Desert Vendetta

By Eric Pulsifer

Riverbend, Arizona sits across the Colorado River across from Sagebrush, a Nevada town with a casino and not much else. The side-by-side towns were founded and grew from a rivalry between two families that grows deadly.

It's up to reporters Alfredo "Fred" Walker and Richard Lawrence to sort through the bodies. Walker is a hard-drinking Tex-Mex with four ex-wives and a lot of baggage, and the Tennessee-bred Lawrence brings tons of talent and a lot of attitude to the investigation. Blackjack dealer Diana Cook and her cocktail waitress friend Beth Rodgers join the investigation, putting themselves in danger as they help the reporters find answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Pulsifer
• Release date: Apr 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310618628

Eric Pulsifer

Eric Pulsifer, a recovering journalist with more than a decade in the business and two more decades of screwing off, completed his first book in 2012. He liked it so much that even a line of road pylons couldn't stop him now.While he works in several genres, his fiction leans more toward mystery/thrillers with a caffeinated mix of realism, imagination, and a bit of a dark edge.His novels Damage Control and Desert Vendetta have likable characters, realistic settings, and the obligatory dead body or three.His newest work, The Beta Testers, takes an even darker apocalyptic turn in a high-tech setting.None of his fiction can be called autobiographical, but he taps his experiences as a professional musician (1986--), family caregiver (2014--) and taxi driver (1997-2007) to add color to his stories.His nonfiction work touches on the creative side and survival as a writer and musician. His first novel, B.I.C.* Cartel (*Butt In Chair) also concentrates on this creative theme.A respected musician, he currently plays harmonica with several bands in Southern California, ranging from bluegrass to jazz to gospel. A perennial student of musicianship and theory, he shares his ideas in Playing Harmonica Like A Real Musician.While he lives in the Los Angeles area, he calls Charleston, South Carolina home. When not writing or playing music, he can be found on a hiking trail with his dog or tearing apart another computer and wondering how it all goes back together.

Book preview

Part I: Secrets uncovered and covered

Chapter One: The body

As soon as Deputy Steve Ritter saw the rolled-up tarp dumped in the desert he knew his day was shot.

Already, Ritter was counting the days until his retirement. Only 19 years to go if he sticks it out this long, he thought. Too bad his abbreviated career with another police agency didn’t count toward his future.

Exiled a year ago to the Mohave County Sheriff’s Office, usually working the area south of Bullhead City, his beat now consisted of a zillion acres of dust, an old gold-mining ghost town and those odd square miles that were not part of the Fort Mohave Indian Reservation. Hardly anybody lived out there, so he spent most of his time driving in the heat and working occasional traffic pileups on Highway 95. Exile.

He had it made a year ago. Working for the Bullhead City Police Department, in a city where people actually lived. All 30,000 of them, though the population would double when the snowbirds came in. They’d bring their RVs into town after summer was over, clog up the roads and Wal-Mart checkout lines, drive across the Colorado River to gamble at the dozen casinos and spend the next few months being crime victims. At least there was action, crucial for someone who basically leaked adrenalin like the 25-year-old Ritter. He still wondered why he jumped to the Mohave County Sheriff’s Office.

Oatman was part of his beat, but most deputies didn’t bother to spend much time there. The town was home to 150, and many of those were miners who didn’t have much use for law enforcement. While the town straddled old Route 66, the stretch coming in from Kingman was too treacherous for all but the most daredevil drivers. That road passed over a mountain and through deserted hamlets such as Gold Road and Sitgreaves Pass, and if your car broke down on that stretch the desert animals might find you before any humans do. Nearly everyone took the two-lane Boundary Cone Road, coming in from the south and the town of Riverbend. Usually the Mohave County Sheriff’s Office sent an officer through Oatman once a day if there was enough time and gas to do so. If it wasn’t such a tourist draw on weekends Ritter wouldn’t waste time or mileage going up there.

