Wrong Side of Town

Chapter 7

The department layout hadn't changed since Zach was a kid. Anyone who came in the front door of the office passed through a metal detector, manned by whichever uniformed deputy was on door duty. A small lobby with a few hard-plastic chairs was available for visitors, overlooked by a high counter and bulletproof glass. The dispatcher on duty sat at the counter, and controlled the buzzer that opened the door between the lobby and the bullpen, the main space of the department. Four desks faced each other here, and Zach knew they were shared, used by one officer for every shift. A fifth desk guarded the door to the sheriff's private office and was manned by his secretary. Off to one side of the bullpen was the locker room, and to the other, the sheriff's small private office, an interrogation room, and a slightly larger office for the four senior deputies. At the back of the bullpen were four desks facing forward, one conspicuously bare. Behind detectives' row, another set of security doors led to booking, the lock up, the lab and all the other inner workings of a small-town sheriff's department.

Betty Wilkins, a striking African-American in her fifties, was the widow of a deputy and had been Walt's secretary for at least twenty-five years. She smiled at Zach and ushered him to the vacant detective's desk, a battered old steel model that had probably been dragged out of the basement and cleaned up. The area had clearly been rearranged to accommodate a fourth workspace.

He raised one eyebrow at Betty. "How'd you know?"

She shrugged and grinned. "Wasn't any room in the supervisors' office. Figured even if you started off as Ralph's shadow, you'd learn more sitting out here until he retired."

"I figure anything worth knowing, I can learn from asking you," he teased. He dropped his stack of paperwork onto the empty desk.

Betty shook her head, her eyes rolling at his blatant flattery. "Office supplies are in that cupboard. Coffee, such as it is, is still in the break room, over there. You empty the pot, you make the next one. No exceptions. Everybody puts a few bucks in the coffee can next to the pot to buy supplies. No exceptions there, either, unless you don't drink any, ever. After you fill out those forms, I'll get you your badge and you can shadow Detective Jennings for a couple days. Any other questions?"

"No, that should get me started. Thanks." When she left, Zach walked over to the only other person in detective's row and held out his hand. The tall, slim brunette wore a no-nonsense navy pantsuit and her chestnut-brown hair was swept into a tidy bun. "Detective Jennings, I'm Zach Shannon. And despite what you might have heard, I'm just the new floating detective. Betty says you'll be showing me the ropes."

Her hazel eyes looked him over carefully as she stood and shook his hand. If she resented being saddled with the boss' son, her carefully schooled expression didn't show it. "I remember you, Shannon. You were the quarterback the year I was a freshman cheerleader. Good to meet you again."

He thought back. "Mary, isn't it? Or Maria? Damn, I've been away too long. My memory's going."

"Marla," she replied. "But you get points for close. How about we get you a cup of coffee then I'll catch you up on the ongoing cases."

He followed her into the break room, which someone had painted a pale yellow, instead of the bilious green he remembered. Other than that, it was the same - a rickety table, mismatched chairs, an ancient fridge and microwave and the smell of strong coffee permeating the air.

Zach accepted a "Maguire County" mug without too many chips in it, and mentally added his own mug to the list of things to bring in tomorrow. Then he trailed behind the detective, sipping the tar-like substance that seemed to pass for coffee wherever cops of any kind could be found. "Ah, just like Sarge used to make."

Jennings snorted. "I'll bet. Okay, here's the deal. We don't get a lot of actual detective work, so we do a couple other things to fill the time. We back up the uniforms, and we handle some of the supervisor's overflow. Basically, we're where all the s**t rolls down to. But at least we don't have to wear brown polyester while we're doing it."

"Dress code require suit and tie for males or just jacket?" He followed her over to her desk and sat down in the visitor's chair.

"Just jacket - this is Texas, after all. Cowboy boots count as dress shoes if they're shined. Jeans are good if they're pressed and not too faded." Jennings quirked one lip briefly upward. "As far as ongoing cases, I have a meth lab somewhere out in the back country I'll find one of these days and a handful of GTA's - grand theft auto. Banking on joyriding kids for that one. The cars are usually found somewhere in the county, scratched up and out of gas the next morning. There's been a string of mailbox and dumpster fires, but nothing dangerous. Once every couple years, we get a homicide - usually a domestic dispute gone bad or a bar brawl that goes too far."

"Some things never change." He sipped his coffee. "We still have a one-man crime lab?"

She gave him a brief smile, apparently approving of the question. "Two. Beth Deschamps handles prints in-house and collects DNA and trace to send to the labs in Austin. She also does all the processing after we bring someone in. One of us goes with her to process a scene if needed. Jamie Guerrero is a computer whiz, so he takes care of our IT, plus does any techno-magic like phone records, voice recognition, whatever. Nobody in this department does only one job - except maybe the janitor."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"Doc Maloney is still coroner, though your sister's handling most of it these days. Anything beyond what she's willing to deal with goes to the state lab. Again, that's not something that comes up a lot."

"Right." He set down his cup and looked into her eyes. "And just so you know, I've got a degree in criminal justice and had full academy-level police training. I've done both investigative and enforcement work, undercover and in uniform. All my weapons, first aid and psychological certifications are up to date. I have a mildly bum left shoulder from one too many dislocations, but it wasn't bad enough for me to be pulled from duty. I retired from the military because after twenty years, I was damned well sick of seeing nothing but sand. Any other questions about my qualifications?" He was even sicker of seeing so many good people, men and women, some of them too young to buy a beer back home, die needlessly.

This time she flat-out grinned. "Nope. You carry your own weight, and you won't have any problems with me, even if you are the boss' son."

"Good. Now, tell me more about this meth lab."