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Chief.”
    “Your parents doing okay?”
    “They’re fine. Glad to see me, if you can imagine that.”
    A deep male voice cuts in. “They were lying about being glad to see you, dude.”
    Glock stops next to Skid. The two men shake hands and then Glock turns his attention to me. “This guy told you he was going to Michigan?”
    “That’s a likely story,” Mona mutters as she squeezes past.
    “He was probably down at the Brass Rail boozing it up,” Glock says with a grin. “I’d fire his ass.”
    “Who’s getting fired?” comes a gravelly voice from behind us.
    We turn, to see Roland “Pickles” Shumaker shuffle toward us, his gnarled hands clutching mismatched mugs filled with coffee. At the age of seventy-five, he’s my only auxiliary officer and works part-time—when I can get him to go home, that is. During the 1980s, Pickles single-handedly brought down one of the largest methamphetamine rings in the state. He’s slowed down the last couple of years, but he’s still a good cop. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the pressure I received from the town council, he’d still be full-time. But several of the more vocal members felt he was too old to be an effective police officer—mainly due to an incident in which he shot and killed a rooster during a call. The case caused an uproar, not only from the dead rooster’s owner but from some of the community, as well. I couldn’t see letting Pickles go after nearly fifty years of service, especially over a dead chicken. So I met with him privately and asked him to go part-time. He pretended to be pleased about “not working so damn many hours.” But I know he misses being in the thick of things.
    Despite the fact that he’s not on the clock this morning, he’s wearing a uniform and his trademark pointy-toed cowboy boots are buffed to a high sheen. I suspect he’ll still be at his desk in his cubicle when the sun goes down. . . .
    “No one’s getting fired,” I tell him.
    “Good thing,” he grumbles. “ ’Cause I ain’t shot no damn chickens lately.”
    I keep walking.
    At the podium, I set down my mug and scan the room. My eyes land on Mona and her counterpart, Lois, who are seated near the door so they can hear the switchboard and radio.
    “Where’s T.J.?” I ask.
    “I’m here.”
    T.J. appears at the door, looking dapper and fresh in his crisp blue uniform. At twenty-five, he’s my youngest officer and the only rookie in the department. He receives a good bit of teasing, but he’s a good sport and generally serious about his work. When I need someone for overtime, he’s my go-to man.
    “Sorry I’m late, Chief.”
    I nod. “I’ll let it slide since this is—was—your day off.”
    Chuckling, he takes the chair beside Glock.
    I look around the room. “I’m sorry to have called everyone in on such short notice this morning, but I wanted to let you know I’m going to be consulting for BCI for a few days. Apparently, there have been some disappearances in the northeastern part of the state. The reason I’ve been asked to consult is because the missing persons are Amish.”
    A collective sound of surprise sweeps the room. I feel the rise of interest and continue before the questions come. “As of now, the agency doesn’t know if these disappearances are connected, but the speculation is that they are.” I glance at my watch. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
    I give Glock a pointed look. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
    He gives me a two-finger salute.
    “I’ve got my cell and I’m available twenty-four/seven if anyone needs anything.” I survey my department, and a rolling wave of pride sweeps over me. “Try not to shoot anyone while I’m gone.” I smile at Pickles. “That includes chickens.”

 
CHAPTER 3
     
    I’m twenty minutes out of Richfield when Tomasetti calls. It’s a good thing the town council approved wireless headsets for the department last month, because I’ve spent much of this trip