His beat also included Riverbend, a relatively new town in Mohave County. Another place that had no real reason to exist though it sat directly across the Colorado river from the Nevada town of Sagebrush with its lone casino. Riverbend and Sagebrush came long after the first casino boom transformed Mohave County from a spot in the middle of the desert to a populated spot in the middle of the desert.

Another quiet day, and the only exciting thing happening was the heat. At 9 a.m. it already was past 90 with a predicted high of 125 and single-digit humidity. Even with his air conditioner running full blast, sweat dribbled from Ritter’s blond flat-top haircut.

He keyed his radio microphone. I’m at Boundary Cone Road at Highway 95. Want me to go up?

Might as well.

Going up. He made his turn and headed straight for the triangular mountain to the east. At one time Boundary Cone was an active volcano; now it stood guard over Oatman. The old mining town had good crowds during the weekend, with people wanting to see a genuine ghost town. But the mystique ended on Sundays. All weekend the town’s three bars did breakout business and a troupe of locals staged Old West gunfights in the street, but only the locals stayed around during the week. This Tuesday the trip up the hill was to be as unexciting as any other.

Ritter thought he saw something about mile up the road. A bit of blue, definitely out of place. A rolled-up tarp, it looked like. He shook his head. People were always dumping their junk out here.

He parked along the road, popped his trunk and got out of the car. This wasn’t a high-risk situation, he thought. Just some trash thrown out in the desert. Better to be prepared, though. He patted his hips to make sure he had his gun and handheld radio before leaving the cruiser. Walking in sand was different from anything else; it was hard to get traction in the deep sand and even going a few feet got tiring.

Desert brush hid most of the tarp from the road, but as he moved closer Ritter could see all of it, including the pair of feet sticking out one end.

Great, he thought. Another homeless guy. But they usually hung out closer to the river. And they’re usually not wearing slacks and nearly-new running shoes either.

He tapped the sole of the guy’s foot with his baton and didn’t get any response.

Another, more insistent attempt to rouse him.

Still nothing.

Then he noticed the shotgun lying next to the tarp. A cheapie pump-action WalMart special; this put him on full alert. He stepped back, pulled his cell phone off his belt and took a few pictures of the bundle and weapon.

Heart pounding in his ears now, Ritter stepped to the other end of the tarp and lifted a corner with his stick. Then staggered a few feet away as his breakfast worked itself up and out.

As soon as his stomach stopped quaking he got on the handheld and called for backup.

He looked again at the rolled-up tarp, one end now covered with black-and-blue-bodied flies. He hoped he wouldn’t have to look at what lay underneath again. Once was enough.

Chapter Two: The newsroom

You sure you’re OK?

I’m always OK. Alfredo Walker was tired of always being asked that question. It didn’t help that his boss, managing editor Vernon Arden, was the one asking.

So long as you’re sure, Arden seemed to be checking Fred’s eyes again. Go out last night?

Yeah. Was home before midnight.

Walker, called Fred by everyone except whatever family was still alive in El Paso, was used to this. It had been this way since his hitch with the L.A. Times ended in flames three years ago. Ever since he rear-ended a police car while on assignment. A field sobriety test showed him driving with a blood alcohol reading of close to .20, enough for him to lose his license and his job. The Times management knew they were firing a brilliant writer, but he just wasn’t worth the risk. Not after several warnings and a company-ordered stint in rehab anyway. It took a while for him to get his driver’s license back and find a publisher willing to take a chance on him, but he he did land on his feet. Sort of. He toiled for a struggling who-knows-why-it’s-there daily in the Inland Empire for a year while rebuilding his reputation, knowing that no matter what he did, his best days were behind him.

Now he was in some wasteland in northern Arizona, far away from the temptations of Southern California. Vernon, hired a year ago to head the Riverbend Courier newsroom, heard he was available and decided he still had the stuff to be a top-notch crime reporter with a change of scenery. So far Fred hadn’t disappointed, but the editor still kept tabs on him. Guess I’m always going to have to deal with that, Walker thought.

