All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich.

All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at online at behindthebadge (net, not com). It's a must read!

Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies.

I felt a lot better after having breakfast with Steph. I spent the morning filing papers down at the courthouse. On my way out, I spotted the rookie who had puked on me the other night. He was headed back out to his patrol car. I watched him drive away, and out of morbid curiosity, decided to follow him. I was inconspicuous in my personal SUV.

The police scanner reported a mugging a few blocks away and gave a description of the suspects as four young gang punks, two black, one Hispanic, one white, all in blue shirts and jeans. They were on foot, and they didn't sound too bright. Sure enough, the rookie spotted them and hit the lights and siren, scattering them down the alley.

I hit the gas and headed them off at the other end of the alley. I jumped out, gun in hand and flashing my badge, ordering them to the ground. They sensed from the authority in my voice that I was not a rookie and that I meant business. The kid came running down the alleyway and saw me, recognition crossing his face, immediately followed by a red flush of embarrassment.

"You looking for these guys?" I asked casually.

"Yeah," he gasped. "Thanks."

I put my gun away and watched him trying to work the scene. He was patting them down, looking for the wallet and jewelry that was reported stolen. They'd pitched the wallet, but he came up with a diamond ring on the finger of one of the punks. Back up had arrived, and assisted with cuffing and stuffing the boys one by one. The rookie was questioning the boy with the ring, but he was arrogant, knowing he was underage and there was little we could do to prove he'd stolen the ring.

I walked up the to rookie. "Mind if I interject?" I asked.

"Sure," the kid said, wondering what I was about to teach him. He was paying close attention. I spoke loudly so that the punk could hear me. "I think you may as well take him in separately. If he's not going to implicate his friends, then we only have one to hold on felony count, and the rest are going to be misdemeanors and will probably be released by tonight."

The boy in blue looked shocked for a second. "Felony? I didn't do no felony."

"That diamond ring on your finger is worth more than a felony conviction, mister," I said casually, indicating to the rookie that he should get out his cuffs to take the boy in. "What do you think the value is on that rock?"

"Diamond my ass," the boy said, holding up the ring on his finger. "This here's a CZ, man. That bitch tell you it was a real diamond? No way, man. This ain't worth three and two zeros at no pawn shop."

"Really?" I said, eyebrows raised. The rookie was trying hard not to smile. "Well, we'll just have to book him on the aggravated theft and assault charges then," I said, pulling the ring off his finger and dropping it into a plastic evidence baggie. I always kept a few in my jacket pockets.

After booking the boys, the rookie and I had a coffee at the station while I gave him a few more pointers, like not hitting the lights and siren when you're trying to get the drop on a group of delinquents.

He was still feeling embarrassed about tossing his cookies the other night. So, I told him about my first fatal accident scene.

A high speed chase had ended badly, and the suspect had hit a large tree at about eighty miles-per-hour. I had been in pursuit, but I wasn't lead. My heart had been pounding and the adrenaline rush was incredible. Then, I was standing by the wreckage, waiting for the coroner. The body was pinned between the seat and the tree, best we could tell. The car was a crumpled shell. When the coroner asked me to help him remove the body, I just looked around like he had to be kidding. I thought that had to be someone else's job. But it turned out it was mine. So, I was trying to pull this dead guy's legs out from under the dash when the coroner unexpectedly got the torso free. I jumped back as the body fell forward onto me. I saw an arm, then a shoulder, and as I reached up instinctively to catch him under the arms, the head rolled out of the area of the roof of the car and rolled down the chest and legs towards the coroner who let out a scream and ran the other way. I was holding a headless corpse under the armpits. I didn't dare look down at the neck. I looked up and pulled until I could lay him down on the ground. Then I walked away and threw up for about ten minutes. Later that night, after getting cleaned up at the station, several of us had stopped for coffee and donuts. I was putting cream in my coffee and when I looked up, for a split second, I thought the guy sitting across from me didn't have a head. It was crazy the things that kind of trauma can do to your thinking. It was days before I even attempted to sleep with the lights off.

The rookie had laughed and seemed to feel better about things. He headed back out to finish his shift, and I answered my pager, which had buzzed me twice. I had a crime scene waiting for me at a residence. Apparent suicide.

The address lead me to an average row house in the Burg. I arrived to find a handsome woman, fully clothed, lying in a cold bathtub covered in blood spatters. There was a pool of blood beneath her. A 9mm Glock, presumably her husband's, was lying in the tub beside her. The shower curtains had been neatly drawn around her to prevent the blood splatter from soiling the rest of the bathroom.

The photographer pointed out the note that had been left sitting neatly on the bathroom counter. It was a letter in a feminine hand that apologized to her family for the mess and assured them she would do her best to keep the affected area as small as possible. She had cleaned the house, told them where items of interest had been placed, and it was without a doubt the most thoughtful suicide I had ever been witness to.

I looked back at the woman lying serenely in the bottom of the tub. She was even wearing nice shoes, her legs crossed demurely. This was a nice lady. She was thoughtful and kind, loving, and so desperate to escape the confines of her life that she had shot herself in the head, seeing no other way out. She would do this rather than live with the disappointment she might see on the faces of her family.

I tried hard to keep things clinical when I was working a scene. I mentally referred to "the body", "the victim", and "the scene". But as I sat there, looking into the unseeing eyes of this middle-aged woman who had so much potential and so much to give to those around her, I suddenly saw past the dark brown eyes of the woman before me, and in their place I saw blue eyes and dark, curly hair. I saw what I would be doing to Stephanie if I asked her to stay home and cook and clean for me when all she wanted was to be caught up in the action. She just wanted to live, the way she was meant to. She had to be free to be herself, disastrous as that may be.

I tried to focus, to work the scene, but it was no use. I walked outside for some air, and called for the captain to send another detective to take this one. I met him at his office and we talked a long time. Calls were made, papers were signed, and within a few hours I was on my way home, stopping at Pino's for two subs and a case of beer.

Bob and I sat watching basketball until half of the beer was gone and I feel asleep in my recliner. I wanted to dream about chasing Stephanie around the park, but all I dreamed about was a funeral where my father was standing beside an empty casket, looking confused, and the mourners were asking Mrs. Plum questions she didn't have the answers to.

To be continued...