The detective who worked with John on the Bradford case – a hard-working, diligent, bachelor –finally found the girl of his dreams, decided to get married and needed a best man. Who else but John St. John?

John didn’t do tuxes or shined shoes, bow ties, or cuff links.

When I realized John would have to rent a tux, I remembered the time my son Jeff asked him where he bought his clothes.  

“I buy my suits at the same place I buy tools,” St. John said. “Sears.”

“Sears?” Jeff responded. “That’s where my dad buys tires.”

I expected a wedding with a large contingent of homicide detectives to duplicate the few homicide conventions attended – a rowdy, booze-flowing-like-water affair where the only thing missing would be the stripper jumping out of a coffin. Instead, the quiet, pleasant ceremony reminded me of my own wedding where everyone behaved like well-mannered adults.

During the wedding ceremony, I remembered a recent conversation I’d had with the groom-to-be, John and me. We were at a local restaurant with one specific purpose – to dissect the Bradford case. The detectives reviewed the entire case – every piece of evidence, every witness, every interview, every possible misstep, every document. Then, the total strategy.  

No true crime television show could have been more compelling. Now that husband-to-be would be sharing a life with his lovely bride. I hoped she had a lively sense of humor and good listening skills.