Frank May practices law, but he's getting by doing only the safe, bland kind - writing wills, forming partnerships, processing papers. Everything far from the seedy adventures of criminal law. But a dead body wakes you up and takes you to places you don't want to be. A late-night call from frantic client Barney, standing near the corpse of his wannabe-actress wife, drags Frank into the world he had so carefully avoided in his practice. And he is just about the only one who believes that Barney did not murder her. Even Barney's criminal defense attorney has trouble spinning a scenario in which Barney didn't do it. Facing his reluctant task with humor and introspection, Frank sets out to do what he can - and it does not seem like much - to figure out how maybe Barney did not kill his wife. Unraveling this mystery will not be about gory autopsy, AK47s, car chases, or thuggy ambushes in an alley; that just happens on TV shows or in novels written by ex-pathologists. There is no million-dollar Losteochorotograph to analyze blood splatter patterns. No sneaky courtroom magic tricks. Frank is actually going to have to use his head.