger, indicating she should wait. He referred to the file again. "There it is. Prescribed them for himself."