Two cops huddled in a dingy backroom finishing up reports on what they agreed had been a suicide, but then the best friend of the deceased called and said she was responsible for the death and wanted to be arrested.

The younger cop said, “She’s lying. There is no way she lifted her best friend up onto a table saw, of all things, switched it on and somehow pushed her into the blade. It’s not even physically possible. Murders are done with guns or knives, not table saws.”

The older cop smiled ruefully. The kid thought he was ‘doing justice,’ or some such shit.

He said, “It’s good enough for me. You don’t get confessions to murder every day, buddy. Maybe she was being blackmailed by her so-called best friend. That’s a motive for murder.”

The younger cop hadn’t considered that. No matter how remote, confessions had to be checked out. They drove to the home of Anne Doss in a fashionable gated community. Ms. Doss, dressed impeccably in a chocolate brown pants suit, let them in and led them to a well-appointed sitting room. Big hoop earrings dangled from her ears and her shoulder-length honey blonde hair curled enticingly around her neck. She was by anybody's standards a first -rate hottie. The only thing that detracted from the glamor girl look was that she'd been crying, her soft blue eyes were soaking wet.

The young cop, Tim Lane, spoke up. “We’re not arresting you.”

Anne Doss’s dark eyebrows arched. She said, “Why not? I’m responsible.”

Tim nodded. “We...