Homicide Detective Quotes

A serial killer sharing a house with a homicide detective and a FBI agent. Life doesn’t get more complicated than this.

Just be careful," a Seattle homicide detective warned. "Maybe we'd better know where to find your dental records in case we need to identify you." I laughed, but the words were jarring; the black humor that would surround Ted Bundy evermore begun.

Being a homicide detective can be the loneliest job in the world. The friends of the victim are upset and in despair, but sooner or later - after weeks or months - they go back to their everyday lives. For the closest family it takes longer, but for the most part, to some degree, they too get over the grieving and despair. Life has to go on; it does go on. But the unsolved murders keep gnawing away and in the end there's only one person left who thinks night and day about the victim: it's the office who is left with the investigation.

A serial killer sharing a house with a homicide detective and a FBI agent.

Christianity is a statement which, if false, is of no importance, and, if true, is of infinite importance. The one thing it cannot be is moderately important.

She was the only woman in the homicide unit, and already there had been problems between her and another detective, charges of sexual harassment, countercharges of unrelenting bitchiness.

I could have just said I'm good at my job, but I didn't. Didn't want the police thinking I was holding out information when I wasn't. "I've got one advantage over a normal homicide detective, I expect it to be a monster. No one ever calls me in if it's just a stabbing, or a hit-and-run. I don't spend a lot of time trying to come up with nice, normal explanations. It means I get to ignore a lot of theories.

Tolerance used to be the attitude that we took toward one another when we disagreed about an important issue; we would agree to treat each other with respect, even though we refused to embrace each other’s view on a particular topic. Tolerance is now the act of recognizing and embracing all views as equally valuable and true, even though they often make opposite truth claims.

For a detective or street police, the only real satisfaction is the work itself; when a cop spends more and more time getting aggravated with the details, he's finished. The attitude of co-workers, the indifference of superiors, the poor quality of the equipment - all of it pales if you still love the job; all of it matters if you don't.

If skeptics were willing to give the Gospels the same 'benefit of the doubt' they are willing to give other ancient documents, the Gospels would easily pass the test of authorship.

The redheaded homicide detective stepped through the door at 7:30 A.M. and out into the August heat that already had reached 88 degrees. By noon the temperature would hit 100, and by two or three o'clock it would be hovering around 105. Frayed nerves would then start to snap and produce a marked increase in the detective's business. Breadknife weather, the detective thought. Breadknives in the afternoon.

Biased people are seen as prejudicial and unfair, arrogant and overly confident of their position. Nobody wants to be identified as someone who is biased or opinionated. But make no mistake about it, all of us have a point of view; all of us hold opinions and ideas that color the way we see the world. Anyone who tells you that he (or she) is completely objective and devoid of presuppositions has another more important problem: that person is either astonishingly naive or a liar.

I have some crack sources—cops who call me, and say, “Hey, there’s a dead body in Civic Park, try not to beat the homicide detectives there.” - Gabriella Giovanni, BLESSED ARE THE DEAD

In a culture where image is more important than information, style more important than substance it is not enough to possess the truth. [Christian] case makers must also master the media.

(sergeant thinking about an excellent detective who's threatening to quit) For a squad sergeant, having Worden working for you was like having sex: When it was good it was great and even when it wasn't so hot, it was still pretty damn good.

The question is not whether or not we have ideas, opinions, or preexisting points of view; the question is whether or not we will allow these perspectives to prevent us from examining the evidence objectively.

Could we get on with this? I have a case waiting.” Annette’s brows rose. “Jane, you and I both deal with the dead. You’re a homicide detective—any case you have can just keep waiting. Not like the guy will get any deader.

When we devote ourselves to this rational preparation and study, we are worshipping God with our mind, the very thing He has called us to do (Matt. 22:37).

While we are often willing to spend time reading the Bible, praying, or participating in church programs and services, few of us recognize the importance of becoming good Christian case makers.

Shallow graves took on a life of their own. And eventually, all bodies did what they were meant to do. Decay. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Disappearing back into the earth, until months later, a uniquely shaped depression was formed. The kind of hollow that any experienced homicide detective could look at and say, hey, betcha a body is buried there. The

They love laboring over every speck of minutiae that goes with their job, but for us, it’s the homicide detective equivalent of watching paint dry.

Of course it is. Likes are power,” Mintner said, and looked at Eve. “You know what I’m saying. Isn’t that how you became a homicide detective?

The bloodstain expert who testified against Quincy was a former Denver homicide detective named Paul Norwood. After working crime scenes for a few years, he had decided to

A half-dozen or so FBI techies and LAPD homicide detectives were still on the scene. The latest Pearl Jam played from somebody’s radio. The lead singer seemed to be in terrible pain.

When we smuggle our conclusions into our investigation by beginning with them as an initial premise, we are likely to beg the question and end up with conclusions that match our presuppositions rather than reflect the truth of the matter.

