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PROLOGUE
You have a couple of options when you answer the door wearing nothing but a skin-tight pair of André the Giant boxer briefs before being arrested for murder.
ONE: You accept what's happening and fully embrace your shame.
TWO: You man up and rock those undergarments with the same aplomb James Bond would while sipping vodka martinis (shaken, not stirred) at a no-limit baccarat table in the Casino de Monte-Carlo.
I attempted to pull off the latter and tried to puff out my hairy chest, which was suddenly itchy as hell. I also quickly real¬ized my torso was long overdue for a trim.
"Burt Reynolds on a bearskin rug ain't got nothing on you, Big Guy. And while I'm sure a bunch of tabloids will duke it out for the privilege of splashing this iconic pose all over the cover of a future issue, I'd hardly call that bulge the Eighth Wonder of the World."
Vancouver Police Department Homicide Detective Constable Rya Shepard, flanked by two uniformed officers, tugged on the lapels of her tan pantsuit blazer before nodding toward my junk and rolling her eyes.
"Hello, Rya. You seem chipper." I grabbed a T-shirt and pair of track pants on the banister beside me and slipped them on faster than it takes a piece of weakened two-by-four western red cedar to break in half over my forehead after winning a wrestling match.
"Detective Shepard?" asked one of the uniformed officers beside the woman I had long loved with feelings I had never shared.
Rya sighed audibly before looking downwards. "Cuff him."
One of the cops strutted forward, yanked my wrists behind my back, and handcuffed me while his partner pulled a laminated card from a pouch on his police duty belt and proceeded to read aloud my rights. "John Edward Ounstead, AKA "Hammerhead" Jed Ounstead. You are hereby under arrest for the murder of"
I couldn't take it anymore. "What the hell, Rya?!?"
"Don't make this any harder than it has to be," she said, hang¬ing her head.
I clenched my jaw as Officer Tweedle-Dumb snapped on the metal restraints.
"This isn't a heel turn, Detective. You know me. I'm not a murderer."
Rya crossed her arms and finally looked me in the eye. "I hope you're right, Jed."
"Hope? What happened to trust?"
She turned her back to me. "Take him away," she said softly to the officers.