Chapter Fifteen

Johnny Kennerly had been my father’s first hire when he became Sheriff. Not exactly a hire. During his junior year at Roosevelt High in North Freedom, after his class had toured the station and my father had given them a lecture on police work, Johnny started hanging around, offering to do odd jobs. He expressed his interest in law enforcement and, when the Sheriff offered him a summer internship, he jumped at it.

They became close, Johnny and my father, who saw him as the son he wished I was, a son who sought his counsel and was influenced by his opinions and his wisdom. He earned a special place in the Sheriff’s heart. Burton, Senior, came to know Johnny’s family—his single parent mother and younger sister.

Impressed and proud that Johnny was a high school honors student, my father used his influence to gain him admittance to Cal Poly, the San Luis Obispo branch of California Polytechnic State University, and paid the tuition out of his own pocket. Upon Johnny’s graduation, my father hired him and, following a couple of years of general police work, elevated him to Deputy status.

When the old man was diagnosed with ALS and I joined the department as his Chief Deputy, Johnny went out of his way to put me at my ease. He innately understood the complicated nature of my relationship with my father, and he made a point of being a friend to us both.

Although Johnny and I did our best to conceal it, there existed an unspoken tension between us—more so since I’d returned to Freedom. He had been the favored probationer. I was the prodigal son. As a result, a measure of uneasiness permeated our association.

“They’re like cockroaches,” Johnny said to me over burgers and fries at Marley’s Malt Shoppe. “They come out at night and move around unseen by human eyes.”

“How poetic of them.”

“I’m serious, Buddy. No one claims to ever have seen any of these taggers. In the morning, when people discover their handiwork, they’re shocked and surprised.”

“That will definitely have to change.”

“Have you any suggestions as to how we can effect such a change?”

“We outsmart them.”

“Oh, that old ruse.”

“You got anything better?”

“Have you?”

“Let me get back to you on that.”

I was sitting in my office with my feet up, watching the rain cascade down the window, when Marsha Russo strolled in and parked herself on one of the two visitor chairs in front of the desk.

Without turning around, I said, “What?”

“You’re so cordial. No wonder I’m awed in your presence.”

“What is it you want, Marsha?”

“Some analysis.”

“See a shrink.”

“Not that kind of analysis. Investigative analysis.”

I removed my feet from the windowsill, whirled my chair around, and faced her. “There’s no rest for the weary.”

“Perhaps you should try another line of work.”

“What kind of investigative analysis?”

“The Chrissie Lester kind.”

I leaned closer and said, “Did you know there was such a thing as a Hank Girl?”

“That’s what she told you?”

“Some girls were and some girls weren’t.”

“What was the criteria?”

“Looks.”

“Sounds sexist to me.”

“To Chrissie, also. She was reluctant to talk about it.”

“What does that tell you?”

“I don’t really know yet. It appears to play into the reasons Kimber Carson gave for wanting to leave the guy. But it’s too early to jump to any conclusions.”

“You’re thinking sex ring, aren’t you?”

I admired the way Marsha retained information. If she didn’t exactly have a photographic memory, what she had was the closest thing to it. She had been at my father’s side for nearly his entire reign as Sheriff. In fact, her service began with his predecessor who had hired her as a dispatcher. But once my father took charge, he recognized her talent and bumped her up to the command unit as Staff Captain.

In her early forties at the time, divorced with a grown daughter out of the house, Marsha welcomed the unexpected promotion and took the job seriously. Her duties were far-ranging but mostly she kept track of whatever was going on at any particular time and was the Department watch dog when it came to administration, assignments, and protocols.

She was an inherently curious person and frequently adopted the role of Inquisitor General. Which she was now playing.

She and I had bonded early on, a bond that had grown stronger since my return to Freedom. She took great pleasure in ragging on me, but because of her good-heartedness, I gladly accepted the role of victim but never failed to seek the opportunity to strike back.

“There’s no proof of the existence of a sex ring. There’s only Kimber’s supposition,” I told her.

“Where there’s smoke?”

“Smoke in the form of?”

“Hank Girls. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Perhaps it would be beneficial were you to have chats with a few of the Not Hank Girls. Gauge the level of their resentment. See if any of them might reveal something untoward to another woman.”

“My, aren’t we the wordsmith this morning?”

“Would the question ‘Why are you still here?’ have any resonance with you?”

She stood. “Not that I can readily say. But I’ll mull on it and get back to you.” Without so much as a glance in my direction, she strolled out of the office.