The brakes brought the car to a screeching halt. She was in the area when the call came in. there was a DOA; woman in her late twenties; two children and a distraught husband. She emerged from the vehicle and headed toward the entryway for a routine questioning of the husband. It was procedure, but that didn’t make it easy. The surviving spouse was never easy to talk to once grief began to set in.

She never understood why they had to do this. I mean there was no suspicion of foul play. Couldn’t the department wait to take a statement? Well, either way she had to do her job and Bette Porter always did her job.

Bette was a smart, committed, tough as nails cop through and through. She was up for detective this year. Honestly she had enjoyed the streets. She had enjoyed the hands on nature of being a cop on patrol. But the allure of murder investigations; the desire to catch the ‘real’ criminals called to her. She worked hard and everyone knew that she was a shoe-in to become Detective Porter. It was just a matter of time.

Bette came from a family of cops. She could never see herself being anything else. Her father, her father’s father, all of her uncles, and even her older sister were cops. To say that it was in her blood was an understatement.

But today, Bette was less than excited to be on this scene. There was nothing happening here; no mystery to solve. Just go in and take a statement from the husband; type it up and file it away. Case closed. Well, there really was no case. She had spoken to Gibbs on the telephone and there was no apparent cause of death. It seemed to be natural causes. She just up and dropped dead. A tragedy for sure; but far from the murder cases that Bette wanted. This was just busy work.

Bette took a deep breath, straightened her shirt and headed for the front door. As she walked in, Bette immediately began to survey the scene. Everything was in order there was no disarray, just a quiet suburban home with a dead wife. Bette verified what Gibbs had told her on the telephone with Henry. There appeared to be no external injuries; nothing seemed out of place; and the husband was the one who phoned 911 for help.

The muffled crying hit her. Why hadn’t she heard that sound before? Was he crying like that when she walked in and she just didn’t notice? She slowly turned her head searching for the source of that sound. The sound she knew all too well; it was the sound of grief. As her eyes scanned the room she found her target. There he was, the grieving husband, sitting there in what looked to be the dining room. He sat with his shoulders slumped and his head in his hands. He was rocking back and forth; back and forth; back and forth.

As she approached, Mr. McBride, she said with compassion in her voice. When her words were not acknowledged, Bette placed a careful hand on his shoulder, kneeled next to him and repeated, Mr. McBride.