Belson came into the apartment with some crime-scene people and two homicide detectives. “This guy,” Charlie said, and looked at his notebook, “Spenser. He was impersonating a police officer.” Belson glanced at him. “We all thought that,” Belson said, “when he was a cop.

Legendary crime writer Joseph Wambaugh: “Death On A Dark Street" is a suspenseful, authentic, and well-researched manhunt for a serial killer. It introduces rookie homicide detective Jaye Peoria, a tough but tender young woman obsessed with proving herself and snaring an elusive killer. It's a good book.

Do you read crime fiction?” “I dote on it. It’s such a relief to escape from one’s work into an entirely different atmosphere.” “It’s not as bad as that,” Nigel protested. “Perhaps not quite as bad as that. Any faithful account of police investigations, in even the most spectacular homicide case, would be abysmally dull. I should have thought you’d seen enough of the game to realise that. The files are a plethora of drab details, most of them entirely irrelevant. Your crime novelist gets over all that by writing grandly about routine work and then selecting the essentials. Quite rightly. He’d be the world’s worst bore if he did otherwise.

There's absolutely no evidence to indicate that. There never is. Homicidal satanic cults are the detective's version of yetis; no one has ever seen one and there is no proof that they exist, but one big blurry footprint and the media turn into a gibbering, foaming pack, so we have to act as though we take the idea at least semi-seriously.

My friend J. Warner Wallace is one of the most thoughtful and winsome apologists for the gospel I know. Cold-Case Christianity is literally packed with insights to share with the skeptics in your life, and this book will give you the confidence to share it!” Dr. Rick Warren, author of The Purpose-Driven Life and pastor of Saddleback Church

ONE OF MY FAVORITE NOVELS is this little mystery that was published in 2012, The Last Policeman by Ben H. Winters. The conceit is, the world is ending (an asteroid coming in hot, no way to stop it), but one New Hampshire detective decides to keep working a homicide case. I love that idea. It’s at once so ridiculous and so human: We are all the Last Policeman, after all, going about our jobs, doing what we know how to do, as we wait for our death, which may come tomorrow or fifty years from now. We’re all living on borrowed time.

determine

The apostles never described themselves as wealthy; instead, they warned those who were rich that their wealth could indeed threaten their perspective on eternal matters. Like

Objectivity is paramount; this is the first principle of detective

In fact, while other men within the culture often had more than one wife, the apostles allowed men to rise to leadership only if they limited themselves to one wife (1 Tim. 3:2).

I guffawed. Like literally. Before I'd done it myself, I didn't even know what guffawed meant.

on FarmVille.

The writing gets easy once your characters trust that you will not only report what they say but convey what they mean and feel. ~ Michael Kent

Compared to eternity, this mortal existence is but a vapor, created by God to be a wonderful place where love is possible for those who choose it.

As I have reminded you time and time again, playing detective is dangerous and not for amateurs, and you are exactly that: a goddamn amateur when it comes to homicide investigation.

Homicide detectives know it as well. Emergency room nurses, paramedics—they all know the dirty little secret: It doesn’t get any easier. In fact, it lives in you. Every trauma, every horrible sight, every senseless death, every feral, blood-soaked act of violence in the name of self-preservation—they all accumulate like silt at the bottom of a person’s heart until the weight is unbearable.

First, if we live in a purely natural, physical world governed by the “cause and effect” relationships between chemical processes in our brains, “free will” is an illusion, and the idea of true moral choice is nonsensical. How can I, as a detective, hold a murderer accountable for a series of chemical reactions that occurred in his brain when he didn’t have the freedom to escape the causal chain of biological events?

all of us have a point of view; all of us hold opinions and ideas that color the way we see the world. Anyone who tells you that he (or she) is completely objective and devoid of presuppositions has another more important

If the case isn't plea bargained, dismissed or placed on the inactive docket for an indefinite period of time, if by some perverse twist of fate it becomes a trial by jury, you will then have the opportunity of sitting on the witness stand and reciting under oath the facts of the case-a brief moment in the sun that clouds over with the appearance of the aforementioned defense attorney who, at worst, will accuse you of perjuring yourself in a gross injustice or, at best, accuse you of conducting an investigation so incredibly slipshod that the real killer has been allowed to roam free. Once both sides have argued the facts of the case, a jury of twelve men and women picked from computer lists of registered voters in one of America's most undereducated cities will go to a room and begin shouting. If these happy people manage to overcome the natural impulse to avoid any act of collective judgement, they just may find one human being guilty of murdering another. Then you can go to Cher's Pub at Lexington and Guilford, where that selfsame assistant state's attorney, if possessed of any human qualities at all, will buy you a bottle of domestic beer. And you drink it. Because in a police department of about three thousand sworn souls, you are one of thirty-six investigators entrusted with the pursuit of that most extraordinary of crimes: the theft of a human life. You speak for the dead. You avenge those lost to the world. Your paycheck may come from fiscal services but, goddammit, after six beers you can pretty much convince yourself that you work for the Lord himself. If you are not as good as you should be, you'll be gone within a year or two, transferred to fugitive, or auto theft or check and fraud at the other end of the hall. If you are good enough, you will never do anything else as a cop that matters this much. Homicide is the major leagues, the center ring, the show. It always has been. When Cain threw a cap into Abel, you don't think The Big Guy told a couple of fresh uniforms to go down and work up the prosecution report. Hell no, he sent for a fucking detective. And it will always be that way, because the homicide unit of any urban police force has for generations been the natural habitat of that rarefied species, the thinking cop.

