An autopsy performed on the body of R&B singer Amy Winehouse, who was found dead in her London apartment on Saturday, has been ruled inconclusive. According to CNN, the procedure "did not establish a formal cause of death and we await the results of further toxicology reports." Those reports are expected to take two to four weeks to complete.

Winehouse's family, including her father Mitch, her mother Janis and her brother Alex, visited the memorial site outside her apartment earlier today. Speaking to the press that had gathered, Mitch Winehouse said, "I know a lot of you…and I know you've got a job to do. I'm glad you're here anyway," and to the fans that mourned: "I can't tell you what this means to us. It really is making this a lot easier."

Though British tabloids have reported that Winehouse was on a mixture of cocaine, ecstasy, heroin and ketamine, that she allegedly purchased on Friday, the initial investigation of Winehouse's apartment "has shown no drug paraphernalia was found."

Daily Intel speculates on what will happen to Winehouse's unfinished third album, which she said was "going to be very much the same as the second album, where there's a lot of jukebox stuff." While it's true that "no concrete information has emerged," on the existence of the album, it's hard to imagine the remainder of Winehouse's catalogue not getting a posthumous release.

On his website, comedian Russell Brand wrote a moving tribute to Winehouse yesterday, who was a friend as well as someone who "shared an affliction, the disease of addiction," with her. He describes the first time he saw her perform in person:

I arrived late and as I made my way to the audience through the plastic smiles and plastic cups I heard the rolling, wondrous resonance of a female vocal. Entering the space I saw Amy on stage with Weller and his band; and then the awe. The awe that envelops when witnessing a genius. From her oddly dainty presence that voice, a voice that seemed not to come from her but from somewhere beyond even Billie and Ella, from the font of all greatness. A voice that was filled with such power and pain that it was at once entirely human yet laced with the divine. My ears, my mouth, my heart and mind all instantly opened. Winehouse. Winehouse? Winehouse! That twerp, all eyeliner and lager dithering up Chalk Farm Road under a back-combed barnet, the lips that I’d only seen clenching a fishwife fag and dribbling curses now a portal for this holy sound. So now I knew. She wasn’t just some hapless wannabe, yet another pissed up nit who was never gonna make it, nor was she even a ten-a-penny-chanteuse enjoying her fifteen minutes. She was a fucking genius.