He moves closer to me so he’s standing about three feet away. Too close; if he decided to make a move I wouldn’t have time to defend myself, so I step back, keep my right hand loose over my sidearm. He smells like dirty hair and fast food. When he speaks I see stained yellow teeth and a canine tooth that’s black with rot, and I think: meth mouth.

“What’s your name?” I repeat.

“My name’s Nick Kester, but you can call me ‘sir.’” Spittle flies from between his lips with the last word. “That’s who you’re going to be making the fucking check out to.”

“If you want to talk, I’ll talk to you, but you need to calm down. You need to watch your language. I’m not going to ask you again. Do you understand?”

“Do I understand?” He looks around at all the people staring at us and laughs. “Hell, yeah, people! I understand! I got it! Your chief here? She killed my baby.” He jabs two fingers at me, not touching, but close. “A little fuckin’ girl, four months old. The only good thing I ever done in my whole life.” He turns his attention back to me, and I swear I see raw hatred in his eyes. “And you took her away.”

I stare at him, my vision narrowing into tunnel vision. Around me, the station has gone silent. Everyone is staring at us.

“If you’re not going to calm down, you need to leave,” I hear myself say.

“Don’t tell me to calm the fuck down.”

T.J. steps forward. “Mr. Kester, you need to leave. Now. Or I’m going to handcuff you and put you in a cell.”

Kester turns his attention to T.J. and lets out a laugh. “All right. I get it. I’ll leave.” To the journalist standing next to me: “You want to ask her a hard question, blondie? Impress the hell out of your boss? Ask her what she did to Lucy Kester.” His eyes slide back to me. His lips part, giving me a peek at teeth that look sharp enough to tear skin. “You’d better get used to calling me ‘sir,’ because once my lawyer gets finished with you and this Podunk town, you’re going to be waiting tables—if anyone will hire you. Fuckin’ baby killer.”

He steps back, grinning an ugly smile, and walks backward to the door. There, he turns on his heel and leaves without closing it.

I stand there for a moment, my pulse thrumming hard, staring at the door. I’m aware of T.J. striding to it, closing it. The switchboard ringing incessantly. Mona’s voice as she answers.

“Come on, folks,” T.J. says. “It’s over.” He looks over at me and frowns. “You okay?” he says in a low voice.

I pull myself out of my fugue, glance over at the young journalist, who’s staring at me as if I’ve just become the story. She shoves the mike at me. “Chief Burkholder, do you want to comment on Lucy Kester or any of those allegations against you?”