Edgerton walks out of the interrogation room with a small kernel of rage growing inside him, a heat that few murderers ever manage to spark inside a detective. Part of it is the stupidity of Dale’s first attempt at a statement, part of it his childlike denial, but in the end what angers Harry Edgerton most is simply the magnitude of the crime. He sees Andrea Perry’s school picture inside the binder and it stokes the rage; how could such a life be destroyed by the likes of Eugene Dale?

Honey, I was a Detective with Homicide for ten years and before that I boosted cars for a living. Trust me, I not only can pick a lock, but I can do it with my eyes closed. The question is how the hell do you know how to pick a lock?” – Jase Devlin

Homicidal satanic cults are the detective's version of yetis: no one has ever seen one and there is no proof that they exist, but one big blurry fingerprint and the media turn into a gibbering, foaming pack, so we have to act as though we take the idea at least semi-seriously.

If there are good reasons why God might permit evil in this life (such as the preservation of free will and the ability to love genuinely), concerns about His failure to act are simply unreasonable. Doubts about God’s existence based on the problem of evil may have emotional appeal, but they lack rational foundation because reasonable explanations do, in fact, exist.

show from the last 20 years, look out for a detective by the name of John Munch. Always played by the same man, Richard Belzer, he was originally a character on Homicide: Life on the Street, before joining the cast of Law & Order Special Victims Unit. But there’s more; he has also been seen on episodes of The X-Files, Arrested Development, The Wire, 30 Rock and many more - always the same actor as the same character. Weird, but amazing nonetheless.

Then you can go to Cher's Pub at Lexington and Guilford, where that selfsame assistant state's attorney, if possessed of any human qualities at all, will buy you a bottle of domestic beer. And you drink it. Because in a police department of about three thousand sworn souls, you are one of thirty-six investigators entrusted with the pursuit of that most extraordinary of crimes: the theft of a human life. You speak for the dead. You avenge those lost to the world. Your paycheck may come from fiscal services but, goddammit, after six beers you can pretty much convince yourself that you work for the Lord himself. If you are not as good as you should be, you'll be gone within a year or two, transferred to fugitive, or auto theft or check and fraud at the other end of the hall. If you are good enough, you will never do anything else as a cop that matters this much. Homicide is the major leagues, the center ring, the show. It always has been. When Cain threw a cap into Abel, you don't think The Big Guy told a couple of fresh uniforms to go down and work up the prosecution report. Hell no, he sent for a fucking detective.

When Miller had started working homicide, one of the things that had struck him was the surreal calm of the victims’ families. People who had just lost wives, husbands, children, and lovers. People whose lives had just been branded by violence. More often than not, they were calmly offering drinks and answering questions, making the detectives feel welcome. A civilian coming in unaware might have mistaken them for whole. It was only in the careful way they held themselves and the extra quarter second it took their eyes to focus that Miller could see how deep the damage was.

Ford and General Motors executives made a big deal of the occasion by driving to Washington in their hybrid vehicles. Mulally of Ford came in an Escape SUV hybrid. Wagoner of General Motors was chauffeured in a Chevy Malibu hybrid. Poor Bob Nardelli of Chrysler. The pickings were slim. Chrysler, known more for the styling of it's bodies than for its technological savvy, sent Nardelli to Washington in an Aspen Hybrid SUV, about the only "green" thing Chrysler had to offer. Problem is, it was a terrible vehicle and unreliable. Despite being partially powered by a battery, the Aspen ran on a V-8 Hemi and got less than twenty miles to the gallon. The charging system was flawed and difficult to service. His driver was Mike Carlisle, the homicide detective who had retired from the Detroit Police Department just a month earlier. The media was invited to snap bon voyage photographs in Detroit, which they dutifully filed. What they did not see -and what Carlisle later told me- was that there were two engineers tailing Nardelli at a discreet three-mile buffer, carrying laptops and a trunk full of tolls in case the Aspen broke down. Even Chrysler didn't trust their products.

