The Fiercest Enemy

Book 9: Jack Murphy Thriller

by Rick Reed

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

In rural Indiana, the underground mines that once held coal and iron ore have become killing grounds. In two counties, five corpses have been discovered. Their deaths appear accidental, from drowning or suffocating in flooded and abandoned mines. But local authorities, including Chief Shaunda Lynch, have uncovered evidence suggesting they've all been murdered.
 
Assigned to the case as Federal Agents, Detectives Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard take charge of the investigation. Shaunda's proven herself more than capable of policing her jurisdiction and resents the intrusion of male authority figures. As Jack digs deep into the case, he discovers the victims have checkered pasts. But no matter who believes the killings are justified, someone still has to pay for the crime . . .
 
Praise for Rick Reed and his novels
 
"Rick Reed's books have an edge that only a man in law enforcement, working in the field, can bring to life."
- Tierney James, author of the Enigma series
 
“Reed thrusts his story forward to bring us along on a ride we won't soon forget!”
—Suspense Magazine
 
“Reed gives the reader a genre story worth every minute and every penny spent.”
—Book Reporter
 
“A jaw-dropping thriller.”—Gregg Olsen
 

 
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
 

Release date: February 11, 2020

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 293

Sample

Chapter 1

He jerked awake. He was on his back, on a hard surface, in a pitch-black world. His head felt like it would explode. He felt he was on a slight incline, covered with grit and small rocks. He pushed himself into a sitting position and the movement caused him to slide downward. He rammed his elbows and palms of his hands against the rough surface and felt the sharp rocks cut into his flesh. Before he got stopped his feet and lower legs plunged into icy cold water. He reflexively pulled his knees up and pushed with the soles of feet that were already pinpricked with pain. He dragged himself backward on his elbows. The grit and stones cut deeper into his skin.

Once his feet were out of the water he lay still, panting from the adrenaline rush, feet throbbing with pain. Using his heels and shrugging his shoulders he was able to gain a small distance from the water. He stopped and lay his head back. Mistake. Pain shot through his skull and pounded behind his eyes. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. His grip on consciousness was tenuous. All he wanted to do was go to sleep, but he didn’t dare. He knew he had a concussion. He needed to stay awake.

“Where the hell am I?”

He twisted his head to the right and left hoping to catch even a glimmer of light. There was only the dark and the effort made him nauseous. The nausea eased and he tried to calm himself. To think. How had he gotten here—wherever here was? He remembered drinking Jack Daniels in the Coal Miner Bar and then someone was buying him Tequila shots. He didn’t like Tequila, but it was free and he was out of work.

He shifted further from the water, cinders cutting into his feet and arms and elbows and palms. The incline eased to a more level surface. He rolled onto his front and pulled his knees under him. He stood. Dizziness washed over him and his legs buckled. He slid on the scree and plunged up to his waist into the icy water. His feet could find no purchase now. The incline was even steeper in the pool of water. He rolled onto his front and clawed at the slick surface. The cold seemed to climb up him as his body was drawn backward into the pool. He frantically clawed his way up the side and crab-walked up the slope. He lay on his back panting and fear hammered through him with every beat of his heart.

He lay still and took mental stock. He was naked except for his jockey shorts. He was cold but not freezing. It was mid-March. The temperature sometimes dipped into the single digits at night and reached sixties and seventies by noon. He had to get warm or he’d become hypothermic. His lower legs already felt weak to the point of useless.

He dragged himself further away from the water and with every few feet the air seemed to get warmer. He moved in the only direction possible—away from the water. He’d gone to the bar at night but was it still the same night? He couldn’t remember anything that had happened after he’d drank the Tequila. He woke up here. Naked.

Someone’s playing a joke, he thought. Surely the lights would come on and he’d be given his clothes back. They would pat his back and buy him a drink for being a sport. Screw that. Screw them. He could have drowned.

“Not funny!” he yelled and thought his eyes would explode out of their sockets. “Come on guys. You had your fun,” he said a little less loudly. Nothing. “I’m serious. I’m cold and I almost drowned.” Still nothing. He muttered a string of curse words not caring if they heard.

He shivered and felt his skin prickle with the cold. He wrapped his arms across his chest and rubbed and patted. It had little effect. His fingers were like ice cubes, felt thick and began to hurt. He rubbed his palms together and flexed his fingers to get some blood circulating. The pain eased. He couldn’t see it but he felt his breath as a mist in front of his face.

