Criminal Affair Pt. 10

-Jill-

I'm still not a morning person, but when I must get up I've always been able to. When I don't, you need a catapult to launch me out of bed. Derek already left for work, saying goodbye with a kiss and receiving a slap in the ass from me. I finish making Jesse's lunch and put it on the counter as I finish my coffee.

I miss six-year-old Jesse. This thirteen-year-old Jesse is a handful. He's already as tall as me, with acne on his chin he tries to hide. His hair is longer, but he cuts it short in the summer. I don't like his sarcasm, but then again, I'm one to talk. He picked up the sarcasm from me, not Derek.

Jesse comes into the kitchen with his bag slung over one shoulder. He thinks he's sneaky by adding a snack cake, assuming I'm not paying attention.

"No cakes for breakfast," I say, and he groans and puts it back. He grabs his lunch and tries to walk past me again, but I stop him by rising my foot in front of him. "Pay the toll punk."

"Really?" He asks annoyed. I don't relent, and he is only allowed to go if he kisses me on the cheek. "You're weird." He still kisses me.

"Go learn something," I say before he leaves for school. The apartment is mine for the time being, and I have a few hours until I need to go in. This is when I typically do my physical therapy.

Seven years later, and my shoulder never fully recovered. I was never told it would however. I was told the opposite as a matter of fact. Sometimes an accurate diagnosis sucks.

Taking a resistance band, I pull my arm up to the side until parallel. The band keeps me from going much higher, but I fight against it, and lower it back down. I repeat this action multiple times. I squat a little and do rows. I pull it up from the front.

This session takes me about twenty minutes, and I've been doing this for seven years without fail, every day. I'm no longer on the pain meds, and I really didn't like them anyway. They turned me into another person.

After my therapy I get dressed in cargo khakis with a blouse and pull my laminate over my head with my left hand. My credentials dangle just below my breasts. 'Jill Whitaker, CSI'.

I spend most of my days in the crime lab. You'd be amazed how little I actually go out, but I do make an appearance at a scene about once a week. Mostly my techs collect the samples, takes pictures, and other procedural necessities. We then all process them at the lab together. I only go out for the murders.

I'm waiting for a blood sample to finish in the centrifuge when I get a call that I'm needed at a scene. I make the five other members rock paper scissors to fight for the spot to go with me. Heath wins so packs up our bags and rides with me over to the crime scene. Heath is fresh out of school and is still learning, but he is a data sponge.

Possible murder suicide by the look of it at first glance. Man dead in the kitchen, slumped backward over the table like he'll fall any second. He has two gun shot wounds to the chest, but the blood spatter is minimal. It was not a through and through shot, the bullets likely still in him. He died almost immediately, stopping his heart and the blood flow. The fact he didn't keel over with the wounds facing up, kept the blood from pooling.

The woman is dead in the living room, gun shot wound to the head, left side. Through and through, the bullet through the television and then into the wall. The entertainment center is a lovely red mist. Her blood is pooled on the ground around her head. In her hand she is still grasping a Barretta nine-millimeter.

We take pictures before we move anything and I eject the magazine from the pistol to examine the ammunition. Ten round magazine, seven bullets remaining. The number adds up, but other things don't. She was shot in the left side but the gun is grasped in her right. We dig the bullet from the wall, and the calibers don't match. The bullet that went through her head was a thirty eight.

I reexamine the man and gauge the diameter of his entry wounds. The coroner will know for sure, but they look more like hollow point thirty-eights than nine mil. It hit the woman directly in the temple and met virtually no resistance so was able to go straight through. The man it hit at center body mass, so the bullets were able to do what hollow points do.

This isn't a murder suicide, this is a double homicide.

"What's the situation?" one detective asks another.

"Murder suicide, pretty open shut case," he replies to his partner.

"Nope," I say from the woman's body, trying to angle out the trajectory of the bullet that hit her.

"Excuse me?" The detective asks.