Reading Group Guide Questions Discussion questions for The Three Pines Mysteries, by Louise Penny 1. How important is the use of humor in this book? 2. Which Three Pines villager would you most like to have cafe au lait with at the bistro? 3. Why is Ruth a villager? 4. Louise Penny says her books are about murder, but at their heart they’re about other things. What else is this book about? What are some other themes? 5. Agent Nichol is an extremely controversial character in the books. What do you think of her? What purpose does she serve? Discussion questions for Still Life 1. At the beginning of Still Life, we are told that “violent death still surprised” Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. Why is that odd for a homicide detective, and how does it influence his work? What are his strengths and his weaknesses? 2. The village of Three Pines is not on any map, and when Gamache and Agent Nicole first arrive there, they see “the inevitable paradox. An old stone mill sat beside a pond, the mid-morning sun warming its fieldstones. Around it the maples and birches and wild cherry trees held their fragile leaves, like thousands of happy hands waving to them on arrival. And police cars. The snakes in Eden.” Can you find other echoes of Paradise in Three Pines, and what role do snakes—real or metaphorical—play there? 3. There are three main couples in the book: Clara and Peter, Olivier and Gabri, and

they’re bloody good ones too. I thought we’d finished with this nonsense last year when we raided that house out on the Limerick road and found the printing press. But these are much higher quality. It wouldn’t have been detected at all except for the banknote counting machine that spat it out.” “Where did they come from?” Lyons said. “Oh, the usual. These two came from different pubs in the city when the landlord was doing the lodgement after the weekend, and I’m sure we’re not finished with them yet. I’ve put out a notification to all the pubs and restaurants to be sure to use their pens on all twenties, but you know yourself, when they are busy they don’t bother. Will you take Eamon out to the bars that these came from and see if there’s any CCTV, or if the barmen remember anything about who might have passed them?” Hays said. “Yes sure, no problem. I never need much encouragement to go calling on pubs, as you know!” Lyons said. *

But even in Gavle I went on digging into the case." "I don't suppose that Henrik would ever let up." "That's true, but that's not the reason. The puzzle about Harriet still fascinates me to this day. I mean... it's like this: every police officer has his own unsolved mystery. I remember from my days in Hedestad how older colleagues would talk in the canteen about the case of Rebecka. There was one officer in particular, a man named Torstensson - he's been dead for years - who year after year kept returning to that case. In his free time and when he was on holiday. Whenever there was a period of calm among the local hooligans he would take out those folders and study them." "Was that also a case about a missing girl?" Morell looked surprised. Then he smiled when he realised that Blomkvist was looking for some sort of connection. "No, that's not why I mentioned it. I'm talking about the soul of a policeman. The Rebecka case was something that happened before Harriet Vanger was even born, and the statute of limitations has long since run out. Sometime in the forties a woman was assaulted in Hedestad, raped, and murdered. That's not altogether uncommon. Every officer, at some point in his career, has to investigate that kind of crime, but what I'm talking about are those cases that stay with you and get under your skin during the investigation. This girl was killed in the most brutal way. The killer tied her up and stuck her head into the smouldering embers of a fireplace. One can only guess how long it took for the poor girl to die, or what torment she must have endured." "Christ Almighty." "Exactly. It was so sadistic. Poor Torstensson was the first detective on the scene after she was found. And the murder remained unsolved, even though experts were called in from Stockholm. He could never let go of that case." "I can understand that." "My Rebecka case was Harriet. In this instance we don't even know how she died. We can't even prove that a murder was committed. But I have never been able to let it go." He paused to think for a moment. "Being a homicide detective can be the loneliest job in the world. The friends of the victim are upset and in despair, but sooner or later - after weeks or months - they go back to their everyday lives. For the closest family it takes longer, but for the most part, to some degree, they too get over their grieving and despair. Life has to go on; it does go on. But the unsolved murders keep gnawing away and in the end there's only one person left who thinks night and day about the victim: it's the officer who's left with the investigation.

Selena between them at a long counter overlooking the dance floor. Backs to the D.J. booth, they faced the door. Two other homicide detectives, hand-picked by Lt. Lee, posed as a waitress and a bouncer, covering the crowd and the door. The composite the police sketch artist had created with Selena's help burned in their brains, but nothing so far. "This is not nearly

