Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 3: Interstate Love Song
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 3: Interstate Love Song - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
32,000 feet above the San Joaquin Valley
March 27, 2005
The Avanti leveled off all by itself at FL-320 at 7:15 a.m., settling into cruise with its usual obedient smoothness. It trimmed power, and locked the aircraft on course back to Las Vegas. Sometimes Jake hand-flew the plane on short trips. And sometimes he truly loved the autopilot. This was one of those times. He’d turned it on shortly after clearing Morro Rock, while still only 3500 feet above the waves. Less strain on his tired brain.
The southern San Joaquin Valley slid beneath him in long, flat bands of green and brown, irrigation lines catching the light like seams, the city of Bakersfield hazy in the distance. It was a perfect morning—clear, dry, endless—and the sun was already brutal, glaring straight through his aviator shades as if they were a speed bump rather than a defense.
He was more than a little hungover. Enough to matter, not enough to be unsafe. A dull pressure behind the eyes. A dry mouth. The faint, familiar sense that the night before had run longer than planned.
The Riders had stayed until nearly nine. Dinner with the family, loud and unstructured, Caydee holding court like she always did, Cap passed from lap to lap like a favored mascot. A number of Jake’s bottles of expensive hooch had not survived the evening. None of the Riders rode off under the legal limit, but that was an outlaw biker gang for you—proudly consistent, recklessly durable, and statistically miraculous. They’d fired up their Harleys just after dark and thundered down the hill in formation, taillights winking out one by one as they hit the access road.
Jake hadn’t heard of any catastrophic motorcycle crashes since.
The thought landed fully formed, uninvited. He didn’t chase it. He let it sit, then filed it away as he scanned the surrounding airspace again. But it lingered just long enough to pull something else loose—the quiet image of the morning paper folded on the kitchen counter, untouched coffee cooling beside it, the headlines already familiar by the time he’d glanced down.
Matt, of course, had been the top story again.
There were two rumors leading the pack now that the dumber ones had burned out. The first was that Matt had been shot from backstage. Jake had been questioned and released. For now. The phrasing varied depending on the outlet, but the implication stayed put, stubborn as a stain. Released wasn’t cleared. Released was temporary. They could arrest him at any time.
The second rumor was more popular. Less original.
Matt had faked his death.
According to that version, he’d engineered his collapse onstage (wasn’t it convenient that it happened during the final note of the final tune?), played dead until the fans cleared out, then got up and walked back to his trailer, very much alive, and disappeared to some island somewhere. The theory didn’t bother with logistics. They never did. It just needed a story-shaped hole to crawl into, and people were happy to hold the door.
Both camps were demanding the same thing—the video of the performance. Proof. Vindication. Entertainment masquerading as accountability.
Music Alive had issued their statement early. The video belonged to KVA Records by contract and was in their possession. Responsibility neatly transferred, hands washed in public.
KVA’s response, delivered through Pauline, had been brief and immovable. Yes, the video existed. No, it would not be released.
Jake’s quote was everywhere by now. He could practically hear it read back to him in other people’s voices. “It would be extremely disrespectful to turn Matt’s death into entertainment, and I will not allow it.”
A reasonable line. A humane one.
It had not helped.
By midmorning, the narrative had already curled back on itself. If the video wasn’t being released, it must be because it showed something inconvenient. If it showed something inconvenient, then Jake must be involved—either in Matt’s murder or in the execution of his disappearance. Those were the options people seemed most comfortable with. Anything else required restraint, and restraint was in short supply.
Jake adjusted his sunglasses and checked his instruments again. The Avanti hummed along, fast and steady, the world below reduced to pattern and color. He stayed with the airplane, where things still made sense—altitude, airspeed, heading—systems that behaved if you respected them.
Vegas was waiting. The coroner was waiting. And the truth, such as it was, would have to stand on its own without a video to hold its hand.
The Tehachapi Mountains rose ahead of him in a low, jagged line, brown and folded, the last real barrier between the order of the Central Valley and the indifferent sprawl of the desert. From thirty-two thousand feet they looked almost gentle, ridges softened by distance, their shadows stretched thin by the early sun. Jake watched them slide beneath the nose, kept his scan steady, let the Avanti do what it was good at. The airplane didn’t care about geography or grief. It cared about numbers, and the numbers were behaving.