Detective Chase Kramner is a green detective, fairly new with more swagger than sense. He walks and talks like he has a camera crew following him. Faux hawk haircut with white pants and a polo, looking like a frat boy. Bless his heart.

"Looking more like a double homicide," I say, and he snickers and shakes his head.

"Dead hubby on the table, wife dead holding the gun..." He starts, his tone incredibly condescending.

"Holding the gun in her right hand with a left entry wound. Is she a contortionist?" I ask, his partner holding back a laugh. "There is also no point blank residue on her head, and the calibers don't match genius. Ever tried firing a thirty height from a Barretta?"

"Why is she missing bullets in her clip then?" He asks, and I think I've got the angle down. A slightly downward trajectory from roughly six feet on the other side of the couch.

"First of all, it's a magazine, not a clip. She fired back, but unfortunately she had likely never fired a gun before," I say and walk to the wall directly behind where her shooter would have to have stood. Two are in the wall and another is in the ceiling. They are all several feet apart, indicating one of two things, or both. She was a really bad shot, or fired while moving. Her assailant only needed one.

I look at the table next to the door that has several pieces of mail on it. I sift through it for a moment, and notice it immediately.

"Heath, victims' names?"

"Donald and Regina Dillingham," Heath replies.

I pick up a piece of mail from the table and hand it to the frat boy. A piece of mail not for the couple. On my first sweep I noticed a second bedroom. They rent out a room.

"Edward Taylor is your first suspect," I say and kept collecting things with Heath. When we're complete we load up the car as the bodies are carted away.

"Listen," I hear the frat boy say from over my shoulder. Heath tenses up but I gesture for him to not get involved before I turn around. "Do not blatantly disrespect me in front of other detectives. If you were one you'd know that."

"You have one chance, to make me forget, you ever said that," I say back, just to give him a warning.

"Don't threaten me you techy cunt..." he says before I have to restrain Heath. "Little lap bitch."

"You were about to let a murderer walk free, but we're the assholes," Heath says with a huff and walks away to the other side of the car so he doesn't punch him.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut, or use it for something worthwhile," the detective says and struts away like a poser.

This is what you get when someone only wants to look like a cop.

-

-Lincoln-

I've had a few minor complaints about my new detective, but this time I'm not playing cover for him. A rookie is entitled to a few mistakes, but abhorrent behavior I will not abide by.

When Kramner comes in from the scene I look up from my desk and watch him see a few files on his desk to go through. Evidence reports from previous scenes he'll need to fully examine to make his final determinations before he recommends charges to the DA. This is his second instinct apparently, as the first thing he does is check social media on his phone.

Taking a calming breath, I stand up from my chair and call him into my office.

"Kramner," I say, him turning to see me gesturing.

Kramner closes the door behind him and stands behind the chair in front of my desk as I sit behind it again.

"Lieutenant?" Kramner asks.

"What does the scene indicate?" I ask him point blank, to see if he reverts to his original theory out of spite. I've already read the preliminary report that Jill sent up.

"Leaning like a murder suicide," He says, and I shake my head, because now I have to ruin his day.

"Preliminary lab report goes into exhaustive detail why that isn't the case. You'd know that, if the first thing you did when you got to your desk was look at it, instead of your phone," I say, and he looks back at his desk through the window of my office to the file.

"Understood sir," He says and starts to leave.

"I'm not done," I say, him turning back to me. "You can do that on down time, but when work is on your desk, you work. You're a homicide detective, I understand the victims aren't getting any deader, but the killer isn't getting more caught either. I know you also had a confrontation with a CSI tech on the site, who told you everything that report details."

"Did she come crying to you..."

"Shut up," I say, and he stops cold. "You are a police officer. You will show a baseline level of respect to everyone who works here. I don't care if it's the chief of police, or the custodian who takes your trash out. If I ever hear that you call a female staff member a cunt again, you won't be able to be a meter maid.

"That cunt, used to be a detective for your information," I say, hoping to make him realize how bad he messed up. Instead he decided to bury himself further.