Anything exciting? Fred asked, nodding toward the police scanner that kept at a low drone on his desk.

Nothing, Vernon said. Air’s been quiet all morning.

Vernon and two reporters crowded around four desks in the newsroom that was about the size of a kid’s bedroom, with Fred sitting at the desk opposite Vernon. Across the mini-aisle, Richard Lawrence was multitasking; hammering away on his computer keyboard while on the phone with a City Hall source. Richard, in his early 30s, was the youngest of the four-man news crew by at least two decades but his work earned him the right to hang with this bunch of graybeards.

This crew, including fourth man Greg Martino, had more than 100 years of newspaper experience and two semesters of journalism school between them. Richard was the one with the education, but he dropped out of college after a year and started writing for a chain of weeklies in Tennessee and Virginia. Vernon heard about the youngster, who was then covering local politics for a daily in Johnson City, and hired him sight unseen. Richard closed out his Tennessee job on Friday, piled all his belongings -- including his books, clothes, laptop, camping gear, rifle, two guitars and two amplifiers in his Camaro and hit the road Saturday morning. He made the week-long drive to Arizona, checked into a rent-by-the-week hotel in nearby Bullhead City the following Friday and submitted his first story for Monday’s edition.

Richard had finished his phone call and helped himself to some coffee, emptying the glass decanter.

Hey, if I burn another pot of coffee, will y’all help me drink it? he asked. His down-holler accent was sometimes incomprehensible to the guys in the newsroom but it always amused them. The ladies in the front office, especially Pam in personnel, adored him.

Stupid question, Vernon said. Just make sure I can’t read through it.

Always. He busied himself around the coffee maker again. Where’s Greg? Making his rounds?

Yeah. He should be in later.

Fred held up a hand and huddled closer to his scanner. Man, he said, I sure don’t want that at this hour.

What? Vernon wanted to know.

Dead body.

Where?

Out in the desert.

That narrows it down.

No kidding. Fred listened some more, writing in his reporter’s notebook. Off Boundary Cone, he finally said.

So what happened?

They’re saying it’s just somebody wandering around.

What? Richard asked. Natural causes?

Nobody’s saying, but they called for all available units. Detective Haig, too.

Who’s Haig again?

Homicide. Sounds like the sheriff will be there too. I’d better head on over. Fred drained his coffee cup, slung his camera bag over his shoulder, clipped his cell phone and police scanner to his belt and skittered out of the newsroom.

A minute later, they heard Walker’s engine race as he peeled out of the parking lot. Vernon shot a look at Richard.

Must be a good story, the young reporter said without looking up from his terminal. He usually drives like a 90-year-old.

He’d better not tail-end another cop car, or I’ll never hear the end of it, Vernon said.

Chapter Three: Roadblock

Fred Walker, doing 65 on Highway 95, hooked a right on Boundary Cone and slowed down when he saw the cop cars. He counted a half dozen of them, plus an unmarked primer-gray Crown Vic. That, he remembered, was Haig’s car. He pulled up behind the unmarked car, a safe distance away.

What do we have? he asked, taking a few pictures of the scene.

Hey, Fred, Sheriff Ben Holmes greeted him. Slow news day?

Howdy, sheriff. It was until you guys livened it up.

Didn’t mean to.

What do you have, a dead guy?

Looks that way.

Thought so, since you and Detective Haig are both here.

Haig, a balding detective with his belly protruding over his slacks and silver belt buckle, looked up when he heard his name. Fred took a few steps toward him. What’s going on?

You either talk to me or Sgt. Lewis, the sheriff said.

Really. When did you start doing that?

Been doing it.

Yeah, when I get my reports at the station. I always talk to the detectives when I’m on the scene.

Me or Sgt. Lewis. That’s how we’re doing it now.

Now that’s a way to control the information coming out of there, he thought. Right. OK sheriff, what do we have?

