M. William Phelps

Dr. Schwartz is not answering his phone, so his boss, who happens to know one of the neighbors, calls and asks the neighbor to go over and check things out.

Schwartz's driveway was under construction.

To get to the house, you had to walk.

When the neighbor arrived, he found another neighbor standing outside.

He'd asked him if he'd seen Dr. Schwartz.

No, the guy said, and he'd been there since 7.30 that morning.

So the two men head down the driveway.

They see Dr. Schwartz's vehicle parked in its usual spot, over by the stables where he keeps his horses.

The house is made of fieldstone and cement, a cross between the Hobbit and a Revolutionary War colonial.

They go around to the back of the house, where there's a door into the kitchen.

Inside now, everything has this awfully and eerily quiet vibe to it.

The neighbor senses right away that something is off.

There's a sour, steely, metallic smell mixed with the feeling of something even more alarming.

Death.

He takes one step into the kitchen and there is Dr. Schwartz.

Now, Dr. Schwartz's neighbor is no forensic expert, but even to him, it's clear this wasn't some kind of robbery.

There's no forced entry.

Whoever had murdered Dr. Robert Schwartz walked into the house without resistance, as if someone invited them in.

Investigators from the Loudoun County Virginia Sheriff's Office secure the crime scene and begin taking stock of the gruesome attack.

Blood is everywhere.