East of the mountains, the land gave up trying to be anything else.
The western Mojave spread out beneath him in muted tans and chalky reds, dry lakebeds flashing white in the glare, straight roads drawn across nothing in particular. Scattered wind farms turned lazily, their blades throwing brief, sharp glints of light that caught his eye and vanished. The desert always looked empty from altitude, but Jake knew better. It was full of things that could kill you if you forgot where you were.
He stayed with the airplane, hands light, posture relaxed but alert, the hangover fully subordinate now to habit and discipline. The sun was still aggressive, but he’d shifted his visor just enough to take the edge off. Vegas was out there somewhere, still hidden by distance and curvature, but close enough now to feel like an appointment instead of an abstraction.
Then the buildings came into view.
First the faint suggestion of them, a shimmer on the horizon that could’ve been heat distortion if you didn’t know what to look for. Then glass caught the light, sharp and unmistakable, and the Strip announced itself the way it always did—from the sky, all spectacle and geometry, absurdly out of scale with the land that surrounded it.
A moment later, the radio crackled. It was time to begin his descent.
Jake acknowledged, dialed in the numbers, and the autopilot eased the nose down and throttled back the engines. Three thousand feet a minute at 275 knots indicated—clean, controlled, deliberate. The desert rose to meet him, detail resolving as altitude bled away. The Spring Mountains slid past to the north, Mt. Charleston capped with pale snow that looked out of place in the glare. Vegas expanded beneath him, grids and interchanges snapping into focus, the illusion of order held together by concrete and timing.
Fifteen minutes later, he was lined up on final, the ILS needles steady and obedient, the runway pulled straight toward him like a promise. It felt almost identical to San Luis Obispo the day before—the same calm on approach, the same sense of inevitability. The same shitshow on the ground.
Even from the air, he could see them.
Media vans clustered outside the secure perimeter, satellite dishes tilted skyward like listening ears. Police cruisers parked in deliberate lines, lights off but presence unmistakable. The choreography was familiar now. The world waiting, cameras hungry, everyone hoping the story would do something interesting on landing.
Jake didn’t give them anything. He flew the airplane.
The Avanti touched down cleanly and rolled out without drama. He taxied toward the hangars, shut down, and let the sudden quiet settle around him. When he opened the door, the desert air rushed in, already warming up for the day.
Jim Ramos was there as Jake climbed down.
He was leaning against a silver Lexus near the hangar, sunglasses on, posture easy but eyes sharp. It was the rental car he and Kim (and, formerly, Matt) had been using since arrival—quiet, expensive, anonymous. Jim pushed off the fender as soon as he saw Jake and met him halfway across the concrete.
“Morning,” Jim said.
Jake nodded. “Morning.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t need to. Jim grabbed the wingtip without being asked, and together they pushed the Avanti into the hangar, the movement practiced and efficient. No words wasted. The door came down, the latch secured, the airplane tucked safely out of sight.
Then they were in the Lexus, Jim behind the wheel, Jake riding shotgun.
They ran the gauntlet on the other side of the gate. Cameras. Video. Microphones. Shouted questions—all completely inane in context—from reporters who weren’t quite brave enough to physically block their egress.
They made it through the chaos and pulled away from the airport. Jim headed toward downtown—not the Strip, not the neon heart that sold fantasy by the square foot, but the business district beyond it. The quieter part of the city. The place where paperwork lived. Where people wore suits instead of costumes. Where things happened that didn’t need to be advertised.
The brain of Vegas, when you came right down to it.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, the city sliding past the windows in clean, anonymous blocks. Jim drove like a man who used to do it for a living—steady, unhurried, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the console. He didn’t rush the quiet. He never had.
Jake broke it first.
“How’s Kim holding up?”
Jim exhaled through his nose. “She’s been crying a lot.”
Jake nodded. That was undoubtedly healthy—certainly natural.
“But when she’s not,” Jim went on, “she’s tough as nails. Same as always.” He shook his head once, almost amused by it. “She lost it for a good ten minutes yesterday. Full-on ugly cry. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t talk.”