Looks like a single shotgun round to the face. ‘Bout tore his head off. Weapon found next to the body.

Fred looked up, saw one of the deputies handling the shotgun with gloved hands.

Whoa. A suicide or a homicide?

Suicide, most likely, Holmes said.

I didn’t know Haig did suicides.

We’re not ruling anything out, but at the end of the day it’ll probably go down as a suicide.

End of the day, my butt, Fred wanted to say. End of the day this. Gotcha. Cover all your bases. Who was he?

Don’t know. Victim didn’t have any ID.

And I’m assuming you can’t tell by looking, either.

Right. Face pretty much gone, can’t tell by dental work. Have to hope we have fingerprints on file. Probably need to go to Las Vegas Metro for that.

Why there?

Total shot in the dark, but everybody around here works across the river. If he does they’ll have his prints.

Across the river, Fred knew, meant a casino employee. Probably. So what do you do now?

Go over the physical evidence.

You already took the victim out of here, I’m assuming?

Coroner already picked him up.

How about his car? I don’t see any but yours here.

We’re still looking. Nothing’s been reported.

So he walked over here carrying a shotgun? He’s got guts.

We’re still investigating.

I’ll at least need to string together a physical description of the guy for my story. Besides the messed-up face, that is.

OK, Holmes consulted his notes. White male, about 5-foot-6, I’m guessing 150 pounds, medium complexion, brown hair, I’ll say mid-30s. Can’t help you on the eye color.

Works for me, so far. What was he wearing?

Black slacks. Blue T-shirt. Blue windbreaker. Black running shoes, Nikes I think.

Black slacks? Casino employee for sure.

How do you know?

Who else would wear those out in public?

Holmes looked at Fred for a few seconds before nodding. Good call.

You sure I can’t talk to Haig?

What for? We gave you everything we have.

Yeah, buddy, Fred thought. And I have some oceanfront property in Mohave County to sell you. So that’s it, so far? Maybe suicide, not ruling out homicide, shotgun, black slacks, running shoes.

That’s it.

He was wearing the shoes?

Of course.

Both of them?

Uh, yeah.

Well, scratch the suicide angle, Fred thought.

Chapter Four: Smoke break

Greg Martino sat behind his terminal, chatting up the rest of the news crew when Fred returned and slid into the seat across from him. Hear tell you had some fun.

Was OK. A little messy.

What was it? Vernon asked.

Cops are saying a suicide.

Really.

Yeah. Only I think they’re yanking my chain.

How do you figure that?

Well ... just a guess, Fred admitted. Greg, you’re military, right?

Four years in the Corps.

So you know weapons.

A little.

Well, let me ask you this. Guy used a shotgun, and it would have to have been point blank. Just about tore his head off, cops said. Does that make any sense to you?

Did you see the body?

No, I’m taking the chief at his word here.

Always a mistake, Vernon cut in with a smile.

You got that right. But does it?

Not really, Greg said. The shot hadn’t had enough room to expand. But catch him a couple of feet out, it’s a whole different story. Goodbye head. Why?

And to do that he’d have to pull the trigger with his toe. Especially ‘cause he’s a short guy. About five-six, the cops said.

Okay.

But he was wearing his shoes. I asked Holmes about that.

Couldn’t have pulled the trigger with his toe then, Greg said.

True enough, Richard said. If the guy can put his shoe back on after blowing his head off, we need to be writing for the Weekly World News.

His car wasn’t there either. Cops haven’t found it.

Is that important? Vernon asked.

Not if he walked from wherever, then went a mile up Boundary Cone carrying a shotgun. Which I kind of doubt.

H’mmm, Vernon said, rubbing his goatee.

Another thing that’s bugging me, Fred said. Let’s go smoke and I’ll tell you about it.

Vernon already had his pack in his hand. I’ve been needing one.

* * *

Richard poked his head into the personnel office next to the newsroom. Hi, Pam. How you doing?

I’m great. You?

