“Plug it in to the surge protector.” I see Mona’s red stilettos sticking out from beneath the desk, and I realize she’s on her hands and knees. As usual, her skirt barely covers her equipment.

“What if it starts smoking again?”

“Do I look like a freaking electrician?”

I clear my throat. “Do you guys want me to have the fire department stand by?”

“Oh. Crap.” Lois crawls out from beneath the desk and gives me a sheepish look.

“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona backs out from beneath the desk, a Swiffer duster in one hand, a power cord in the other.

“Phones up and running?” I ask, only mildly concerned.

“Never unplugged the switchboard or dispatch station.”

Lois plucks a dust bunny from Mona’s hair and the two women break into laughter. I laugh, too. It starts as a small chuckle and then turns into a belly laugh powerful enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“What’s so funny?”

I turn, to see Pickles and Skid standing just inside the front door. On the other side of the room, Glock leans against the cubicle divider, his arms crossed, shaking his head.

“We’re not rightly sure,” Lois mutters, and we break into a new round of laughter.

Skid studies the tangle of wires beneath the desk. “That shit looks like a fire hazard.”

I cross to the coffee station and fill my mug. The Mast story made the morning news shows. Anchors from Bangor, Maine, to San Diego have been carrying it ad nauseum all morning. I know my team is wondering how much is true and how much is sensationalism.

“Everything quiet on the home front?” I ask as I turn to face them.

Skid makes a sound of annoyance. “Garth Hoskins ran a stoplight out on Hogpath Road and T-boned old man Jeff ers’s pickup truck last night.”

“Anyone hurt?”

He shakes his head. “I cited Hoskins.”

Garth Hoskins is eighteen years old and drives a 1971 Mustang fastback that has more horses than the kid has brain cells.

“I’ll talk to him,” I say.

The room falls silent, all eyes landing on me. I tell them everything I know about the case. “Apparently, Perry and Irene Mast suffered some kind of breakdown after their daughter committed suicide. For reasons unknown, they held their son responsible and imprisoned him. They began preying on troubled Amish teens.”

“How many dead?” Glock asks.

“Four,” I tell him. “Coroner’s office is still there.”

“How’s Sadie Miller doing?” Lois asks.

“I’m going to drive over there and take her final statement in a few minutes,” I tell her.

My cell phone vibrates against my hip. I see Tomasetti’s name on the display and hit TALK as I start toward my office. “You make it home okay?”

“Been here a couple of hours,” he tells me. “What about you?”

“Letting myself into my office now.” I toss my keys on my desk. “Any news?”