I grab a cup, fill it to the rim with coffee, and drink half of it down hot on the way to my office. Using my key, I open the door and flip on the light. The odors of paper dust and toner greet me when I walk in. It’s a small space, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with bad lighting and a dingy window that looks out over Main Street. It’s jam-packed with a metal desk, a mismatched file cabinet, two hotel-fare visitor chairs, a half-dead ficus tree, and a bookcase upon which a broken coffeemaker sits. Shortcomings aside, this is my home away from home, and most days I’m unduly glad to be here.
Dropping my overnight bag at the door, I go directly to my desk and dial Sheriff Rasmussen’s number from memory. I’ve known the sheriff for almost a year now. We’ve drunk a few beers together and butted heads a couple of times, but he’s a decent man and a good cop. We worked closely together during the Slabaugh case last December. It was a difficult investigation, during which four people lost their lives, shattering a family and shaking everyone involved, including me. Especially me. It was the first time in the course of my career I used deadly force. I’m still dealing with the aftermath of that, mostly in the form of nightmares. On bad days, I still flash back to the moment I pulled the trigger, and I wonder if I could have done something different.
I keep tabs on the surviving children. Not as any kind of penance—that’s what I tell myself anyway—but because I care. I want to make sure they have everything they need and every opportunity they deserve.
On the phone, I hear Rasmussen’s voice telling me to leave a message, and I can’t help but think, Golf day. I let him know I’m going to be out of town for a few days and ask him to look in on my department. I leave my cell number and tell him to contact Glock if he needs anything in my absence.
I’m in the process of hanging up when Mona buzzes me and lets me know my team has arrived. I hit the power button on my desktop to begin the lengthy process of booting up, then start for the conference room. Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore meets me in the hall. He’s about thirty years old, unmarried, and has a sense of humor most civilians don’t appreciate. He’s originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, and had a promising career with the police department there—until he lost his job due to an off-duty DUI. I took him on, with the caveat that if I ever caught him drinking on the job, I’d fire him on the spot and do my utmost to make sure he never worked in law enforcement again. He’s been with the department for three years now and has never breached our agreement.
Eight months ago, he was shot during a sting I set up to catch a killer. He sustained a nonpenetrating head wound, which left him with a concussion and a gash that required stitches. Every now and then, we still rib him about the thickness of his skull, but he takes it in stride. What I like most about Skid is that while he might be one of my less personable officers, I know that if things get dicey, I can count on him to back me up.
“How was the trip?” I ask.
“About two days too long.”
“You were only gone two days.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “Thanks for covering for me, Chief.”
“Your parents doing okay?”
“They’re fine. Glad to see me, if you can imagine that.”
A deep male voice cuts in. “They were lying about being glad to see you, dude.”
Glock stops next to Skid. The two men shake hands and then Glock turns his attention to me. “This guy told you he was going to Michigan?”
“That’s a likely story,” Mona mutters as she squeezes past.
“He was probably down at the Brass Rail boozing it up,” Glock says with a grin. “I’d fire his ass.”
“Who’s getting fired?” comes a gravelly voice from behind us.
We turn, to see Roland “Pickles” Shumaker shuffle toward us, his gnarled hands clutching mismatched mugs filled with coffee. At the age of seventy-five, he’s my only auxiliary officer and works part-time—when I can get him to go home, that is. During the 1980s, Pickles single-handedly brought down one of the largest methamphetamine rings in the state. He’s slowed down the last couple of years, but he’s still a good cop. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the pressure I received from the town council, he’d still be full-time. But several of the more vocal members felt he was too old to be an effective police officer—mainly due to an incident in which he shot and killed a rooster during a call. The case caused an uproar, not only from the dead rooster’s owner but from some of the community, as well. I couldn’t see letting Pickles go after nearly fifty years of service, especially over a dead chicken. So I met with him privately and asked him to go part-time. He pretended to be pleased about “not working so damn many hours.” But I know he misses being in the thick of things.
Despite the fact that he’s not on the clock this morning, he’s wearing a uniform and his trademark pointy-toed cowboy boots are buffed to a high sheen. I suspect he’ll still be at his desk in his cubicle when the sun goes down.…
“No one’s getting fired,” I tell him.
“Good thing,” he grumbles. “’Cause I ain’t shot no damn chickens lately.”
I keep walking.
At the podium, I set down my mug and scan the room. My eyes land on Mona and her counterpart, Lois, who are seated near the door so they can hear the switchboard and radio.
“Where’s T.J.?” I ask.