“You’re going to be sorry when I get out of here,” he said. “Do you know who my dad is? Do you?”

He listened. There was no answer. He rubbed his hands over his upper arms and danced from one foot to the other, ignoring the sharp scree that cut into the soles of his feet. “I’m not screwing around here. My dad will have your asses. I’m dead serious. This isn’t funny. Get me out of here.”

The back of his head ached. He gently probed the back of his skull and felt a lump. His fingers came away sticky. I hit my head when I was dumped in here his rational mind thought, followed closely by I was drugged. Rohypnol. That’s why I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. That was the only logical explanation. He tried to think who had been in the bar. He had nothing. He didn’t have many friends and the ones he did have wouldn’t do something like this.

The effort of dragging himself out of the water had made him breathe deeply and something in the air tickled his nose. A familiar itch started in the back of his throat and in his lungs.

He hugged himself tighter and yelled, “Where am I?” His voice bounced back to him, not quite an echo. “Where am I?” he yelled again and it brought on a sudden coughing fit. The tickle in his nose grew worse. He had a breathing condition. Not COPD. Not yet. He’d never smoked anything but pot until a few years ago. Now he carried an inhaler, which, of course, was in the pants he wasn’t wearing. To make matters worse he hated the dark. Wherever he was it was damp and cold and dark. He imagined spores from mold floating in the air. He slid his boxer shorts off and held them over his mouth and nose. If he could filter the musty stuff, calm himself, take slow shallow breaths, he would be okay.

He concentrated on each breath, felt his lungs expand and contract, expand, contract. It was working. The tickle was subsiding and with it the growing panic. He listened. Nothing but a steady dripping sound. The water might be from an underground spring. Like in a cave. The ground beneath him was more than just damp. Water was steadily coming in from somewhere.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Can you hear me?” His words flattened. “Where am I?” Only the steady drip answered.

He got to his hands and knees, afraid to try to stand again or fall into another pool. He hadn’t gone far before his hand struck a vertical wall. The surface was pitted and uneven and smooth and damp. He ran his fingers around the ground and crawled a few feet. His fingers came upon a metal rail protruding from the ground. A train track. The gauge of the steel wasn’t heavy enough for a train. Not a cave. A shaft. A mine shaft. The track was for a rail car in a mine.

The pain in his head was forgotten. The first glimmer of hope stole into his mind. If he followed the tracks they would lead to an exit. He couldn’t be that far inside. Why in the hell would he wander into a mine? He’d been in one mine in his entire life and that was a high school party. He was drunk, on drugs, fearless. Stupid. He remembered some of what happened that night and quickly pushed the thoughts away. He had bigger fish to fry.

He got to his feet slowly this time, reached above his head and felt a hard ceiling. He was over six feet tall. The roof of the shaft was just in his reach. The water at the bottom of the shaft must be runoff from the rain. He remembered that a lot of mine shafts were closed because they were unworkable from continual flooding.

His heart sank at the thought. The dripping sound was steady behind him and he couldn’t hear a pump. If the shaft was flooded was he more likely than not in an abandoned mine? If he was in an abandoned mine he wouldn’t know which direction would lead him out. There were miles and miles of shafts, some deeper than others.

He licked a finger and grimaced at the taste of charcoal and sulfur. Definitely a coal mine. He held the finger up to detect a hint of a breeze. If air was coming in that was the direction out. He could feel the slightest movement of air. It seemed to be coming from the direction he’d been crawling. That made sense because behind him was water.

He shuffled slowly along the tracks, one foot always touching the rail. He’d gone another few feet when the rail ended. He continued in the same direction and went a few more feet when his bare toes struck something hard. He stumbled forward and went down hard. His reflexes were too slow to break his fall. He heard his nose crunch and felt cinders grind into his lips and cheek.

He pushed himself up to his knees and examined himself with his hands. He could taste the blood running from his nose but he ignored the pain. His toe felt broken and throbbed even harder than his head. He got to his feet again and ran his hands along the wall in front of him. It was made of rough wood, like cedar planks. It was just as he thought. The shaft had been closed off.