If I was any better I’d be illegal.

This fetched a laugh from the personnel manager, who was closer to 50 than 40. I brought you some cookies. Baked them last night.

Deal me in.

Stop by when you come back in?

Sure.

* * *

I think she likes you, Fred said as they stepped outside. She’s single, you know.

Maybe later. She’d be real cute if she weighed about a hundred pounds less.

Details.

They joined Vernon and Greg in the parking lot under an awning that made the company smoking area. Richard lit his and Fred’s smokes with his brass Zippo while Greg, the only nonsmoker, sipped from his tall coffee cup.

Before I forget, Greg said. The word of the day. It’s callipygian.

Good word, Vernon said.

I know that one, Fred said. Use it in a story, right?

Uh-huh.

Callipygian? Richard asked. I know dorian and mixolydian ‘cause we use them in music. What’s callipygian?

It’s not a music term. Fred leaned against the wall. It’s more like poetry in motion.

Say what?

Look it up, Greg urged.

Listen, if I have to look it up, you know it’s not gonna make it in the story.

True. Vernon or I will edit it out unless it’s really good.

You love doing stuff like this.

Trying to increase your word power. Words are your tools.

I know. So’s a camshaft puller, but I’m only gonna use it once, if at all. Man only needs duct tape and WD-40.

Come on.

Okay. Callipygian. Richard wrote it down.

So what’s this other development? Vernon asked after a couple of puffs on his nonfilter.

I’m still amazed you have any lungs left, Fred said. But Holmes is now saying I can only talk to him or Sgt. Lewis.

I’ll bite. Who’s Sgt. Lewis?

No idea. Never really talked to him before. I guess he’s doing public information.

Is he a real cop?

Who knows?

County council hired a Sgt. Lewis a couple of weeks ago, Richard said. Didn’t think much of it at the time; they’re always hiring cops.

Did you meet him? Vernon asked.

No. Lewis wasn’t at the meeting. I think it’s Pat Lewis. From Palm Springs, I remember that.

My old stamping grounds. So when did you find out about this new policy?

On the scene. Today. I tried to talk to the homicide detective, and Holmes wouldn’t let me.

Really. This wasn’t a question and Fred knew it.

Really is right. He was pretty adamant about it.

I think I’ll need to talk to the sheriff about this myself, Vernon said. I feel a column coming on.

Oh please please don’t do it, Greg said. Every time you write one of those columns we get in a lot of trouble.

That’s why I need to do it more often. I don’t want you to think the old man has lost his touch, now.

The more I think about it, the more I know the sheriff knows a whole lot more than he’s telling, Richard said.

Of course, Vernon said, lighting another Camel straight from the smoldering butt of the last one. Fred, you’ve been in the business almost as long as I have. You shouldn’t be surprised about this.

He says there’s no ID on the victim.

That’s possible.

I think he’s a casino worker. Black slacks, sneakers. If he’s a casino worker, especially if he’s in uniform, you know he’s gonna have his Sheriff’s card on him. Can’t even clock in without it.

True.

And why would he be out gallivanting along Boundary Cone anyway? Richard asked. Especially on foot. Shoot, there’s nothing out there. Not yet, anyway.

Boys, I don’t know, Vernon said. This whole thing’s got more mysteries than answers.

Don’t I know it? Fred grumbled. I hate mysteries.

Chapter Five: Hard charger

Fred knew Richard Lawrence would be the guy to ask him the hard questions to help flesh out his story. The 33-year-old was a first-rate reporter, but he didn’t get there by being quiet or polite. He proved that to his new coworkers before he was even in the state.

En route to Arizona Richard called the office and introduced himself around. He said he was on I-40 near Albuquerque, and Fred remembered him asking a few questions about the area.

Anything I should watch out for? At least that’s what Fred thought he said.

The heat. The scorpions. Definitely watch out for the casinos.

This guy Grady. The casino owner. Tell me what he’s like.

Doing your homework, huh?

