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with the state.”
    “Maybe not.” I said. “I’ll check with Sam, but she came here nineteen years ago. I doubt if that rule was in place then.”
    “There has to be a specific form submitted,” Josie said. “She can’t have waltzed into here like a little Jayhawk and started a government-funded mental health service.”
    “No, but she could have faked compliance,” I said. “Not that I suspect her of doing anything that wasn’t one hundred percent on the up and up.”
    There was no knock.
    He was just there. Bursting through the door. A flashlight in one hand and his other hand on his gun.
    Irwin Deal, sheriff of Copeland County.

Chapter Eight
    I knew this man and I didn’t like him. It’s not reasonable to judge someone by his eyes, but in his case I can’t help myself. His are black and flat and dead. Like dry olives. Without sheen or expression. When one can see his belt buckle, it’s large and shiny, but it’s usually obscured by his large belly.
    He had slipped into office after the old sheriff retired. Once in, he had been fanatically proud of the honor. He invariably introduced himself as the High Sheriff of Copeland County. His snickering constituents usually referred to him as “The Mighty High Sheriff.”
    At that time I did not think he was evil. Just stupid. I had never said so out loud to anyone, but I am free to think whatever I like. I’ve heard his questions at district training sessions and listened to the complaints of his victims. He was a mean petty bastard who forgets our motto is “to protect and serve.” He thinks it is and should be “capture and accuse.”
    He doesn’t like me either.
    Yet for all his comical inept braggadocio, there is a dark streak to this man. He reminded me of high school bullies who could explode when pushed too far. It was evident in the sudden flush of his face, and his over-the-top bursts of profanity. When one mistake compounded the next, Irwin didn’t have sense enough to stop. He doggedly pushed on until he became embroiled in messes God couldn’t fix.
    Small counties work around such persons. Large cities work around them. Whole countries work around them. There’s a certain delicacy to sheriffing in a small town. We’re more inclined to load drunks in our squad cars and drive them home. What’s required is a little judgment.
    One night Deal had pulled over a load of high school boys who were celebrating the fact that Oren Pinnaker had just learned he was a National Merit Semi-Finalist. Oren was driving and John Chauncey had an open container of 3.2 beer in the back seat.
    Deal gave Oren a breath test and when it came up clean, Deal arrested him for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. It was ridiculous of course, but Oren was jailed overnight. All charges were dropped and Deal was reprimanded by the judge, but the arrest was all it took to ruin Oren’s chances of being accepted at Brown.
    Colleges don’t take kindly to students lying about the “have you ever been arrested?” question on their form. Nor do they give students a chance to explain the circumstances. After multiple rejections from Ivy League schools, Oren bitterly stopped applying for scholarships. His family was desperately poor, so he found work on a construction crew and after two years finally acquired enough money for tuition at a third-rate school.
    “Hold it right there,” Deal yelled.
    “Good evening, Sheriff Deal.” I kept my voice even, pleasant.
    “Lottie Albright? Deputy Lottie Albright?”
    “Undersheriff, actually. And you are not seeing double. This is my twin sister, Josie.”
    “You ladies are under arrest for breaking and entering.”
    I tried not to laugh. Even Irwin could not be that stupid. But the excited flicker in his little black eyes said he was.
    “Sheriff Deal, we came over to try to find out who to notify about Reverend Mary Farnsworth’s death.” Inside, I seethed. Josie kept still and nervously eyed the gun which he put back in