"Detective Collins," he introduced himself by way of command as he ducked under the yellow tape blocking off the crime scene. Clusters of uniformed officers stood about the area conversing amongst each other or surveying bits and piece of evidence. "Sergeant," Collins said curtly as he approached a man carefully inspecting the fragments of a clay pot that lay broken beneath a shelf. Sergeant O'Brien stood, turning to greet the detective. Usually confident and boisterous, his quiet demeanor and wrinkled forehead betrayed his concern. "What do we have?" The sergeant shook his head in exasperation and shrugged.

"Nothing. We have no sign of forced entry, not a footprint or sign of an intruder, no alarms, nothing on the security tapes. There's nothing." He nodded towards the body that lay covered by a blanket halfway between a massive fireplace and an ornate coffee table. "No sign of how the fellow died either. No wound, poison seems awfully unlikely given he was laid out so carefully, no blunt trauma. We have nothing, Detective."

"Except this?" Detective Collins gestured down at the broken pottery laying on the hardwood floor. Sergeant O'Brien nodded in resignation.

"Except this. No sign of how it broke. No object nearby that could have broken it, no sign of a struggle. I'm stumped, man. Sir." Collins waved the sergeant away and crouched down, sifting through the pile of fragments. His fingers shook ever so slightly as he turned each piece over.

"Sergeant," he said finally, standing as the man came over. "Do we have a picture of this before it was broken?"

"Actually, yeah, we do," O'Brien answered, beckoning one of his men over. He carried a folder stuffed with pictures and papers. "This is a file of the victim's art collection." He pulled out a set of pictures of a brown vase with small hieroglyphs imprinted on the sides. "Here we are," he said as he handed over the pictures. Collins flipped through them quickly, sliding the ones that didn't pique his interest onto the floor for the officer to pick up. He knelt abruptly, picking up a small fragment of pottery.

"Are you sure this is the right vase?" he asked cautiously, holding the broken piece next to the picture. The sergeant and his man nodded with confidence. "This fingerprint," Collins whispered, forcing the men to lean in to hear him. "This fingerprint isn't in the picture." O'Brien frowned and took the paper from the detective, ignoring any command hierarchy as he squinted his eyes to look at the picture. It failed to answer whatever question he had and he frowned deeper.

"It must have been touched up before they printed the picture. This fingerprint is as dry as the hieroglyphs. The same Egyptian who wrote that junk left his fingerprint, that's sure as hell." Collins opened his mouth but then paused to think.

"Yes and no. The same person, yes. But at the same time? I don't think so. The picture hasn't been touched. Nobody would pay four and a half million dollars for a vase with a fingerprint on it. The fingerprint is new." Both men shook their heads and O'Brien chuckled.

"And my wife is Cleopatra," he scoffed. "With all due respect, Detective Collins, that fingerprint is older than my old lady's old lady. That's Ancient Egyptian old, right there."

Collins shook his head and left the two men chuckling to themselves as he walked over to the motionless body. Crouching down, he uncovered it and glanced down at the lifeless face. "Sergeant," he commanded, ordering O'Brien back to the other side of the room. "Did you get an estimated time of death for the victim?"

O'Brien timidly shook his head. "No, sir. He was long dead when we got here. We can check now if you want?" Collins nodded.

"I don't think you'll find anything," Collins stated assertively. O'Brien frowned as he knelt by the body. "We have something bigger than us here, gentlemen. I don't think this man was killed. I think he never lived."

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