“Keep a lid on it rookie,” Hughson responded with a heavy serving of scorn.
“What, you think this is straight forward?” Brickner blurted in disbelief.
“Sometimes there’s more going on than what there seems and sometimes things are by the book. You haven’t had enough time in the street to have a single goddamn clue how to tell the difference,” Hughson replied. “As far as you’re concerned rookie, there’s no other reason to see this case than by the book. You know well enough from your 'excellent' training at the academy, that when a murder victim is married, the spouse is the first suspect—”
“Come on, I know I’m new but what do you think—”
“I said enough rookie! We all know that there was more than one man in this city that wanted her, and maybe one of them finally got his way. That’s a great recipe for a jealous husband and we know that jealousy often leads to violence,” Hughson responded angrily. “We’re going to talk to the husband, because that’s what an investigator does to gather evidence.”
Hughson had issued his final rebuke and the officers climbed into their cars, Hughson on his own, Clery and Brickner silently climbing into the squad car they shared. Both men knew that there was no point in discussing the matter any further. Brickner's youthful anger and Clery’s experienced apathy created a cacophonous vacuum of silence that mentally devoured them both.
None of the officers needed to ask for the address of their prime suspect. Despite the fact that the victim’s husband was a simple brick layer, everyone knew who he was, or more importantly, that he was married to the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen.
The officers arrived and the knock at the door was soon answered by a fit man in his early thirties, his reddish-brown hair parted down the middle and his blue eyes looking confused at the presence of the police at his door.
In the background, a young boy, looking a lot like a four-year-old version of his father, stood in the dining room of the simple yet elegant home that his parents had made for him. The boy wore sky blue one-piece pajamas, complete with cottony looking white clouds on them. He stared nervously down the hallway, watching his father speaking to uniformed policemen.
“Mr. DuPlacey…we’d like to ask you a few questions,” Hughson started.
Within minutes, the man who had answered the door with every mental faculty and level of composure one could ask for was crumpled into a heap at the threshold of his own home, screaming incoherently, crying uncontrollably.
Hughson had radioed in for a female officer to help with the child.
“Hi, I’m Mallory,” the officer introduced herself to the confused and curious child.
The boy nodded politely, then tried to press by the woman so he could watch what was happening.
With the female officer in place, whom Hughson believed was better equipped to handle a child, the officers followed their instructions to cuff the suspect.
“Dad, NO!” the child burst out.
The boy reached for his father in vain as the woman who had seemed so friendly moments ago, held him back, causing the boy to struggle.
The shout snapped the man lying cuffed on the floor out of his incomprehensible grief long enough to spur him into a new struggle, fighting with the fervor of a mad man.
Despite his efforts, William DuPlacey soon found himself restrained in the back of a police cruiser on his way to the station for questioning.
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