Brent reached into a drawer and took out a glossy photo. He pushed it across the desk. Charles Blackwell craned his neck, looked, and saw what appeared to be a man lying naked on a marble slab with his throat cut.
Blackwell swallowed hard and nodded and said, "Yeah, that's Jack, all right."
"How do you know?"
"I can tell."
"You can?"
Charles Blackwell got a little indignant. "Of course, I can. Don't you think a man knows his own brother?"
"That depends on which man and what brother."
"I want the body of my relative," Charles Blackwell said.
"I'll see you in hell first," Brent Taber replied pleasantly. "Now get out of my office before I send for the man who uses the broom around here."
Charles Blackwell was more comfortable now—more confident. "That's what they told me you'd say, so they gave me this to bring. It's a court order signed by a judge who sits in a court and listens to people's beefs about getting pushed around and does something about it."