Jake kept his eyes forward. “And then?”
“And then five minutes later,” Jim said, “she was on the phone sweet-talking one of her potential new actresses. Trying to convince her she really, really should do the Amateur Lesbians shoot she was interested in. ‘Didn’t you tell me you always wanted to try it? Well, we have a hot Brazilian-American housewife who wants to try it too. Her husband’s onboard with it but won’t be in there doing the shoot. And you said she’s hot, right?’”
That got a faint smile out of Jake. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds like the Kim Kowalski I know and love.”
Jim nodded. “She’s grieving hard. But she’s functioning.”
They hit a light. Jim slowed, stopped, waited it out.
“They followed me to the airport,” he said.
Jake didn’t ask who.
“They’re still staked out at the hotel, even though they know you’re not there,” Jim continued. “Anyone who looks even remotely connected to you gets mobbed. Assistants. Runners. Friends of friends.”
Jake’s jaw tightened slightly. “Jesus.”
“Probably Him too,” Jim said, deadpan.
That got a chuckle out of Jake.
“Sharon got mobbed yesterday,” Jim said. “She had to call security to get her out of it. They backed off once uniforms showed, but it wasn’t great.”
Jake grimaced. “She okay?”
“Shaken. Pissed. Mostly pissed.”
The light changed. Jim eased them forward again.
“And then there was Barb.”
Jake turned his head a fraction. Just enough. A slow smile started to form, the first real one since he’d landed. “They mobbed Barb?”
“Not the smartest thing they’ve ever done,” Jim allowed. “I was with her at the time. It was maybe the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot in ten years with Matt Tisdale.”
“Tell me,” Jake said. “And don’t leave out a single quote.”
Jim glanced over at him, lips pressing together like he was deciding how much to enjoy this before delivering it.
“She stopped right in the middle of them,” he said, “and whistled.”
Jake glanced over. “Whistled?”
“Two fingers in the mouth,” Jim said, lifting his hand briefly off the wheel. “Like she was calling her fuckin’ dog who was out in the back forty somewhere. Loud enough my ears were ringing. Every single one of those motherfuckers stopped dead and just stared at her.”
Jake’s mouth twitched. “And then?”
“And then Barb engaged.”
Jim shook his head, the way you do when you’ve witnessed something and are still processing the collateral damage.
“She told them to back the fuck up before she reached up inside their bodies and pulled their fuckin’ intestines out through their assholes.”
Jake closed his eyes and smiled.
“She said—this is almost word for word—that she would ‘fold their dicks into origami, shove them down their own throats, and then staple their mouths shut so they couldn’t scream while they choked on their own substandard members.’”
Jake let out a low, delighted sound. “That’s good.”
“Oh, she wasn’t even warmed up,” Jim said. “She asked them what kind of bottom-feeding, oxygen-wasting shit-for-brains you had to be to harass a grieving woman over a dead man just so you could jack off to your own reflection on the six o’clock news.”
He checked his mirror, merged, kept talking.
“She called them vultures. Then she corrected herself and said vultures were at least honest about what they were doing and didn’t pretend it was journalism.”
Jake’s shoulders were shaking now.
“She told them she was off-fucking-limits,” Jim went on. “Said if anyone ever pointed a camera at her again, she would personally make sure their grandchildren had to change their last names to avoid being associated with their bloodlines.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jake breathed.
“And then—this is my favorite part—she informed them that if they wanted to see a man die on camera so badly, she’d be happy to demonstrate several options right there in the lobby, starting with whoever had the dumbest fucking haircut.”
Jim paused, savoring it.
“She finished by telling them to scatter before she squeezed their collective ball sacks together until they popped like fuckin’ chem lights and self-illuminated in black neon to match their diseased fucking souls.”
He exhaled. “And they scattered.”
“That’s badass,” Jake whispered respectfully.
Jim nodded. “And then she told them to have a nice day on her way out.”
Jake stared out the windshield, smile lingering, and let himself have that win.
A decent-sized pack had formed up on them at the airport—paparazzi cars, local media vans, a couple of freelance vultures in sedans that had clearly seen better days. They’d fallen in behind the Lexus the moment it cleared the gate, cameras already up, engines eager.
