It was no way to run a law enforcement agency. How many times had he said that over the years? No matter, it was never as obvious as now. He wished he could be rid of incompetents like Sanders or even Larson for that matter. But Isherwood was small, and public office had less to do with actual skill than popularity. Dutch Larson was a community name and property holder, not a lawman, but it was all the qualification he needed for town marshal. And Rusty Sanders—shit, Bean could remember when that punk was pushing kids on the playground and smoking dope in the bathroom. But he was Asa Sanders’s boy, and Old Asa and Old Dutch were butt buddies from way back. It was all who you know or who you blow, same as it was everywhere, and Bean had no taste for it. The only reason he held a position at all was to cover Larson’s ass: there had to be someone responsible around, just in case something big ever did go down around here.

Not that there was much of a threat of that happening. He couldn’t remember a major crime around Isherwood in the last seven years, not since he’d put on the uniform and gun. Armed robbery? Well, little Ethan Stooly took five bucks out of Mrs. Moore’s register once. Assault? The occasional drunken brawl, a fight at the playground. Murder? Now that was a laugh. Isher­wood hadn’t seen a murder or close to it for as long as he or anyone else could remember. Just the Danner story, he thought with a chuckle, and that morning’s Herald had said that it was all bunk, just a local legend after all.

Murder. Now that was wishful thinking. If only they’d have one now and then. Nothing big, mind you.

He made a sweep of the downtown area, especially Morty’s Pub, where a few of the locals sometimes got rowdy and ended up wrestling and puking on each other in the parking lot. This time it was empty. Must be a slow night. He went across the street and reached the IGA just about closing time and stuck around until all of the cashiers had made it to their cars and waved him on. Then he went across the lot to the Sunoco station which had closed an hour earlier, and pulled up in front to check the doors and buy a can of Mountain Dew.

There was a van sitting to one side, off-white with pitted fenders and a rash of rust on the lower panels. So, Mr. Stiles had taken his advice after all, he thought. Then he realized that this was a short-bed and the handyman’s had been a maxi. He looked around the rest of the lot but there were no other Dodges present.