He yelled, “Help! Someone help me!” and pounded on the wood with the side of his fist. He heard a sound like hinges squeak coming from higher on the obstruction. He reached up and ran his hand over the wood in time to feel an opening and air coming through. It was a pass-through. A door. The pass-through slammed shut pinching his fingers and he heard a bolt slide into place. He put his damaged fingers in his mouth and reached up with the other hand. He found the pass-through and pushed on it. It didn’t budge. He beat on it with the side of his fist but it didn’t give.

He yelled. “Hey! Don’t go. I’m in here. Help me!” Nothing. “Help! Help me! Someone’s locked me in here! I’m in here!” Still nothing. No sound from the other side of the door.

His heart pounded and he frantically scrabbled around the wood for a handle but found none. He ran his hands over the entire surface but the only thing was the small pass-through. He felt for a seam around the pass-through and then around the entire door. It was made tight. He beat on the door and yelled until he was hoarse and the pain in his head pounded behind his eyes until they felt as if they would explode.

He stopped pounding, put his back against the door slid to the floor. He was trapped. He scooted until he could put his cheek against the seam in the door. Cool air came through. Not much but it was something. At least I’ll have air and water if it’s drinkable. I’ll get out of here. Someone will come.

He tried again to remember where he’d been. It was a bar. He remembered drinking Tequila. Why was he drinking tequila? Thinking made his head hurt but he had to remember. He had to know why he was here. Who he had been with. He recalled being in a bad mood and he wanted to fight someone. Maybe he’d beat someone’s ass and this was payback. Was he in a fight? Is that how he got the bump on the back of his skull. Or was this part of a hallucination. Maybe the drink was laced with something, and none of this was real. His scratchy throat told him it was all too real.

He was angry and scared. He had night terrors of being trapped. In the nightmare he would be in an old, dark, musty house and going up a wide flight of stairs. As he neared the top the stairs would become narrower and narrower and the ceiling would come lower until he was forced to crawl on his belly where he would end up stuck. He would try to turn back but the stairs behind him disappeared and he was in a tight wooden box. He’d beat on it and scream until he awakened, his throat sore, his heart beating wildly.

He’d been having these dreams since high school. His mother told him it was nothing to worry about. His conscience told him he was being punished for the evil things he and his friends had done. Maybe this was his penance. A fist of emotion seemed to swell in his chest and tears streamed down his face.

He heard the bolt sliding, hinges squeaked and he felt something hit the ground near his feet. Before he could get up the small door latched shut again.

“Damn it, this isn’t funny. Let me out of here. I know you can hear me!”

He knelt down and started feeling around for whatever had been dropped in with him and heard a hissing noise. It was close. His reflex was to bang on the door again, but caution told him he should remain still. Had they thrown a snake in with him? There were a lot of snakes around mine property.

The hissing was too continuous to be a snake and his eyes stung. The itch in his nose and throat worsened until he was struggling to breathe. His mind said the hissing was some kind of gas. He dropped down flat, pressed his cheek to the floor and took slow breaths through his makeshift underwear gas mask. Gas was lighter than air. He should be able to breathe nearer the floor, but it was worse.

He clenched his burning eyes shut, folded the underwear and held it across his nose and mouth. It did little to filter out the burning taste of the gas. He coughed and gagged and mucous ran freely from his nose and mouth.

A voice came from the other side of the door. “Did you think I forgot you?”

The last conscious thought he had was that he knew that voice. He slapped an arm against the wood but his strength ebbed. He slid onto his side, losing the underwear and hitching in panicked gulps of the gas. His body spasmed, his heels and hands drummed the floor. One leg kicked out, his throat hitched, and then he lay still.

Chapter 2

One week later

The early morning meeting was requested by FBI Assistant Deputy Director Silas Toomey. In attendance in the Chief’s conference room were Jack Murphy, Liddell Blanchard, Chief Marlin Pope, Captain Franklin and Director Toomey.

Toomey was a doppelganger for a younger Donald Trump. As an Assistant Deputy Director with the FBI he dressed the part in two or three thousand dollar suits and smart footwear. Today he was wearing a light brown suit and vest with white and brown Oxford Brogues. He began with, “I would say I’m sorry to start your day off with this, but your country needs you, gentlemen. Need I remind you, you’re not just Evansville police detectives, you are sworn agents of the federal government.”

Detective Jack Murphy, third generation Irish American cop, sat in a chair across from Toomey, while his partner, Liddell Blanchard, aka Bigfoot, was squeezed into a chair near the desk.

