"Got the call about forty minutes ago, Lieutenant," says Markin. "I was the first to arrive and secured the area."

I hear Markin's words, with half an ear, as I remove my gloves, and peer over, again, to where she'd earlier pointed—at an opened-door patrol car.

Markin brings forth an empty, gallon-sized, biohazard plastic bag. I drop my gloves into it, then, reaffix my sunglasses to my face. My eyes shift to, what I presume, the Fanson's Mercedes-Benz GLS 550. It's parked on Ocean Avenue, facing north, about a foot and a half away from us and Betty. Looking long and hard at it, something just doesn't gel—the SUV's paint job is such a pure, bright white, and here I have a violent, bloody murder scene before it.

That's not what has me ill at ease, though.

Strong sun glare, coming from behind the SUV, zaps me hard in the eyes, stinging them—even though I'm wearing sunglasses. Squinting through my shades, at the full-sized luxury vehicle, I notice a windshield shade in place. Before I can make a conclusion regarding it, though, I turn away. The sun's brilliance is just too much for my eyes. I make a mental note of my observation, and say under my breath, "What a shame."

"Sir?"...

I don't respond to Officer Markin's question. I'm now out to find a killer. What she asked, doesn't interest me; only the feeling in my labonza does—as my father would say, whenever referring to a "gut feeling" about something.

"You say her husband's over there?"

Officer Markin nods and points, again, toward Greg Fanson seated in the marked police car. Her wordless gesture tells me that she knows who's in charge here—me—and that I'm not one for nonsense chit-chat with her, when it comes to murder in my jurisdiction.

I shake off the horror racing through me, as I think about Betty Fanson's dead body in my presence. Suddenly, I feel butterflies in my stomach. Are they a result of what has happened to her, and I'm feeling anxious about telling her husband that I'm sorry for his loss? Or, is my uneasiness here, due to my idol being only a short distance from me and, cop or not, I'm a little star-struck nervous? Shallow thinking, I know, but, I am human, and, celebrity sometimes does that to me. I'm not proud of that, but, the truth is the truth.

Still, can my "nervousness" here, instead, be due to the fact that—in my mind—I have already solved this crime, but that I don't want to believe what my instinct is telling me about it?...

Making my way to where Greg Fanson is waiting, I find it odd to see police scurrying about the area, where such a film-industry icon is sitting in the back seat of a police vehicle. Something about a murder scene and Greg Fanson just doesn't fit. He's never been in trouble with the law, let alone, I've never heard that the police had ever been called to his residence.

As I step forward, I see CSI agents taking pictures and gathering evidence. I spy other cops, too, just standing around, seemingly, drawing conclusions, as to what has happened here.

I feel the heat of the sun smack my brow again. Can't that fireball in the sky give me a break here?

Meeting up with Greg Fanson, I have to admit, he floors me. I've only had about ten steps to compose myself, before coming face-to-face with this Hollywood legend, and, I'm plenty awe struck. I'm "Joe Ordinary." This guy is "Greg Fanson"—moviemaker extraordinaire, and my hero!

How can I be so giddy inside, though, about meeting him—especially after having seen his wife dead on the roadside? Am I that cold and superficial?

"Mr. Fanson?" I ask, with reserve. Then I clear my throat. The sudden sound causes him to jump back in the patrol car's seat.

He shoots a dark-eyed look my way. Clearly, it states, "back off," so, for now, I do.

"I'll give you a moment, sir," I say, apologetically, and step away from the opened back door, shaking a little.

If someone had told me that I was going to go weak in the knees here, I never would have believed it. Did how I was reacting, though, mean that I should ask him for an autograph? Could I?

My, God! What the hell is wrong with me? I've never been interested in something like autographs. Such an awful thing has just happened to this wonderful man's wife, and I'm thinking about asking him to sign a piece of paper for me? Now I know how those star-seeking runaways feel. Celebrity rocks!

The fact that I feel this way troubles me—but not enough to force me to turn away from my idol. For that reason, Mrs. Fanson's image of death, takes a back seat now, to my admiring Mr. Fanson seated in the patrol car.

"No, no, I'm fine," Mr. Fanson calls over to me, somewhat bewildered, as he emerges from the car.

I gawk his way. He is just as he appears on the television screen: tall, stolid, good looking, and in control—impeccably dressed in formal attire. The man with quite a few Emmy awards, and ten best producer Oscars to his credit—eight of which have been consecutive Academy Awards—is now standing two feet away from me!