I always like to know the players. Especially the connections. Makes my job easier.

Haven’t had to deal with him much, Fred told him. I cover cops and courts, and he’s stayed out of jail so far.

Just wondering. Wanted to get some background in before I get there. Is Vernon around?

Complete hard charger, Fred thought as he passed the phone to the managing editor. Ambitious. Wants that story. In other words, a great reporter but a lousy coworker.

So far, though, Richard proved some of his perceptions wrong. Every bit as good as Vernon said, hard-nosed as Fred figured, but a good guy to have around the newsroom. If he was an all-star he didn’t act like it.

Less than a week after arriving in town he had a piece comparing city attorney pay. He thought Ted Samuels, the man contracted to cover Riverbend’s legal needs, was making way too much money for someone in charge of a town that size.

Mr. Samuels, Richard said respectfully over the phone without bothering to hide his Tennessee accent. This place ain’t very big anyway. What is it, about 12,000 counting dogs?

The final story showed that Riverbend paid twice what most other towns of that size paid for legal services. Town officials defended their choice by saying they got a top-notch lawyer with the track record to prove it. Richard included a time line of Samuels’ greatest hits to back this claim up. In all, Fred thought it was a well-researched, tightly-written and well-balanced story.

We report, Richard said as he sent the final version to Vernon. Y’all decide.

But it was Richard’s reporting style that caught Fred’s attention. Ultra-aggressive and pushy, willing to ask the tough questions, but all this was wrapped up in that endearing mountain-boy persona.

When the article ran, Richard won Samuels’ grudging admiration even though he cuffed him around in the story. No one else could get away with that, Fred thought.

* * *

Richard was Vernon’s last piece in his effort to build a veteran news crew at the Courier. Publisher Hal Burchfield heard about the old editor, then toiling away with a weekly in Sun City, California. That was the latest step for the leathery, perpetually-wandering 64-year-old. Vernon brought his formidable credentials to Burchfield’s paper, plus enough connections to build his staff from scratch.

Vernon lured his second-in-command Greg Martino into joining him on his Arizona adventure, and installed him as his field general.

Greg heard about Fred, who was kicking out some great stories on his self-described rehab assignment in Fontana. A guy who could make news copy sing like that deserved to be back in the forefront, Vernon thought. Who cared how much he drank as long as he answered the bell every deadline?

While Greg and Fred were in front of his nose, Vernon Arden had to shake the bushes to find his third man.

Fred didn’t remember how it happened because it got a little complicated, but Vernon talked with one of his former reporters who became a publisher in Knoxville. His old protege apparently told him of some hotshot newsman in Johnson City, some young guy with serious creds and multiple Associated Press awards. Vernon checked Richard’s online clips, called him and liked what he heard. Richard asked for back issues of the Courier, which Vernon sent by FedEx.

He chased this with an offer on Monday, one paying nearly $150 a week more than what Richard was getting in Tennessee.

I don’t know, he said. It’s expensive to live out there. You’re going to have to do better than that.

On Wednesday Vernon called with another offer, adding another $50 to the pot. Richard accepted right away, and a little more than a week later he was talking to Fred from New Mexico.

In the meantime Fred discovered he and Richard were kindred spirits. Both good writers and sturdy drinkers, they agreed to share rent on a small mobile home. Fred took the master bedroom and Richard liked the glassed-in add-on they called the Arizona Room as his digs.

The morning after moving in Richard had his first breakfast burrito and said it was even better than possum. That night after work they went to a local watering hole called Five O’Clock Somewhere, and Richard said he liked the place. He listened to Jerry, the singer/keyboard player for an hour, then introduced himself. Richard ended up playing guitar with Jerry until 2 a.m. while a looped Fred led cheers among the other drinkers.

So far, a good reporter and good drinking buddy. And despite his hard-charger ways Richard made no effort to take a good story out from under Fred.

Just lucky.