Jack stood a little over six feet tall. He was sturdily built, with short dark hair that was spiked in the front and gray eyes that could turn stormy if he was provoked. He liked redheads, scotch, Guinness, the beach, and long walks—minus the beach and the long walks. In that order.

His partner, Liddell Blanchard, aka Bigfoot, stood over six and a half feet tall and weighed in at a full grown Yeti. Liddell was a Louisiana transplant from the Iberville Parish Sheriff Department, part French, part Creole, and all muscle.

Jack and Liddell worked as partners in the Violent Crimes Unit of the Evansville Police Department and had both been transferred into the Homicide Squad. It was composed of them and any other detective or specialist they needed at the moment. Also, as Toomey had reminded them, they were sworn Federal Agents assigned to a Task Force—USOC—Unsolved Serial and Organized Crime. This was Toomey’s brainchild and his reach covered the Midwest and beyond.

Toomey launched into his packaged TED talk.

“You two have proven yourself capable, resourceful, dedicated, relentless in the pursuit of the truth and…”

“Justice and the American way,” Liddell said. “Like Supermen.”

Toomey ignored him.

Toomey had a strong connection with FBI profilers, the Behavior Analysis Unit at Quantico and had been made aware of Jack and Liddell’s talent for catching serial killers. He recruited them to work in the Midwest Region of Unsolved, Serial and Organized Crime, or as Jack’s coworkers liked to call it, “U-SUCK”. Twelve states made up the Midwest region with offices in each of the state capitals. Each office reported to Director Toomey and Toomey reported to God.

Each regional office was comprised of FBI Agents, DHS, Homeland Security, ICE, DEA, ATF, and local detectives from across the Midwest who had proven records of solving high profile and difficult cases. Jack fit right in with a proven record of being difficult while solving high profile cases. He felt that distinguished him from the rest.

There were also contract workers and consultants in the mix when a particular talent was needed. There was a staff of lawyers assigned to tell the agents when they could shoot back. A group of lawyers is known as a ‘crew.’ Like on pirate ships. Individually they are called cutthroats, and privateers. Only a few qualified as swashbucklers, and these were mostly prosecutors or judges.

Captain Franklin stood by the door, dressed in his usual tailor-made suit, black pinstripe, white shirt, red tie, and polished lace up shoes. Franklin had worked his way up the ladder, rising to the very lofty and well deserved rank of captain. As captain he was the commander of the Investigations Unit, which made him believe he was Jack’s boss.

Chief of Police Marlin Pope wore a ‘dressed down’ police uniform with few ribbons or distinctions other than his five-star collar dogs. He had worked every job, unit, and shift on the Evansville Police Department until he was appointed Chief of Police five mayors ago. Pope was the first black officer to make the rank of Lieutenant, Captain, Major, Deputy Chief and Chief. He had the respect and loyalty of every man, woman and civilian within the police department with the exception of Deputy Chief Richard Dick, otherwise known as ‘Double Dick’. He had been given the nickname because of his harsh punishments for perceived wrongdoings and his penchant for dicking someone he didn’t like repeatedly. Hence the name, ‘Double Dick’.

Dick was blond haired, blue eyed, tall and lean, and every bit the Aryan poster child. He hated the very air Jack Murphy breathed and hated even more that he was now indebted to Jack.

Recently, the new mayor, Benet Cato, was of a mind to clean house and intended to replace Chief Pope with Deputy Chief Richard Dick. Dick was always his own worst enemy and had screwed that up by becoming the prime suspect in an old murder case among other faux pas. Jack had saved him from total ruination. Benet Cato, as mayor of Evansville, had seen the value of maintaining Pope in office, and she knew if she replaced Pope with Dick there would be mass retirements, not to mention pissing off more than half of her constituents.

Toomey said, “As sworn federal agents you work when I need you, where I need you, and as long as I need you. And I need you.”

Captain Franklin said, “Director Toomey, they can’t wait to get to work.”

Toomey raised an eyebrow.

Jack said, “That’s what the captain told us to say. I need to mention that he asked if we were claustrophobic. I have to tell you that I don’t do dark tight places unless it involves sex and Scotch.”

Captain Franklin rubbed his eyes and groaned.