Your wife?” “Right.” “What does she do?” Tracy asked. “She works for a janitorial company; they clean the buildings downtown.” “She works nights?” Kins said. “Yeah.” “Do you have kids?” Tracy asked. “A daughter.” “Who watches your daughter when you and your wife are working nights?” “My mother-in-law.” “Does she stay at your house?” Tracy said. “No, my wife drops her off on her way to work.” “So nobody was at home when you got there Sunday night?” Bankston shook his head. “No.” He sat up again. “Can I ask a question?” “Sure.” “Why are you asking me these questions?” “That’s fair,” Kins said, looking to Tracy before answering. “One of our labs found your DNA on a piece of rope left at a crime scene.” “My DNA?” “It came up in the computer database because of your military service. The computer generated it, so we have to follow up and try to get to the bottom of it.” “Any thoughts on that?” Tracy said. Bankston squinted. “I guess I could have touched it when I wasn’t wearing my gloves.” Tracy looked to Kins, and they both nodded as if to say, “That’s plausible,” which was for Bankston’s benefit. Her instincts were telling her otherwise. She said, “We were hoping there’s a way we could determine where that rope was delivered, to which Home Depot.” “I wouldn’t know that,” Bankston said. “Do they keep records of where things are shipped? I mean, is there a way we could match a piece of rope to a particular shipment from this warehouse?” “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know how to do that. That’s computer stuff, and I’m strictly the labor, you know?” “What did you do in the Army?” Kins asked. “Advance detail.” “What does advance detail do?” “We set up the bases.” “What did that entail?” “Pouring concrete and putting up the tilt-up buildings and tents.” “So no combat?” Kins asked. “No.” “Are those tents like those big circus tents?” Tracy asked. “Sort of like that.” “They still hold them up with stakes and rope?” “Still do.” “That part of your job?” “Yeah, sure.” “Okay, listen, David,” Tracy said. “I know you were in the police academy.” “You do?” “It came up on our computer system. So I’m guessing you know that our job is to eliminate suspects just as much as it is to find them.” “Sure.” “And we got your DNA on a piece of rope found at a crime scene.” “Right.” “So I have to ask if you would you be willing to come in and help us clear you.” “Now?” “No. When you get off work; when it’s convenient.” Bankston gave it some thought. “I suppose I could come in after work. I get off around four. I’d have to call my wife.” “Four o’clock works,” Tracy said. She was still trying to figure Bankston out. He seemed nervous, which wasn’t unexpected when two homicide detectives came to your place of work to ask you questions, but he also seemed to almost be enjoying the interaction, an indication that he might still be a cop wannabe, someone who listened to police and fire scanners and got off on cop shows. But it was more than his demeanor giving her pause. There was the fact that Bankston had handled the rope, that his time card showed he’d had the opportunity to have killed at least Schreiber and Watson, and that he had no alibi for those nights, not with his wife working and his daughter with his mother-in-law. Tracy would have Faz and Del take Bankston’s photo to the Dancing Bare and the Pink Palace, to see if anyone recognized him. She’d also run his name through the Department of Licensing to determine what type of car he drove. “What would I have to do . . . to clear me?” “We’d like you to take a lie detector test. They’d ask you questions like the ones we just asked you—where you work, details about your job, those sorts of things.” “Would you be the one administering the test?” “No,” Tracy said. “We’d have someone trained to do that give you the test, but both Detective Rowe and I would be there to help get you set up.” “Okay,” Bankston said. “But like I said, I have

Fear is neither a disease nor a perversion. Fear is our most essential survival mechanism. It has many forms and functions. The mouse staring into the snake’s face doesn’t apologize for its interest.

The Q course for Special Forces, the hardest training in the world. Desert Storm in Iraq. Then over a decade on the street, working his way up from beat cop to homicide detective.

billionaire and becomes a cop, a homicide detective in Los Angeles? Sarah’s brain worked rather like a computer, trying to analyze data, but she came up empty every time for the answer to that question. She had a genius IQ, but what Dante Sinclair had done was just . . . irrational. He’s a patient just like any other. I certainly don’t need to concern myself about

No one is interested with your past, non-professional relationship with Agent Harris, Detective Garner.” I cut them off. Seriously, nobody wants to hear it (I know I do not), since it is probably a perfect fairy tale of a prodigy guy and prodigy girl, and together they catch bad guys while looking excessively beautiful at doing it. They look so majestic side by side, like prom king and queen from some cheesy coming-of-age movie where they dance flawlessly and sing like pro despite that it’s their first gig. Also, their eyes sparkle. It takes a long, sort-of out-of-sense explanation why eyes can figuratively sparkle, but it just does. You know in romantic comedy movie where the guy stares far away and then he is smiling when he finally makes a decision involving the only girl he wants to spend eternity with? And girl when she meets a boy band member? Yeah, that’s how they look at each other. Jemma looks at this guy like how girl looks at boy (ah, it even sounds sexist in my head), but not at me. She looks like me like I am a special case that she wants to solve. She looks at me like she's trying to find my eyes (which is, always there, I don't know why it is so hard for her to see a pair of black dots above my nose), and maybe I am a little bit irritated because this Harris guy breathes and just like that, you can see the grace in Garner--how big, mushy twinkie, of a person she really is. Also, I am definitely irritated because Jemma's ex is terrifyingly perfect, it's alarming, but then there's me. She's settling down with me. I feel insecure and I do not like that feeling. So, like a literal five years old child, I stroll between them, ruining their unexpected reunion (hey, doesn't anyone want to talk about how Harris tracked down all cases at JCPD so he can jump into whatever his ex is currently working on? This is not reunion, it's stalking) and offer him a handshake. At the time like this, I wish I had electricity running through my palm. I probably couldn’t end this Harris guy’s life, but at least I could give his perfect blond hair a ‘struck by lightning’ makeover. “Hi, Detective Irving. Homicide Unit. Strategic Expert. By the way, I’m good at combining them, you know.” I introduce myself. Which is true, I can be writing a mental note on how to eliminate this threat in my head for all he knows. “Strategy, and murder. I can mix them up.