I have to confess, I'm at a loss for words here. That has never happened to me. As I've said, though, Greg Fanson is my one and only idol. His work has kept me company through many dark days, since Sabrina's death. Police work, though, is another one of my life escapes—and I'm damn good at my job.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Fanson, for your loss," I say, my face crestfallen. "But, don't worry," I emphasize, with ultimate respect and confidence, "we'll get the one responsible—"

"Call me Greg," he interrupts, stepping closer to me, extending his hand for a shake.

I eye him, with some confusion. Something about the combination of his cool words, friendly demeanor, and extended hand, strikes me as odd. Most likely, though, he's still shaken by what has happened to his wife. Why else—rather, how else—can he be so calm and friendly? Call me Greg? This isn't a social event. I'm not meeting him, nonchalantly, at some party. This is a murder scene. His wife is dead on the roadside. Bludgeoned to death, and only several yards from where we're standing. Is he in shock, or, is the "star" of him getting the better of me here?

"Okay, 'Greg,'" I answer, taking his advice. I don't want to upset him. "In shock"? Not Greg Fanson. If he's going to be cool, though, I'm going to be cool, too—despite the heat that I feel from the sun. "I'm Lieutenant Brock Cinder," I continue, shaking his hand, my heart stopping for a second, "LAPD Homicide."

Before I can tell Greg that he can drop the formality with me, too, he faints.

His fall, involuntarily, forces my hand to grip his more tightly, to slow his drop. Aiding his limp body toward the ground, I cradle him from behind his back, resting his lower half on my bent knee and thigh. Had he been attacked, too? Had I been so in awe, that I hadn't noticed an injury on him?

I quickly eye-check his body, cursing myself for having not been more professionally observant, as I had met up with him. I think about the final words that I had said to Greg—before he collapsed. Those must have shot him through the heart. After all, "seeing" the police, and, actually, "hearing" that we are here, can be two different things for some people. That must be what had caused his knees to buckle here, and not him having been hurt by an attacker.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Greg, weakly, utters. "I don't know what—"

"Can we get some water over here?" I shout, looking around for Officer Markin. I spy her, seemingly, doing nothing except—what I conclude—joking with other officers about being at the murder scene of a famous person's wife. I can get quite upset at how my subordinates are conducting themselves, but I'm too busy cradling Greg to care to anything about it.

What is wrong with me?

Honestly, I have to mentally pinch myself here. Am I dreaming? I mean, Greg is a person whom the entire world respects, admires, and loves. Still, while this is a gruesome crime scene, I can't help the internal elation that I feel, while I try to remain, outwardly, professional, with my hero in my arms.

The truth hurts sometimes, and, "my truth" here hurts me. Such thoughts of mine are not "cop professional," I know, but, I'm human, as I've said, and flawed like all, to some extent, but, still...I'm a damn good cop!

"I'm okay, really," says Greg. "I don't need any water."

Then, as quickly as Greg had fallen, so, too, does he fully recover, and stand on his own. It's as though the whole thing were some kind of an act.

Had it been anyone but "Greg Fanson," that's exactly what I would have thought of his fainting—an act. But Greg is a producer, not an actor. What could that mean here?...

"It was awful, Lieutenant," Greg, suddenly, cries out, moving about before me. "I couldn't save her. I couldn't move. It all happened so fast."

In my peripheral vision, I see Markin's hurrying toward us with a bottle of water. Tardy, yes, but, I think, Thata girl!, as I then turn my attention back to my idol. "We're just going to take it nice and slow, Greg," I say, then gesture for the officer to hold off on rushing the water to him. I've developed a good communication lane with Greg. I don't want a rookie cop to blow that for me now, by stepping into my circle here—late—with a bottle of unnecessary water.

"I want this guy caught, Lieutenant!" Greg demands, glancing over my shoulder, toward Officer Markin.

I follow his look, then turn back to him.

"I want you to know what he looked like! What he was wearing! I don't want my wife..."

Understandably, his words trail off. Grief, I know, has a way of suddenly sapping a person. That's not the full reason why Greg stopped talking, though.  I notice that coroner workers are bagging Betty's body. How can I expect Greg to talk through watching that taking place?

I give him some space, by remaining silent and stepping back a bit. As I focus my look Betty's way, too, a thought of Sabrina's lifeless body fills my mind. Suddenly, all the pain that I had experienced, when Sabrina had died in my arms, I realize Greg now has, too, because of the murder of his wife.

I look back at Greg and feel a tear well in my eye. I'm glad that I'm wearing shades. I wouldn't want my hero to see me about to cry. Are my held waterworks here, though, ready to flow, because of seeing Betty's body bagged? Is it because of how close I feel to Greg Fanson, my hero, at this moment—due to our silent sharing of survivor's guilt? Or, is it because of the sun's glare, again, clipping my shaded eyes?...

Regardless, I have a job to do here.