I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but I recognized his face as soon as the coroner pulled the sheet off his face. The same 3-day growth of stubble, the same salt-and-pepper hair (more salt than pepper now, though), the same set, square jawline. There were differences, though.

The playful twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished. The boyish grin familiar to those who had seen him throwing snowballs at his friends at work, even as he approached middle age, would never cross his death-slackened face.

And there was also the matter of the small hole, about 9 millimeters in diameter, right between the eyes.

I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Nobody had after the embarrassingly public meltdown he’d had back in ‘09 and he retired (again) and lived as a recluse. Nobody had seen him in ten years except whoever was responsible for that hole between his eyes.

The coroner began the autopsy. I knew this was going to be a real motherfucker of a case.

It was up to me to determine who killed Brett Favre.

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