Toomey said, “Noted. Now let me brief you.” Before he could say more there was a knock at the Chief’s door and Double Dick entered.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dick said. “My assistant must not have given me the memo. It’s hard to get adequate help anymore.” He came inside and shook hands with Director Toomey. “Pleasure to see you again, Director.”

“Actually, Richard,” Chief Pope said, “I was going to fill you in on this later. How about lunch?”

Dick awkwardly said, “That is fine, Chief. I’m sorry to barge in.”

“Nonsense,” Pope said. “I’ll tell you all about it at lunch. My treat.”

Dick smiled. He was being taken to lunch by the Chief of Police. “I’ll come down at noon, Chief.” With that he left.

Pope picked up the phone and punched a button. “Judy, no one else is to come near my office.” He listened, then said, “That’s okay,” and hung up. “Sorry about that.”

Toomey took a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Jack. On the back of the card was a name, address and telephone number. “This case won’t take you far from home. It involves Indiana, and Illinois.”

Jack interpreted that as meaning he was going to be busy until he drew Social Security. That didn’t fit in the plans he had for his immediate future. He and his ex-wife, Katie, had patched things up. He had a wedding to help plan. That’s what Katie told him he was doing.

“On the card is the name and number of Linton, Indiana’s Chief of Police. You’ll meet with him and other members of a task force he has put together. You will take over the investigation.”

Jack asked, “Does the Linton chief know we’re coming?”

“He does.”

“Does he know we’re taking the case from him?” Jack asked.

“You’re not taking it from him. You’re working it with him but you’re the boss.”

Jack failed to see the difference.

“You’re sworn federal officers. You’re in charge because I say you are. If you get any shit from anyone let me know. By the way, you’ll get plenty of it from Chief Jerrell because that’s his nature. I met him when he attended the FBI Academy at Quantico. This guy’s the real deal. Ex-Army Ranger, two tours in Afghanistan, two in Iraq. You don’t want your name on his dance card.”

“Bigfoot can handle him,” Jack said. He handed the card to Liddell.

“Thanks, pod’na,” Liddell said.

“What’s the case?” Jack asked.

“Cases. Plural. There are a string of homicides and missing persons that may be connected,” Toomey said.

“Serial killer?” Jack asked.

“Probably. The murders are in Greene and Sullivan Counties up north of here, and at least one in Illinois. A plethora of missing persons.”

Liddell mouthed the word “plethora” at Jack and stifled a chuckle.

“Director, forgive me for saying this, but there is always a ‘plethora’ of missing persons. Are you sure you want us on this? Do Feds work missing persons? Don’t we just handle kidnapping, that kind of stuff?”

“You have five confirmed deaths, some are out and out murder, some are suspicious, but you will be handling the investigations.” Toomey was unable to maintain eye contact with Jack.

“How many missing persons will we be looking at?” Jack asked.

“Forty-three. However, only the five deaths have a similar cause of death. All were found in lakes. Some of those were reported as drownings or death by misadventure and the autopsies were inconclusive.”

“So, we’re not particularly looking into the missing persons. We’re hunting a serial killer,” Jack said.

Toomey cleared his throat. “We don’t have enough evidence to support or exclude that theory. That’s part of the reason you’re going.”

Jack was thinking of how he would explain a long absence to Katie and this was beginning to sound like a very long absence. They were getting remarried in a few months. For the second time. The first time around they’d split because of his job among other reasons. He didn’t like to dwell on the past, and he’d vowed he would do better this time. Be a better husband. This time Katie was pregnant and he wanted to be a real father. He wanted to be married to her and not his job.

“You said, ‘part of the reason’. What’s the other part?” Jack asked.

“Chief Jerrell has a personal interest in this case. Too personal. He’s a good policeman, sharp as a tack, but like a tack he doesn’t care who he pricks if you get my meaning.”

“I’m going to be blunt,” Jack said. “If you’re assigning us as a personal favor to Jerrell I want to know if we have jurisdiction or if we’re just bullying them?”

“Don’t talk to me about jurisdiction, son,” Toomey warned.

Toomey had a point. Shortly after Jack and Liddell had been recruited for USOC Jack had pursued a killer across the country and had taken a suspended from duty St. Louis State Trooper with him where they promptly were involved in a murder in New Mexico and ended by killing the bad guy in shoot-out in Arizona. Both Jack and the trooper were severely injured and had totaled a couple of official cars. Jack did all this without one word to Toomey. Murphy’s Law says: “Better to kick ass and then ask forgiveness.”