Homicide detectives were to medical examiners what four-year-old children were to overworked mothers.

I’m not lying!” Dominic raised both hands. “It’s nothing bad, I swear. I just . . . It was supposed to be a surprise.” Giving him the side-eye, Levi said, “You wanted to surprise your homicide-detective boyfriend whose paranoia is at an all-time high after being stalked by a serial killer for a year?” “. . .Yes?

No offense, but there have been enough cop shows about white, middle-aged, male homicide detectives. But we’re going to stay honest to your reality.” Simone glanced at Eve. “Especially yours.

In his years as a street cop, homicide detective, and police chief, Jesse thought he had learned his lesson about hope. He knew better than most just how little purchase hope ever really has. -Jesse Stone

Let her go so she can inform the police? Go running to their detective buddy who’s always hanging around? I don’t think so. If I go to jail, what do you think happens to you, Katie? We don’t have family. We only have each other. Now let’s go.” “I’m sorry,” Katie whispered as she pulled Joy along with her.

Ah, so that explained the floral scent my trusty nose detected. I wasn’t as into the woo-woo stuff as Adeena and Elena, but I appreciated how thoughtful Elena was being. Besides, the place could use a good cleanse after what happened here back in March.

removed. Q: And what was ADA Lewis doing? A: Just observing. The ADA on homicide duty overnight comes to the scene, but they don’t talk. Q: What was Detective Mendez doing? A: He started talking to Mr. Grayson. Q: At any point, did Mr. Grayson appear to be crying or similarly emotional? A: No. He made some noises. But there were no visible tears. Q: Did Detective Mendez eventually get Mr. Grayson to move outside? A: I don’t know. Q: Why not? A: Because

particular conclusion because I started with it as my premise. This

supernatural being exist?” after first excluding the possibility of anything supernatural. Like Alan, I came to a particular conclusion because I started with it as my premise. This is the truest definition of bias, isn’t it? Starting

The effect of the illusion is profound, distorting as it does the natural hostility between hunter and hunted, transforming it until it resembles a relationship more symbiotic than adversarial. That is the lie, and when the roles are perfectly performed, deceit surpasses itself, becoming manipulation on a grand scale and ultimately an act of betrayal. Because what occurs in an interrogation room is indeed little more than a carefully staged drama, a choreographed performance that allows a detective and his suspect to find common ground where none exists. There, in a carefully controlled purgatory, the guilty proclaim their malefactions, though rarely in any form that allows for contrition or resembles an unequivocal admission.

the while Hoffman would wonder if it had been a mistake to give Elise the job of head homicide detective. And all the while Elise would wonder the same thing. Because, hell yeah, she was jumpy. It wasn’t this Jay Thomas Paul person’s fault. Her reaction simply underscored a problem she hadn’t yet gotten a handle on. Her psych evaluation, which she’d never seen, although she’d love to, probably said something about the psychological ramifications of being taken captive and tortured by a madman. She’d done okay at first, after it was all over. But now she suspected post-traumatic stress disorder was kicking in. She hoped it would eventually kick its way back out. If not, she might have to step down as head of homicide.

Halpin moved back to the gun, intent on putting it in Richard’s hands. The prosecutor had Perez tell the jury about his two trips down to Tijuana to get the .22 from his friend. Perez said he learned of Richard’s arrest over the radio just as he and Sheriff’s Homicide men were crossing the border into Mexico. He testified he got the gun, gave it to the homicide detectives, and returned to L.A. with them.

I’d never been around a homicide detective. But I grew up reading crime novels and had an idea what to expect. It turned out those books hadn’t made me as smart as I thought.

