8. Miranda Rights and Wrongs

It wasn't the murder of another no-name stripper causing all the excitement in and around LAPD Hollywood Division, but rather the identity of her killer, Dr. James Dean "J.D." Hollister, a perfectly respectable, twenty-eight-year-old orthopedic surgery resident at UCLA who'd been apprehended in a motel room during the highly skillful removal of her head.

According to Nancy Grace -- who couldn't stop yakking about the guy if she'd been the one whose face and body were found in two separate rooms --  Hollister had sailed through Harvard on a full scholarship. Working alone by a desktop TV shrieking "shocking new updates!" from "reliable, inside sources!" I learned that Hollister -- in custody just a floor above me -- had gone on to graduate with honors from Johns Hopkins Medical School and perform the first successful hand re-attachment surgery in the U.S. Engaged to be married to a former Miss U.S.A. and self-made dot com millionairess, he had surmounted overwhelming odds, having survived a childhood bout of mumps that rendered him totally deaf. 

What I'm getting at with that last tidbit of information regarding the subject's hearing problem is that anybody looking for someone to blame for what happened next might want to start with Nancy Grace.

"I'm deaf," Hollister had told Officer Muñoz, who kicked in his motel room door, gun drawn, after responding to a call from a pair of lusty Swedish guests whose love making was repeatedly interrupted by the squeal of a chain saw. Though Hollister had only uttered those two simple words, I came across a copy of the blood-smeared, hand-written note he traded back and forth with officers from there. "I'm innocent," he scrawled, obviously a comedian as well as a deaf-mute, considering he'd just been ordered to drop Rita's head. "Call my lawyer."

"You're under arrest," Muñoz scribbled, placing him into custody. Though the officer was careful to emphasize that he read the suspect his rights at that point, what was glaringly missing from the report, I suddenly noticed -- to my complete horror -- was a shred of evidence the suspect had heard them.

Hey, I'm no genius, but seriously, dude? The ADA implications alone were enough to blow the whole freaking case out of the water -- don't get me started on a little thing called the United States Constitution. Oh, hell yes I've heard of it, I took the GED! No idea who Miranda was, but that chick had some damn rights for chrissake. I slammed shut the case file, to discover the captain standing in the shadows, flicking that signature Zippo to sneak a cigarette. "Rough night," he said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

"You scared me, Chuck."

"Captain," he corrected me. "I'm only Chuck with the lights out." That didn't sound as sexy as last time he said it. Now, it occurred to me, it might have been some kind of a challenge, or even the teeniest, tiniest little bud of a threat. Or maybe I just imagined all of that. Like I say, he seemed to have that effect on me, fantastically hypnotic. Sue me, the guy was hot. Smoking hot. Try being a bad actress forced to answer to a blue-eyed boss with a big, shiny badge and a whole lot of gun on his hip.

Totally flustered, more unsure than ever whether to kiss him or call a cop, I managed to reach around him and flip out the light. "You're not going to want to hear this," I whispered conspiratorially, my breath hot in his ear. "But something's wrong here, Chuck."