Toomey said, “Chief Jerrell’s son is one of the victims. He doesn’t have jurisdiction in his son’s case but he doesn’t trust the police investigation that was done. His son’s body was found in Sullivan County. Linton is in Greene County. His son’s death was mishandled by the Sullivan interim Coroner who deemed it an accidental drowning. The local police mucked up the scene so Jerrell had his own autopsy performed. The coroner in Greene County ruled the death a homicide.”

Jack got that. If Jack’s kid was murdered he’d hunt the son of a bitch down and gut him like a catfish. It still didn’t answer the question of why USOC was involved.

Toomey must have sensed Jack’s reluctance and said, “Here’s the crux. Chief Jerrell’s family is influential in the Justice Department. They wouldn’t like it if the Chief got himself into a predicament. You’ll like the guy. Jerrell sounds just like you. I’m aware that under other circumstances he could work the case just fine, but these aren’t those circumstances. Got it?”

Jerrell. Ranger. Mean mother. Out for blood. Maybe cut some corners. Maybe cut some throats. Yeah. His kind of guy.

“You boys are aggressive to the point of…well, let’s just say you ignore rules. Sometimes it takes two Alpha’s to cancel each other out. Plus, I promised that we would get this done quick.”

“Who is his family?” Jack asked.

Toomey gave a typical FBI administrator answer. “You don’t need to know that. Consider it a favor to me. If that doesn’t do it for you, consider it an order from me. Besides, it will be good material for you to present when I send you and your partner to the profiling class at Quantico.”

“Quantico? When did I agree to that?” Jack asked.

“I’ll agree,” Liddell pitched in.

“You agreed when you were sworn in. It was in the paperwork that neither of you bothered to read.”

Jack saw no point in arguing and he wanted to meet this Chief Jerrell, ex-Army Ranger. As a detective he’d had experiences with the Feds interference. He didn’t like the idea of taking some other dog’s bone. Sometimes he wished he could go back to being a simple city detective. That job had its own drama but you weren’t dealing with big government. Big government usually meant bigger crooks and bigger roadblocks, lawsuits, and possibly prison time.

Toomey smiled. “We’ll make an FBI agent out of you yet, Jack.”

Yeah. Right after I eat a cockroach.

Jack asked, “Is all this missing person and murder data coming from Chief Jerrell or from the BAU?” BAU is the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Profilers. Think shrinks with guns.

“From me,” Angelina Garcia said from the doorway.

Chapter 3

Chief Constable Shaunda Lynch was heading home from pulling an all-nighter when she spotted the Jeep peeling out of the gravel access road coming from the Dugger mine. It was a new silver Jeep Cherokee Laredo 4WD. She kept her distance and let the Jeep get off of mine property. They must have spotted her and headed for town well over the speed limit. She followed it into Dugger city limits before she turned on her light bar and lit them up with her takedown lights. The Jeep pulled in front of the library and stopped. The headlights weren’t on and it was barely light enough out to see. That was an easy ticket.

She knew what they’d been doing. The abandoned underground mines and above ground stripper pits were a favorite spot with teens who wanted to smoke, drink, have sex, and do drugs. She understood that. She also knew the mines and lakes were dangerous and received little to no patrol from the state or county police. Patrolling the county around the mines was outside of her jurisdiction, but as a parent she felt it was her duty to rein in the rampant hormonal changes these little brats were experiencing.

She didn’t have to call the Jeep’s license plate in to dispatch. She knew the owner was Claire Dillingham, town board president. The Jeep was probably being driven by her son, Brandon, nineteen and still in high school. There were two people in the Jeep. That would make the passenger Timmy Long, drinking buddy, wingman, high school dropout. She could see a long stretch in Pendleton Correctional Facility in both of their futures.

Shaunda had moved back to Dugger five years ago after her mother died. While she was gone she’d exhausted a lot of dead-end jobs in dead-end places. Her heart had told her it was time to come home, and she’d heard at the funeral that the town was searching for a new Chief Constable, having fired the last one after he ran off with the judge’s secretary. Shaunda needed a job and a place to stay. She had a GED, no police experience, was short, barely five feet five. What she lacked in experience and size she more than made up for with dogg. . .