Jim noticed without comment.
He didn’t speed. He didn’t tense. He just drove.
Years of muscle memory took over—the kind you didn’t lose just because the lights and sirens were gone. He’d spent a long time piloting converted Ford vans through LA County traffic at full chaos, red lights reflecting off windshields, people panicking and doing exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. Compared to that, this was child’s play.
He made a clean right where no one expected one. Then a left. Then another right. He doubled back once, looped through a narrow side street, slid into traffic like he’d always belonged there. No pattern. No rhythm. Just movement.
Jake watched it unfold without saying anything.
Jim cut across lanes calmly, took an exit late, rejoined early, dipped through a commercial strip mall and out the other side. Within five minutes—maybe less—the mirrors were empty. No vans. No headlights. No curious sedans hovering just a little too close.
Nothing.
Jim didn’t even look pleased with himself. He just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, breathing steady.
Jake glanced over at him. “You lose them?”
Jim nodded once. “Yeah.”
Jake exhaled, impressed despite himself. “Nice work.”
Jim shrugged. “They were amateurs.”
They drove the rest of the way without incident, the city settling into quieter shapes as they moved away from anything theatrical. No one followed. No one waited at lights too long. No one knew where they were going.
Which was the point.
They pulled up to the county morgue building without ceremony—plain concrete, unadorned signage, nothing that invited attention. Jim parked, cut the engine, and for a moment neither of them moved.
Jake took a breath and reached for the door handle. “Let’s go,” he said.
A county security guard stopped them at the door.
Uniformed. Armed. Calm in the way of someone who’d already decided how the morning was going to go and wasn’t interested in negotiating it. He checked their names against a clipboard, then stared at Jake’s face a beat longer than necessary.
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “Easter.”
“I know,” Jake replied. “My kids got a whole bunch of swag from the Easter bunny this morning.”
The guard didn’t even crack a smile. “We don’t usually have the public in on Sundays or holidays,” he informed them.
“This is kind of a high profile thing,” Jake said. “You know how it is?”
The guard grunted, as if to say that no one had checked with him before implementing this lack of adherence to protocol, but he unlocked the door and waved them through.
Inside, the lobby was quiet to the point of being dead. Fluorescent lights. Beige walls. The kind of tile that had never known ambition. The front desk sat empty, computer dark, phones silent. No receptionist. No paperwork shuffle. Just the low hum of a building awake on a technicality.
“Wait in the lobby,” the guard said grumpily. “Someone will come get you.”
They went inside. Jake saw the Nerdlys immediately.
They were already settled into a pair of molded plastic chairs along the wall. Sharon looked composed in the way that took effort. Nerdly looked almost human. At least as human as it was possible for him to look.
They stood as Jake and Jim approached.
Nerdly took one look at Jake and said, “You look like fecal matter.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Thanks. I was hoping it showed.”
“It does, actually,” Sharon shared.
“I had the Riders over last night,” Jake told them. “We held a little wake for Matt. Broke into my good stuff.”
Sharon winced. “Oy vey,” she whispered. “The Riders.” She remembered the last time they’d partied with that particular group of motorcycle enthusiasts. “I’m honestly amazed you’re ambulatory.”
“Barely,” Jake said. “But upright.”
Jim watched the exchange with quiet interest, then glanced around the empty lobby. “You been waiting long?”
“Couple minutes,” Nerdly said. “We figured early was better than pacing in the parking lot.”
Jake nodded. He took in the Starbucks cups, the magazines—People, Time, something glossy and aspirational that had nothing to do with death.
“Did the pap and the media follow you?” Sharon asked.
Jake shook his head. “Not all the way.”
“You lost them?” Nerdly said.
“Professional driver,” Jake said, jerking a thumb at Jim. He then glanced back toward the chairs. “Did they follow you?”
Nerdly shook his head. “Nope. We walked out a side entrance.”
Sharon nodded. “There was a little knot of them out there. Cameras up. Very earnest.”
“We just walked right through them,” Nerdly said. “No one even looked twice.”
