Lieutenant Brock Cinder is my name, Los Angeles Homicide. I've been a police officer for fifteen years and have loved every minute of it. Perhaps that sounds a little self-serving, for, I know, not many people can say that they truly love their job. With me, though, the truth is the truth. I'm no nonsense. No lies. No excuses. I tell it like it is, and live by my own rules-when I have to do so.

Police work has always created a safe haven for me. Thankfully, it has helped me to combat the heartache of the worst day in my life, too-the horror of having seen my wife, Sabrina, killed.

It had been a tragedy really. On our wedding night, two weeks after I had graduated from the police academy, Sabrina had died. She had only been a step ahead of me. We had been holding hands, as we strolled together to our Hollywood Hills home--after having driven back from our seaside marriage ceremony in Santa Monica, California. Neither of us had any family in town, and we weren't big on celebrations. Parties had made Sabrina nervous and me uncomfortable. So, we had only exchanged our vows before Father Basilio Altimari--a very good Catholic priest friend of mine, whom Sabrina loved, from the first day that I had introduced them weeks before.

The simple, quiet union that had sealed our love, from our "elope-like" wedding, had been beautiful enough for us. Both Sabrina and I had been twenty-five years old, and, after I had kissed "the bride," we had been looking forward to spending a lifetime of happiness together.

Our home had been a gift from an industry friend of Sabrina's. As a budding interior designer, in her friend's highly-successful New-York-City company, Sabrina had recently moved to the coast, fifteen years ago. She had wanted to be closer to the Hollywood stars to whom she would cater, and her friend had wanted to help her out with a living arrangement.

Then she'd met me at a local bar, we'd had a quick courtship and marriage, and there we were--set to live together as man and wife--in the mansion that her friend had given to her.

Truth be known, I had thought Sabrina was my soulmate. Her friend who'd given her the mansion, however, seemed to think otherwise. He'd made a pass at her one time, after I had given her an engagement ring, and she'd told me all about it. When I'd found him, he'd put up his dukes, but that didn't help him. I had knocked him on his ass, with a hard punch to his stomach, and a quick right upper cut to his chin, before he'd even known what had hit him.

Sabrina had been tugging on my arm, that day, to stop me from really pounding her friend into the ground. So, I stopped, and told that slime ball that I'd make his life miserable, or, end it, if he ever made a pass at her again.

Still, even before the fight I'd had with Sabrina's friend, I had never felt I'd be comfortable in that mansion. That lifestyle wasn't me. The scum that I had seen Sabrina's "mansion friend" to be, too, had not been winning me over. I had understood, though, what living in that house meant to her. So, together, we had figured we could make it work for us as a married couple. How we were mistaken.

Sabrina's death had been instant. In retrospect, I think it a blessing that she had never seen it coming.

The texting teenager that had been driving the car of his father--whom, unbelievably, had been Sabrina's "mansion friend's son"--had never known what he had hit and run over, either. The kid had been too intent on texting the word "cool," back to someone that had diverted his road attention with his cell.

How life can change in the twinkling of an eye.

I shouldn't have to tell you that I've never seen Sabrina's mansion friend again--but I will. I never saw that jackass in a social way again, nor will I even mention his name today.

As for his kid? The only sentence that brat had gotten had been community service--the justice system, when your daddy is wealthy and has powerful friends really makes me sick.

Back then, though, I had received a cash settlement from a lawsuit that I'd brought against the brat. That mansion's deed, however, had still been in Sabrina's friend's name. I didn't have a leg to stand on to claim it. So, when Sabrina died, ownership of that house had gone back to her friend.

I couldn't have cared less about losing that mansion. The cash settlement, too, hadn't filled the hole in my heart.

However, that money had allowed me to purchase a classic 1970 Pontiac GTO Judge Ram Air IV 400 convertible, with a Muncie 4-speed shifter.

Sabrina had known that I had been saving up for that rare classic. Shortly after her death, in a dream I'd had, she told me to both find and buy that muscle car with the settlement--so, I did. It's stock Palladium silver exterior, black leather interior, black top, option-added air conditioning, and an AM/FM radio/cd player--that I had put in after I had bought the car--all rock!

Today, though, nothing satisfies me like police work-or, fills the void of Sabrina not being in my life-more than bringing the guilty to justice in her memory. That's right, I am "the Judge"--hence, the car I drive.

Now, when I say I love my job, that doesn't mean I wish misfortune onto others who might struggle in their own work-quite the contrary. I wish for all citizens to prosper. That is, in whatever way they can, in line with their skills-as long as what they do doesn't break the law, and cross my path.

Murder is no laughing matter. I'll be the first one to tell you that, and I'm one of the best leading the charge against that ill of society.

This all might make me sound egotistical, or, like an angry person, but I'm really not. It's just that doing what I do, has afforded me the opportunity to both see and realize many things-bad things, unfortunate things, things that can push one over the edge. Am I at that edge point? I often wonder. Should I up and leave the force, because of such a feeling, before police work really gets to me?

However, there's a comfortable realization that comes from the job for me, too. That is, that tragedy can, suddenly, enter anybody's life. I didn't need to become a cop to see that, though.

Still, having seen it so many times now--that heartbreak knows no bounds--has helped me with my own loss. Just as people grieve in different ways, so, too, do they, uniquely, heal. Police work, though, is only half of my "medicine," for such personal "wellness."

When Sabrina died, I had handled it by watching TV and going to the movies--the other half of my wellness formula. Her dying, I had felt, had been a direct message to me--as though I were being forced to look at my faults, and she'd paid for them. That had been the only way that I could make sense of her death.

For that reason, I had started to curse myself. I hadn't paid enough attention to Sabrina, while we were married, I had thought; as a new cop, at that time, I had stressed over the fact that I hadn't been able to protect my wife-from having been hit by a car and killed in front of me. After all, I was a law enforcer; I was supposed to be able to stop death like that from happening--especially to my wife, when I was alongside her.

It's taken me a long time to be able to talk so easily about the loss of Sabrina, and, believe me, it still hurts. She would never forgive me, though, if her death were in vain. She had known what being a police officer meant to me. She would not have wanted me to stop living. Because of her, I have not. Allow me to explain....