Daylight slanted in through the bars making his eyes glint like polished steel. Motes of dust frenzied in his atmosphere as if drawing energy from the electric force of his presence. A thin ring of gold glinted in his left ear, and sharp cheekbones underscored an arrogant brow. He’d look stern but for his mouth, which was not so severe. It bowed with a fullness she might have called feminine if the rest of his face wasn’t so brutally cast. Mercy hadn’t realized she’d been staring at his lips, gripped with a queer sort of fascination until they parted and he spoke. “You were quite impressive back there.” “What?” Mercy shook her head dumbly. Had he just complimented her? Had they just been through the same scene? She’d never been less impressed with herself in her entire life. Would that she could have been like him. Smooth and unaffected. Infuriatingly self-assured. And yet…he’d only been that way after breaking the nose of the officer who'd struck her, and possibly his jaw. Lord but she’d never seen a man move like that before. “I listened to your deductions,” he explained. “From where you were hiding in the closet?” she quipped, rather unwisely. Something flickered in his eyes, and yet again she was left to guess if she’d angered or amused him. “From where I was hiding in the closet,” he said with a droll sigh as he shifted, seeming to find a more comfortable position for his bound hands. “You’re obviously cleverer than the detectives. How do you know so much about murder scenes?” Mercy warned herself not to preen. She stomped on the lush warmth threatening to spread from her chest at his encouragement, and thrust her nose in the air, perhaps a little too high. “I am one of only three female members of the Investigator Eddard Sharpe Society of Homicidal Mystery Analysis. As penned by the noted novelist, J. Francis Morgan, whom I suspect is a woman.” “Why do you suspect that?” His lip twitched, as if he also battled to suppress his own expression. “Because men tend to write women characters terribly, don’t they? But J. Francis Morgan is a master of character and often, the mystery is even solved by a woman rather than Detective Sharpe. His heroines are not needlessly weak or stupid or simpering. They’re strong. Dangerous. Powerful. Sometimes even villainous and complicated. That is good literature, I say. Because it’s true to life.” He’d ceased fighting his smile and allowed his lip to quirk up in a half-smile as he regarded her from beneath his dark brow. “Mathilde’s murderer now has one more person they’d do well to fear in you.” She leveled him a sour look. “Does that mean you fear me?” He tilted toward her. Suddenly—distressingly—grave. “You terrify me, Mercy Goode.

A lawsuit, if allowed to proceed, would give the family, as well as homicide detectives in New York, a tool they could use to force disclosure of deep secrets. President Ford’s chief of staff, Donald Rumsfeld, and his deputy Dick Cheney, recognized the danger. Cheney warned Rumsfeld in a memo that a lawsuit might force the CIA “to disclose highly classified national security information.” To head off this looming disaster, he recommended that Ford make a public “expression of regret” and “express a willingness to meet personally with Mrs. Olson and her children.

Up in homicide, an authoritarian shift commander is even more likely to be held in contempt by his detectives—men who would not, in fact, be on the sixth floor of headquarters if they weren’t eighteen of the most self-motivated cops in the department. In homicide, the laws of natural selection apply: A cop who puts down enough cases stays, a cop who doesn’t is gone. Given that basic truth, there isn’t much respect for the notion that a cop shrewd enough to maneuver his way into homicide and then put together forty or fifty cases somehow needs to have a shift commander’s finger in his eye. Rank, of course, has it privileges, but a homicide supervisor who exercises his divine right to chew ass on every conceivable occasion will in the end create a shift of alienated sergeants and overly cautious detectives, unwilling or incapable of acting on their own instincts.

The deaths of Peter, Paul, James, and John are very well attested, and the remaining martyrdom accounts of the apostles (with the possible exception of Matthias

Ivan Law’s name was added to the homicide file by LAPD who will be solely responsible for solving the murders of Tupac Shakur and Christopher Wallace (Notorious B.I.G.)1. According to a source, LAPD robbery homicide detective Lieutenant Thompson said "I am Adding your name Ivan Law to the Biggie Homicide file. I have Dr Dre’s address I’m going to interview him for the murders of Biggie,"2 which suggests that Dr. Dre is being investigated for the murder of Christopher Wallace.

Ivan Law’s name was added to the homicide file by LAPD who will be solely responsible for solving the murders of Tupac Shakur and Christopher Wallace (Notorious B.I.G.)1. According to a source, LAPD robbery homicide detective Lieutenant Thompson said "I am Adding your name Ivan Law to the Biggie Homicide file. I have Dr Dre’s address I’m going to interview him for the murders of Biggie,"2 which suggests that Dr. Dre is being investigated for the murder of Christopher Wallace.

In fact, about 60 percent of gun deaths in the United States are suicides, not homicides or rare accidents.

nothing really excessive aside from a significantly sized rusty-brown stain on the hardwood, about six feet from the door. Such death markers always saddened me—the loss they represented, the people who would miss out on the rest of their lives. If I ever stopped feeling that way, I’d retire. The desire to obtain justice for these victims is what gets homicide detectives like me out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately, it’s also what keeps homicide detectives like me awake at night.

More likely it was boxed in a closet after his death, an enduring embarrassment like a dead minister’s porn stash or an old soldier’s necklace of dried ears or collection of Nazi paraphernalia.

While we are often willing to spend time reading the Bible, praying, or participating in church programs and services, few of us recognize the importance of becoming good Christian case makers. Prosecutors are successful when they master the facts of the case and then learn how to navigate and respond to the tactics of the defense team. Christians need to learn from that model as well. We need to master the facts and evidence supporting the claims of Christianity and anticipate the tactics of those who oppose us. This kind of preparation is a form of worship. When we devote ourselves to this rational preparation and study, we are worshipping God with our mind, the very thing He has called us to do (Matt. 22:37). Section 2 Examine the Evidence Applying the principles of investigation to the claims of the New Testament

Not long ago, several veteran homicide detectives in Detroit were publicly upbraided and disciplined by their superiors for using the office Xerox machine as a polygraph device. It seems that the detectives, when confronted with a statement of dubious veracity, would sometimes adjourn to the Xerox room and load three sheets of paper into the feeder.

