11:45 a.m. Dickie hits the lights and turns on the siren as we move onto the shoulder of the interstate. Traffic is at a standstill for miles and miles. Within a few minutes, we pull up on the scene from the opposite side and have to scale the concrete barrier that separates the north and southbound lanes from each other. I toss my heels onto the other side and maneuver myself over the wall in as dignified a manner as one can when wearing a suit dress.
I give Dickie a dirty look as he takes my hand and helps me down. "Tell me again why we have to wear our Sunday best to crime scenes?" Dickie tries unsuccessfully to supress a grin and says, "So that we are more approachable for the families of the deceased. So that it's not just another person in a uniform that they have to deal with." I give him a sideways glance as I slip my shoes back on and say, "You sound like a funeral director." He chooses to ignore me.
I glance over at Dr. Forrest as we approach the police line. He has a bemused look on his face. Dr. Forrest is probably 50 years old or so. Handsome. Intelligent. Funny. He never married, though he clearly wanted a family. He spoke often of his search for the perfect woman, like his mom, and how he would never settle for anything less. In 10 or 20 years he's going to realize that Ms. Perfect doesn't exist and he spent his whole life in pursuit of his...ick...mother. That's messed up.
As we walk into the perimeter of the scene, a cruiser drives by on its way back to the SO and I can see Blue sitting sullenly in the back. He's staring at the seat in front of him. He's being taken to the station for questioning. They already temporarily relieved him of duty and his weapon. At this point, he's a civilian until further notice.
(Sorry, guys. Stupid job keeps interrupting my story.)