Jake frowned slightly. He’d had the thought more than once now. “I still don’t understand how you do that.”
“Do what?” Sharon asked.
“Remain unseen,” Jake said. “They spot you, Sharon, alone from half a block away and mob you. But the two of you together?” He shook his head. “Invisible.”
Nerdly smiled faintly. “I took my glasses off.”
Jake blinked. “That’s it?”
“Well ... Sharon has to lead me by the hand when I do that,” he added. “I’m legally blind without corrective eyewear.”
Sharon shrugged. “I think the dynamic adds a certain misinformation to the celebrity stalking mind.”
Jake studied them for a second, then snorted. “That’s it,” he said. “Mrs. Nerdly leading Nerdly with no glasses looks like ... like...” He snapped his fingers. “You would look like a cute sister leading her ‘special’ brother home from the stop where the little bus drops him off.”
Nerdly didn’t bristle. Didn’t even pretend to. He nodded once. “Exactly.”
Sharon laughed quietly.
“Fuckin’ brilliant,” Jake said.
Footsteps approached from the hallway, louder than the distant ones they’d heard earlier. Jules Smith appeared first, Mitch Helms just behind her, both of them looking tired in the particular way that came from long days and longer nights spent being competent under pressure.
Jake straightened.
“Hey,” Jules said, already smiling as she reached him.
“Hey,” Jake replied.
She hugged him without hesitation—firm, brief, sincere. “I’m so sorry about Matt.”
“Thanks,” Jake said.
She pulled back, grimaced slightly. “And ... I’m sorry about the tits too.”
Jake paused. Looked at her.
“What tits?” he asked.
Jules tilted her head. “You must not have heard yet.”
Jake frowned. “Heard what, exactly?”
Mitch lifted a hand, already trying to sand it down. “It’s really not that big of a deal. I mean—you can barely recognize their faces.”
Jake’s eyebrows went up. “Okay,” he said. “Now I’m officially concerned. What are we talking about here?”
Jules studied him for half a second, then asked, “Did you see Teach and Celia flash you during Found?”
Jake accessed his memory bank. For a moment, his brain was full of nothing but white noise. Then the recollection slid back into place, dislodged from wherever it had been buried under adrenaline and shock and the fact that Matt had died onstage eighty-four minutes later.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I did see that.” He shook his head once, incredulous. “A bit out of character for them. And I have no doubt Laura was the ringleader for that little stunt.”
Jules smiled despite herself. “You did see. That makes this easier to tell.”
“Tell what?” Jake asked. “I’m sure a few people saw it, but it’s not like anyone was taking pictures.” He stopped. Looked at her more closely. “ ... Right?”
Jules winced. Just a little. “It was completely accidental,” she said quickly. “I swear.” She glanced at Mitch, who nodded in corroboration. “I was doing crowd shots. You know—finding hot women melting at the music, kids singing along, old couples swaying together. That kind of thing.”
Jake said nothing.
“And,” Jules continued, “I just happened to pan across Teach and C at the exact moment they did their little show for you.”
She made a helpless gesture with both hands, palms up.
“The camera caught it clean,” Mitch added. “Good frame. A bit of a linger though.”
Jake closed his eyes briefly. “A linger?” he asked. “Does ‘linger’ mean what I think it means?”
Jules blew out a breath. “The thing is,” she said, “when I saw that, I ... stopped. And focused.”
Jake squinted at her. “Focused.”
“They were tits,” Jules said, unapologetic. “Nice tits too. All four of them.” She shrugged. “I’m supposed to catch a few shots like that if I can. Little flashes of color. Crowd texture. Stuff we can drop into the video when we put it together.”
Mitch nodded. “Standard operating procedure.”
“I didn’t know it was Celia and Teach at first,” Jules went on. “I just saw tits. So they stayed in frame for maybe five seconds? Something like that. Until they pulled their shirts back down and I actually looked at their faces instead of their tits.” She held up a hand. “I moved on immediately after that. I swear.”
Jake waved it off. “That’s not a big deal,” he said. “We just don’t use the shot. Assuming we even make a video after what happened.”
Mitch shifted. “You haven’t heard the entire story yet,” he said.