Chapter Six: Ritter’s report

A couple of hours before end of watch, Steve Ritter got called to the Kingman station. He didn’t mind; he spent the rest of the day trying not to think about the dead guy. He’d seen them before on the job, but all the rest of them still had faces.

All he really wanted to do was go home and stare at the TV for a while, and if he was a drinking man he’d be thinking about getting sloshed right about now.

I’m on my way.

He pulled into the sally port, turned off his car, removed his clipboard and burger wrappers and entered the station. He stopped at the vending machines to get a candy bar and Mountain Dew before stopping by Holmes’ office.

You okay? the sheriff asked.

I’ve had better days, sir.

Your first DB?

A couple in Bullhead, but nothing like this.

Rough, but it’s part of the job.

I know that, sir.

Reason I called you was to do the report.

I figured, sir. Haven’t done it yet. Just a prelim.

Tell you what. Holmes said. This one’s on me. I’ll go ahead and do the report. I can use your notes. You go home and get some rest. You’ll be paid for this time.

Thank you, but I think I can write it now. I’ll be okay. He paused. Sir.

Holmes laughed. This isn’t the Army, Ritter. You don’t have to sir me every time.

Just used to it.

Seriously. I’ll do the report. Tell you the truth, any time there’s a fatality I’d just as soon do it.

You sure?

I’m sure. I’ll just need to ask you a couple of questions is all. Are you up to it?

Go ahead.

* * *

At Holmes’ prompting, Ritter explained how he saw the tarp and described the dead body as the sheriff took notes.

Good, Holmes said before standing up. Thank you. Now go on home. Call me tomorrow and let me know if you’re okay to come in. If you’re not, I understand.

I’ll be here, sir. You can bet on it.

* * *

Holmes had this sick feeling. The crap was starting again. He waited a few minutes before picking up the phone. Hey, buddy. It’s me. Sheriff Holmes.

He waited a minute and got right into the conversation without the preliminary chatter. Listen. Reason I called is we’ve got a body ... yeah, I know it’d been a few years ... we don’t want to start that stuff up again now, hear?

He withdrew a pack of Marlboros from his center desk drawer and lit one. Screw what the law said about public buildings and workplaces, this was his office. Let someone complain. He’d make sure the guy didn’t last long.

I’d better tell you, I took the report over from the young deputy who rolled in on it ... he’s a rookie ... no, I don’t think he suspects anything. He chuckled. He’s not that smart.

Feet up on the desk now, he leaned back in his rolling chair. Had to BS the press on this one too. Yeah, Walker with the Courier. He’ll do what I say ... likes to drink.

Another big hit on the cigarette. Who’s the publisher of that rag, Burchfield? ... yeah ... I’m glad to hear he’s your man ... I’m glad because the rest of them are a bunch of muckrakers.

He sat up straighter in his chair and ground out the cigarette butt.

I’ll handle my end. You just try to keep your guys under control, okay? Click.

* * *

Ritter just changed into his civilian clothes and wanted to thank the sheriff for taking over his paperwork. But he stopped short of Holmes’ closed office door and heard him talking loudly to someone.

He was about to leave when he heard the sheriff mention his not-too-bright deputy. That burned.

Later with thanking him, he decided.

* * *

On the drive home, Ritter thought about it some more. He’d handled dead-body cases before on his old job, and one was a homicide. But he always wrote his own reports.

It’s just how they do things around here, he thought. Every department is different and every superior officer has his ways of doing things. He just had to humor the boss.

In truth he didn’t mind. He enjoyed police work but didn’t care for the paperwork. He wouldn’t have minded farming out his reports all the time, and when he worked in a two-man unit he always let his partner keep books. His own reports had a lot of misspellings and scratched-out words, and they often didn’t make sense. He was sure his lousy reporting could provide enough of a technicality to have an arrest thrown out. Maybe Sheriff Holmes knew this.

Nahh. The sheriff seemed too eager to take this over.

This phone call bugged him. He knew he should have stepped away; you