"She couldn't hack it and quit..." He starts before I slam my fist on my desk, making him jump. That was entirely impulse, I had nearly no control over that.

"I'd advice you to stop talking before you say something worse," I say, barely able to keep myself from screaming that. "She wasn't just a detective, she was my partner."

Finally I see it on him. He realizes how grave his mistake was. I don't want him to feel like this because it was a particular person. He should not talk to anyone like that.

"She was a damn good detective. I didn't look at the files on my desk, and it ended with her getting shot because I didn't know all pertinent details going in. She can't lift her arm above her head because of my fuck up. Her badge is retired on the wall downstairs. She became a CSI because she still wanted to contribute.

"You will not disrespect fellow law enforcement professionals, of any kind. Do I make myself clear?" I ask, and he nods. He is afraid.

"Yes sir," He says, his face now resembling my son when he's getting scolded. He starts to leave, but I feel like peppering one last fuck you in there.

"Her name is Jill Whitaker by the way. Captain Whitakers wife. Just so you know, he doesn't know, because she doesn't feel it's worth it. It's not going to him, because of her. Because a detective knows you keep it at the lowest level," I say and dismiss him.

-

-Jill-

Many people in Derek's family were incredibly shocked to find out he got married again after how bad the first one ended for him. Many people in my family were shocked I ever got married. It wasn't anything big, just a small ceremony with a few friends and immediate family. Billie was my maid of honor, best man was Jesse. Ring bearer was Lincoln's son.

We honeymooned in Alaska of all places, flying with his dad to go to his family's cabin near Juneau. When I think of a cabin in Alaska, I think a little shack at the end of a snow covered road. Not what was essentially a private lodge. His father's charter business was very successful apparently.

I told Derek as soon as we made it official, and continued to say as we were planning on getting married, I was not having a baby. We already had Jesse, I had just restarted my career, and if I did I actually wanted to raise my baby, so I was going to stay home. I don't care what that says about me, if the man is still in my life, I will stay home, deal with it. This is why I've actively avoided this situation.

That was five years ago. Five years ago, I didn't want a baby. Five years ago, Jesse was enough. Five years ago, my career mattered more. Today, not so much.

I found myself searching for baby names without realizing I was doing it. I found myself when we went shopping ogling the baby clothes and holding maternity pants to my waist.

Billie having her baby was checkmate for me. Jesse was six when I got him, so he wasn't baby cute. Holding Billie's daughter set baby fever on fire.

Derek said if I ever changed my mind, and he'd be down whenever. I haven't told him I had my birth control stopped. Age thirty nine, and I'm crossing my fingers it sticks.

I disguise the visit to my doctor as a physical therapy session. Ultra sound confirms mission is accomplished. I am eleven weeks pregnant.

The doctor gives me the picture and it sinks in on the drive home. Maybe I can consult a few times to stay involved, but I'd prefer to stay home.

I wait another week, put the picture in a card and give it him for his birthday. I don't give it to him at the party with our friends from work. This is private matter.

We curl up in bed, and I'm all for being frisky tonight. Besides birthday blow job of course, I'm extra antsy tonight. I want this to be a celebration.

"Happy birthday," I say, reaching under my pillow to give him the card I stowed underneath.

"Cash?" He jokes and starts opening it. As he does I exit the bed and take off my shirt. I conceal my breasts with one arm, and place opposite hand over my stomach as if it was larger. He looks at me and laughs a little, then looks at the card. He opens it and sees the ultrasound picture.

"Holy shit," is all he can muster. It's a good holy shit.

"I changed my mind," I say with a grin. Derek crawls across the bed to kiss my stomach and look up at me. "Happy birthday."

Making love and fucking has always had a dime of difference between them for us. If I had to boil down the difference: Making love he cums in my pussy; fucking he cums in my mouth. That night we make love. He drills me missionary before we flip over and he cums with me on top.

A few months later we get confirmation it's twins. Mr. Above Average indeed.

-

The End