I try not to let my view of the world affect the way I do my job. Most of the time, I succeed. Sometimes I feel all that cynicism pressing in, coloring my perceptions, perhaps unfairly. But far too often, my general distrust of mankind serves me well.

I’m idling down Hogpath Road in my city-issue Explorer with my window down and a to-go cup of coffee between my knees. I’ve just come off the graveyard shift, having covered for one of my officers while he visited his folks in Michigan. I’m tired, but it’s a good tired. The kind that comes with the end of an uneventful shift. No speeders. No domestic disputes. No loose livestock wreaking havoc on the highway. When you’ve been a cop for any length of time, you learn to appreciate the small things.

I’m thinking about a hot shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, when my radio crackles. “Chief? You there?”

I reach for the mike. “What’s up, Mona?”

Mona Kurtz is my third-shift dispatcher. She’s been part of my small police department from day one, and despite her Lady Gaga-esque wardrobe and decidedly uncoplike manner, she’s a good fit. A night owl by nature, she keeps things interesting when the shift is slow—which is usually the case—but when the situation calls for it, she’s all business and a true benefit to the department.

“I just took a nine one one for some kind of disturbance,” she tells me.

“What’s the twenty?”

“Covered bridge.”

Images of drunk and disorderly teenagers flash in my mind’s eye and I groan inwardly. The Tuscarawas Bridge is a favorite hangout for some of the local youths to “chill.” As of late, some of that so-called chilling has deteriorated to other unsavory activities, like underage drinking, fighting, and drug use—and I’m sure that’s just the tip of the iceberg. A week ago, one of my officers busted the mayor’s seventeen-year-old son with an ounce of weed and a meth pipe. The mayor hasn’t spoken to me since. But I know the conversation is coming. Probably in the form of a request I won’t be able to grant.

I glance at the clock on my dash and restrain a sigh. Eight A.M. “They’re starting early.”

“Or staying late.”

“Who called it in?”

“Randy Trask was on his way to work and said there was some kind of ruckus.”

Muttering beneath my breath, I swing right, hang a U-turn in the middle of the road, and hit the accelerator. “Is Trask still there?”

“He left, Chief. Had to get to work.”

I sigh. “I’m ten-seventy-six.”

“Roger that.”