This is America’s most famous child abduction case, perpetrated by America’s most infamous serial killer, investigated by America’s most clueless homicide detectives.

This is America’s most famous child abduction case, perpetrated by America’s most infamous serial killer, investigated by America’s most clueless homicide detectives.

All evidence can be divided into two broad categories: direct and indirect. Direct evidence is simply the testimony of eyewitnesses. Indirect evidence (also called 'circumstantial evidence') is everything else.

All of us ought to be willing to argue the merits of our case without resorting to tactics unbecoming of our worldviews.

He's easily fooled, I hear,' said Jerome. 'Famous for his credulity.' 'Most homicide detectives are,' agreed Gamache.

An inconvenient truth is preferable to a convenient lie.

Burnout is more than an occupational hazard in the homicide unit, it is a psychological certainty. A contagion that spreads from one detective to his partner to a whole squad, the who-really-gives-a-shit attitude threatens not those investigations involving genuine victims -- such cases are, more often than not, the cure for burnout -- but rather those murders in which the dead man is indistinguishable from his killer. An American detective's philosophical cul-de-sac: If a drug dealer falls in West Baltimore and no one is there to hear him, does he make a sound?

We all sat there, silently looking out over an expanse of floating clothes, body parts, and an occasional length of twisted metal trapped in between some weeds, as jet fuel trailed gently across our nostrils. It was so starkly unfamiliar that it was disorienting. Silently, we surveyed it all and then, as if someone had flipped a switch, we went to work.

Officer Willis, who looked bone-tired, still took the time to write a report of what had happened. A female officer entered the room at one point to tell him that the missing persons report had been canceled and that a press conference had been scheduled for first thing in the morning. A detective from homicide, someone named Kittleson, would take over from here. He needed to be brought up to speed as soon as possible. The license plate was still a dead end.

John Duke’s picture flashes across my screen, and I almost drop my phone. Motherfucker. Twenty-eight. Fit. Single. Ambitious. Newly promoted to homicide detective—a coveted spot. Definitely not ugly—can’t believe I’m admitting that.

the theory that if he was still alive, that meant that Khalil hadn’t begun his final cleanup operation. Boris didn’t answer his cell phone, but neither did Asad Khalil nor a homicide detective, so I left another message with the maître d’ for Boris

And then there was punishment. Hundreds of machines were being used not just by police forces and homicide detectives for investigative purposes but also by prisons and mental-health systems for rehabilitation. At any moment in America, there were dozens of murderers, rapists, and domestic abusers having their crimes pumped into their skulls from their victims’ points of view. The feeling of a punch that breaks a nose, the sledgehammer impact and burn of a bullet, the indescribable feeling of one’s neck being opened like a zipper. They smelled the blood and cordite, felt the pheromones of fear. They heard the screams, the cries, the unanswered pleas for mercy. A Clockwork Orange had nothing on the machine, and Barnes had experienced all varieties of its punishments.

Nudity and explicit sex are far more easily available now than are clear images of death. The quasi-violence of movies and television dwells on the lively acts of killing – flying kicks, roaring weapons, crashing cars, flaming explosions. These are the moral equivalents of old-time cinematic sex. The fictional spurting of gun muzzles after flirtation and seduction but stop a titillating instant short of actual copulation. The results of such aggressive vivacity remain a mystery. The corpse itself, riddled and gaping, swelling or dismembered, the action of heat and bacteria, of mummification or decay are the most illicit pornography. The images we seldom see are the aftermath of violent deaths. Your family newspaper will not print photos of the puddled suicide who jumped from the fourteenth floor. No car wrecks with the body parts unevenly distributed, no murder victim sprawled in his own juices. Despite the endless preaching against violent crime, despite the enormous and avid audience for mayhem, these images are taboo.

When I first met my wife, Gloria over 20 years ago, I recalled being in a local laundry reading a homicide detective magazine based on gruesome true stories of serial killers, etc. Gloria asked me what I was reading, and I just stood there in awe - embarrassed, and in disbelief. I didn’t want her to think I was some kind of weirdo. Horrors of life and human behavior have always fascinated me, even as far back as I can remember.

If you’re watching a popular American show from the last 20 years, look out for a detective by the name of John Munch. Always played by the same man, Richard Belzer, he was originally a character on Homicide: Life on the Street, before joining the cast of Law & Order Special Victims Unit. But there’s more; he has also been seen on episodes of The X-Files, Arrested Development, The Wire, 30 Rock and many more - always the same actor as the same character.