The yellow tape had been removed. A squad car idled on the sidewalk in front of my house as the neighborhood awoke to a new day. At the wheel sat Chris, the young partner of Lieutenant Jim O’Brien. Chris glanced my way then turned away. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional, his sunglasses obscured any hint. O'Brien was talking to one of the investigators at my door. Good to see a familiar face. When he saw me get out of the taxi, he came over and removed his hat.
O’Brien and I first met under tense circumstances—with his rifle pointed into my chest. It was during a shooting and hostage crisis at Coyote Creek Middle School, where Bethie attended. Along with all the other parents, I stood for hours in the parking lot not knowing what was happening inside.
I grew tired of waiting around not getting any answers. So I marched right up to the police line. My cell phone started buzzing and I reached for it. He thought I was reaching for a weapon and he drew his rifle. Pissed and defiant, I pressed my chest right into the barrel. He wasn’t going to shoot me. The other parents might have, though. On that, the longest afternoon of my life, two girls were killed. One of the stray bullets grazed Bethie’s arm.
Afterwards, Jim and Chris came over to question Bethie. Chris, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, seemed not only to enjoy Bethie’s starry-eyed attention, he almost encouraged it. I was never completely comfortable around him since.
As I walked up the very lawn, on which I'd slipped last night, Jim removed his hat. "My God, Sam. I’m so sorry about Jenn. And Bethie? Dammit. You dodge a bullet, only to—" he stopped himself and scowled. "How’s Aaron?"
"He’s hanging on."
"You should get some rest."
"I spent the night at Children’s." From the corner of my eye, I noticed his partner looking our way. I turned my head and again he averted his gaze. "What’s with Chris?"
Jim drew a deep breath. "Dunno. He’s been in a mood since he found out. He really liked your family. ‘Specially the kids." Suddenly, I felt the need for Zantac. Jim pulled his hat from under his arm, placed it on his head and nodded. "Don’t hesitate."
"Thanks."
"Oh, by the way," he stopped and handed me my cell phone.
"Found this under your bed. It’s already been dusted and checked, so I guess you can have it back." With a strong pat on the back, he said good-bye and got in the car with his partner, who for some reason hadn’t looked my way once since I arrived.
Just then, a news van pulled into the cul-de-sac.
"Oh jeez, not again." My rifle-in-the-chest standoff had been captured by a photographer and the picture appeared in the North County Times. Made me look like freakin' Tank Man of Tienanmen Square. One thing led to another and the next thing I know, I’m doing a taping in my house for Channel Seven news. A couple of days later, Brent Stringer, best-selling writer and op-ed writer for the Union Tribune did an interview feature. The media, in all its wisdom, spun me up as San Diego’s Superdad. The subsequent fame was about as welcome as a tax auditor in mid-April. I’d just gotten out of the limelight.
O'Brien stepped out again and intercepted the reporters and paparazzi.
"Thanks, Jim," I said silently. A young woman stood in my open door. I hadn't noticed her until I padded halfway across the lawn. She wore black slacks, a black blazer and black sunglasses. I figured it was her black BMW parked in my driveway. Had to wonder what her favorite color was. Silently counting the steps to the second floor, she dabbed the air with her index finger repeatedly.
I cleared my throat, extended my hand.
"Mister Hudson?" Her hand felt like a dead fish. "I'm detective Pearson, County Sheriff's Department. Do you have any form of identification?"
"Do you?" I reached for my wallet.
"Driver’s license, social?" Pearson flashed her badge quickly then examined my driver’s license. She looked back up at me, scrutinizing my face. "Hmm." She handed it back. "Let’s go over a few questions, shall we?"
"Would you like to come inside?"
"No." She proceeded to ask the same questions the deputy had asked last night at Children’s.
"I’ve already answered these questions."
She looked up from the PDA. "It’s routine. You’re probably thinking clearer after resting."
"Doubt it."
Again, Pearson tapped her PDA with a thin, black stylus. She fired off the rest of her questions with chilling detachment. "What time did you come home?"
"About eleven o’clock." A thousand cockroaches skittered up my back as she studied my face. Thankfully, she returned to her PDA.
"What room did you go into first?"
"My daughter’s"
"When did you first realize something was wrong?"
"No wait. I first went into the master bedroom, where I found Jenn." My knees grew weak. I braced myself against the door frame.
"So, you first went into your own bedroom, not your daughter’s."
"That’s right. I was thinking of which child’s room—"
"Once again, Mister Hudson," she said, enunciating. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"
"I didn’t think anything was wrong until I found Jenn, stabbed and bleeding to death."
"Let’s not jump to conclusions. Exact cause of death has not yet been officially determined."
"Excuse me?"
"Why don’t you leave that to the coroner and stick with the facts."
"Fine."
"Are you aware that we came here to speak with you last night about the pornographic materials found on your work computer?"
Taken aback, I gasped. "No, but that stuff wasn't mine. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?"
"Where were you around 7:30 PM last night?"
"On my way to a client meeting in La Jolla. Is that when you came?"
"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts around 11:00 last night?"
"I was on the 52 freeway, driving home. Alone. Oh my god, did you say anything to my wife about the porn?"
"No, sir."
"It wasn’t mine!"
"As I said, we didn’t mention it. That’s still under investigation." More tapping. "Mister Hudson, relax. I’m sure you’ll want to do everything to help us move this investigation along. Right?"
"Of course."
"Then you won’t mind going to the crime lab to provide samples."
"Samples?" The hair on the back of my neck became thistles.
"DNA swabs, blood, fingerprints."
"What for? Am I a suspect?"
Her dark brown eyes glazed. "We routinely take samples to exclude you as a potential suspect. The longer you wait, the colder the trail gets. Refuse, and you’ll raise the question as to why, and then—"
"Of course I’ll do it. It’s just that...it feels like you’re treating me as a suspect."
"Unless you’ve got something to hide—"
"What is your problem?"
She scribbled something on a business card and handed it to me. "County Sheriff Crime Lab. That’s the case number. You don’t need an appointment. If I were you, I’d get to it this morning before eleven, or things might start to appear unfavorable."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I would never do that, sir."
"Yeah, well…" Before I could say another word, she was halfway to her BMW. She got in, lifted her wrist, tapped on her watch, then pointed at me.
My head spun as her Beamer roared out of the cul-de-sac, leaving me standing in the doorway. Dread coursed through my veins like Freon.
~~~
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