elude me that she doesn’t ask about the victim.
“Why on earth did you turn down Sheriff Detrick’s offer to help? You’re not going to try to handle this on your own, are you?”
I’m usually pretty good at handling pushy numbskulls like Janine. But the things I’ve seen so far on this seemingly endless day, coupled with fatigue, the weight of my responsibility to this town—and my own secrets—have squashed my patience.
“I did not turn down Detrick’s offer for help,” I snap. “I told that deputyI’d give the sheriff’s office a call after I meet with my officers and figure out where we are.” Her eyes widen when I take a step toward her. An edgy sense of satisfaction ripples through me when she gives up ground and steps back. “And if you’re going to quote me, you’d better make damn sure you get it right.”
“As a member of the town council, and I’m entitled to some answers,” she huffs.
“You’re entitled to a lot of things, but you are
not
entitled to embellishing upon information you overhear. That includes misquoting me. Are we clear?”
Her mouth tightens into a thin, unpleasant line. Pink spreads up her neck all the way to her cheeks. “It would benefit you greatly, Chief Burkholder, if you were more cooperative with the people who sign your paycheck.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Pulling myself back from a place I don’t want to go, I glance toward my office. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”
I push past her and don’t stop until I reach dispatch. “Messages?”
Lois shoves a stack of pink slips at me and puts her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Nicely done, Chief,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.
“If she tries to get into my office, shoot her.”
Snorting, Lois returns to her phone call.
I start toward my office.
“Chief Burkholder!”
I turn to see Steve Ressler, publisher of the
Advocate,
jog up to me. He is tall and wiry with a ruddy complexion and a head full of bright red hair.
I stop because he’s probably the only friendly media I’ll see in the coming days. “Make it quick, Steve.”
“You promised a press release this afternoon.”
“You’ll get it.”
He glances at his watch. “Presses start at five.”
The
Advocate
usually comes out on Friday. Today is Monday, which tells me a special edition is going to press. “Give me an hour, will you?”
His grimace tells me he’s not happy about the delay, but he’s perceptive enough to realize I’m not going to put the case on hold to accommodate his schedule. Steve might look like an older version of Opie from the
Andy Griffith Show,
but he’s a type A personality from the word go.
He checks his watch again. “Can you fax it to me? Say by six?”
It will be fully dark by six. I find myself dreading the darkness. “I have some safety tips for citizens I want printed, too.”
“That’s good.” I can tell by his expression he’s going to ask about the murder, but I turn away before he can.
An odd sense of relief flutters through me when I enter my office and turn on the light. The familiarity of this cramped little space comforts me. Working off my coat, I hang it on the hook and close the door. I need a few minutes to regroup. The energy that’s been driving me since the wee hours of the morning drains from my muscles, and I collapse into my chair. Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands and massage my temples. I want coffee and food. For a few precious minutes, I want a reprieve from questions I have no idea how to answer, and the nightmare of this case.
But when I close my eyes, I see Amanda Horner’s brutalized body. I see the bruises at her ankles. The black gleam of blood in the snow. Ligature marks that cut all the way to the bone. I see the anguish in her parents’ eyes. I feel a different kind of anguish in my own heart.
Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of
“Why on earth did you turn down Sheriff Detrick’s offer to help? You’re not going to try to handle this on your own, are you?”
I’m usually pretty good at handling pushy numbskulls like Janine. But the things I’ve seen so far on this seemingly endless day, coupled with fatigue, the weight of my responsibility to this town—and my own secrets—have squashed my patience.
“I did not turn down Detrick’s offer for help,” I snap. “I told that deputyI’d give the sheriff’s office a call after I meet with my officers and figure out where we are.” Her eyes widen when I take a step toward her. An edgy sense of satisfaction ripples through me when she gives up ground and steps back. “And if you’re going to quote me, you’d better make damn sure you get it right.”
“As a member of the town council, and I’m entitled to some answers,” she huffs.
“You’re entitled to a lot of things, but you are
not
entitled to embellishing upon information you overhear. That includes misquoting me. Are we clear?”
Her mouth tightens into a thin, unpleasant line. Pink spreads up her neck all the way to her cheeks. “It would benefit you greatly, Chief Burkholder, if you were more cooperative with the people who sign your paycheck.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Pulling myself back from a place I don’t want to go, I glance toward my office. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”
I push past her and don’t stop until I reach dispatch. “Messages?”
Lois shoves a stack of pink slips at me and puts her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Nicely done, Chief,” she whispers in a conspiratorial tone.
“If she tries to get into my office, shoot her.”
Snorting, Lois returns to her phone call.
I start toward my office.
“Chief Burkholder!”
I turn to see Steve Ressler, publisher of the
Advocate,
jog up to me. He is tall and wiry with a ruddy complexion and a head full of bright red hair.
I stop because he’s probably the only friendly media I’ll see in the coming days. “Make it quick, Steve.”
“You promised a press release this afternoon.”
“You’ll get it.”
He glances at his watch. “Presses start at five.”
The
Advocate
usually comes out on Friday. Today is Monday, which tells me a special edition is going to press. “Give me an hour, will you?”
His grimace tells me he’s not happy about the delay, but he’s perceptive enough to realize I’m not going to put the case on hold to accommodate his schedule. Steve might look like an older version of Opie from the
Andy Griffith Show,
but he’s a type A personality from the word go.
He checks his watch again. “Can you fax it to me? Say by six?”
It will be fully dark by six. I find myself dreading the darkness. “I have some safety tips for citizens I want printed, too.”
“That’s good.” I can tell by his expression he’s going to ask about the murder, but I turn away before he can.
An odd sense of relief flutters through me when I enter my office and turn on the light. The familiarity of this cramped little space comforts me. Working off my coat, I hang it on the hook and close the door. I need a few minutes to regroup. The energy that’s been driving me since the wee hours of the morning drains from my muscles, and I collapse into my chair. Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands and massage my temples. I want coffee and food. For a few precious minutes, I want a reprieve from questions I have no idea how to answer, and the nightmare of this case.
But when I close my eyes, I see Amanda Horner’s brutalized body. I see the bruises at her ankles. The black gleam of blood in the snow. Ligature marks that cut all the way to the bone. I see the anguish in her parents’ eyes. I feel a different kind of anguish in my own heart.
Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of
Similar Books