Jake turned to him. “I haven’t?”
Mitch hesitated just long enough to be annoying. “The incident happened during the bridge of I Found Myself Again.”
Jake nodded slowly. “Okay. And?”
“And my plan for that section,” Mitch said carefully, “was to push crowd shots up to the live screens. Big emotional swell. Faces. Audience connection.”
The words finished assembling themselves in Jake’s head. He went very still. “Are you telling me,” he said, “that my wives’ tits—their bare tits—were up on the big screen?”
Mitch nodded once. “For four point five three seconds.”
Jake stared at him. “Well,” he said. “That’s going to be a fun conversation to have with the old ladies.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s as far as it went though, right? We weren’t broadcasting anything. Yeah, the crowd got to see their tits, but by this time next year it’s just an urban legend. Especially since—”
He stopped. Looked at Mitch. Then Jules. Their faces were still grim. He was still missing a piece of the puzzle. And he thought he knew what that piece was.
“ ... Are you saying it was not just a flash-and-gone kind of deal?” Jake asked.
Mitch answered this time.
“Cameras were forbidden at the TSF, of course,” he said. “Cell phones weren’t.” He shrugged slightly. “And a lot of people have cameras—and even video—on their phones these days. Not great cameras. Especially not for video. But...” He let the thought hang. “There were a hundred and twenty thousand people there.”
Jake closed his eyes briefly.
“The bridge of Found,” Mitch went on, “is one of those lighter-up, phone-in-the-air moments. People waving screens. Recording the big screens.” He paused. “And a fair number of people caught stills or short video of the screens during the brief period of nudity your wives displayed.”
Jules jumped in quickly. “Most of the pictures are terrible,” she said. “Blown out. Shaky. Pixelated to hell. You can barely tell what you’re looking at.”
Jake opened his eyes and looked at her. “But not all.”
She shook her head. “Not all.”
“And they’re already out there,” Jake said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” Jules confirmed. “They’re being passed around on the internet as we speak.”
“Well ... poop,” Jake said.
The conference room had no interest in comfort.
A long laminate table dominated the space, scarred from years of elbows and paperwork. Institutional chairs ringed it—sturdy, identical, and unforgiving. Beige walls. Fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly. A seal of Clark County bolted to one side like a formality no one bothered to look at.
The coffee was bad. Burnt and watery, the kind that existed purely because someone had decided caffeine was a requirement but the employer that purchased it was cheap and bought Folgers in the red can. There were no snacks. No pastries. Not even the stale graham crackers that sometimes appeared when people were expected to sit through something difficult.
This was a county operation. Through and through.
Jake sat midway down one side of the table with Jim to his right. Across from them were the Nerdlys, Mitch, and Jules seated beside each other, hands folded, posture already professional. No one spoke. No one shuffled papers. The room had the quiet of a place designed to end questions, not invite them.
At the head of the table sat Martin Keen.
Same unremarkable suit as the night of the death. Same contained posture. Same expression that managed to be neither sympathetic nor hostile—just present. A legal pad lay in front of him, a thin folder placed squarely on top of it. This was his case, and the way he occupied the seat made that fact unmistakable.
To Keen’s right sat the pathologist. He had just introduced himself as Dr. Stephen Clarksburg.
He was a dark-skinned African-American, large enough that the chair looked slightly undersized beneath him. Broad shoulders, thick neck, hands like they belonged to someone who had spent a lifetime moving weight. Six-two and easily three hundred pounds, all of it solid. He wore a dark jacket over a plain shirt, no tie, and carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone who was never physically uncertain in a room.
If you passed him in a hallway, you wouldn’t peg him as a doctor. Not because of his skin color, but because he looked like a retired linebacker who’d wandered into the wrong meeting and decided to stay because no one had the courage to tell him to leave.
He sat easily, hands folded, expression open. Calm. Almost friendly.
He cleared his throat. “For the record,” he said, voice even, “Dr. Clarksburg conducted the autopsy of Matthew Norman Tisdale yesterday and, even though toxicology reports are still pending, is confident in his ruling of the cause of death.”
Clarksburg nodded once, offering a brief smile around the table. No speeches. No qualifiers.
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