It was after midnight, in a blinding snowstorm when a beautiful young woman ran onto the Walnut Street bridge.
Unable to sleep, former Chattanooga PD detective, Harry Starke, was on that same bridge, at that same moment . . .
She saw him standing there, stopped running, stared at him shaking her head, then turned and scrambled over the rail onto the ledge and he knew what she's about to do.
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped off the ledge, just as he reached her.
He threw himself forward and managed to grab her wrist.
She looked up at him, eyes wide, terrified as she slipped through his fingers to her death in the icy waters of the Tennessee eighty feet below.

"The look on that girl’s face will haunt me for the rest of my days. I had to find the answers…"

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The phone call came on a Tuesday evening in the middle of August. Harry Starke hadn't heard from his old school friend in almost five years, and he hadn't thought about him in almost as long. Tom Sattler wanted to meet, and it wouldn't wait until morning. But when Harry arrived at Sattler's home less than an hour later, he found him lying in a pool of blood with a single gunshot wound to his head and .22 revolver lying close to his hand.