Folder in hand, I leave the meeting room and start toward my office. I stop at the coffee station, distracted, trying to recover the thought that left me, when I hear someone come through the front door. I glance over to see a short man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard approach the dispatch station. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a slightly tattered fedora. He’s familiar; I’ve seen him around town, but I have no idea who he is.

Lois stands and addresses him. “Can I help you?”

“Chief Burkholder?” he asks.

Her eyes slide toward me. She’s wondering if I’m available. I set down the cup I’ve just filled and approach him. “I’m Chief Burkholder,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

He shoves a large white envelope at me. The instant my hands close around it, he grins. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”

I look down at the envelope. It’s addressed to me with the return address of a law firm. Even before opening it, I know what it is. The parents of Lucy Kester have filed a wrongful death lawsuit against me and, possibly, the police department and the township of Painters Mill.

Around me, the reception area has gone silent. Vaguely I’m aware of Lois speaking to a caller. Mona is standing between dispatch and the coffee station, where she’d been texting, but now she’s looking at me. Skid and T.J. and Pickles are standing outside their cubicle area, where they’d been talking. Even they have gone silent, all eyes on me.

Glock, who’d been at the coffee station, comes up beside me. “Everything okay, Chief?”

“Probably not,” I mutter.

“I heard about Kester.” He takes a sip of coffee as if all of this is routine. We both know it isn’t. “You’re aware that Ohio has a Good Samaritan law, right?”

He’s the second person to remind me of that. While I appreciate the sentiment, I know that even with such a law in place, a lawsuit of this nature could cause problems. And it could be expensive, not only for the township but me personally.

I raise the envelope and smack my hand against it. “I need to take a look.”

“Damn ambulance chasers,” Pickles mutters.

Skid motions toward the door where the courier just left. “I knew I should have given that squirrely little son of a bitch a ticket the other day instead of a warning.”

Leave it to my team to make me smile when I’m facing a situation that’s not the least bit funny. I appreciate it nonetheless. “I don’t think that would help in this situation.”

“Yeah, but it would have made all of us feel better,” Glock says.

*   *   *