Retired detective Frank McCann watched as his son Sam contemplated the scene. It had been twelve years since flowers sent shivers down Frank's spine. It had been twelve hours since convicted killer Tom Armstrong was executed. Two vases of flowers appeared in the concrete courtyard after the flatline was announced. Sam turned from the window, his detective’s badge visible on his belt.
“CSI's coming,” Sam said. “Got a theory? Copycat? The Florist got letters, maybe..."
"Letters," Frank said. "Shit! He wrote me once talking something about pride when a son follows in his father's footsteps. He wasn't talking about you."