On the evening of April 18, 1988, the apartment complex was dark and Lynea Kokes' husband came back from an errand that had taken him most of the day to finish. He walked into their apartment, numbered 238, with his child by his side, anticipating the laughter of his pretty wife. Instead, what he saw was so distressing that it would haunt him for the rest of his life. This is a story about secrets, lies, and perversity. This is a story about murder. A real story.