“Did you hear Chet Yates last night?” Hank was looking even more worried than usual when Brad walked into the office.

The sheriff sighed, pouring himself some coffee. “I don’t stay up that late.”

“Maybe you should. He’s calling you out, saying you’re not just responsible for his brother’s death but for the Bank of America massacre. That’s what he’s calling it: the Bank of America Massacre. Carol’s already taken calls from some of his army, saying that you should resign.”

“His army?”

“That’s what his fans call themselves.”

Brad looked over at the receptionist. “That true, Carol?”

“I think they do call themselves an army—”

“I mean about the phone calls.”

“Oh yeah. Four so far. They talk tough, but they’re too afraid to leave their names.” Carol grinned. “But I have their numbers.”

Brad chuckled. “Good girl. I think I’ll return their calls. Put the fear of God in them.”

“Woman,” the receptionist said.

Brad frowned. “What?”

“You said ‘good girl.’ I’m not a girl, I’m a woman.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. But…”

“I’ll remember next time.”

“Thanks.”

Hank rolled his eyes, but Brad didn’t respond, hoping Carol hadn’t seen the deputy’s expression. The 21st century was filtering very slowly into small towns like Montgomery, but it was definitely making inroads, and some people—like Hank—were having a difficult time adapting.

Brad changed the subject before his deputy said something stupid and he ended up having to referee a fight between his employees. “So where are we on the murder? Anything new?”

“Actually, maybe. The M.E. said the lab’s still sorting through all the DNA even though there’s probably nothing we can use. But remember those footprints Mitch found? One’s clear and usable, and it’s not one of ours, it’s not Jasper’s and it’s not Taggart’s. The chances of some random innocent guy shuffling around out there at that spot…” He shrugged. “Pretty slim.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“Oh, it’s more than something. Norris has been looking into it, and he says that footwear’s pretty unique. Pointy-toed but not boots. If our guy bought ’em online or from a catalog we’re out of luck, but if they’re from someplace in town…”

Brad smiled. “You’ve been busy little bees this morning. Let’s hear it for good old-fashioned police work. Make copies of the print photo and send the Bills out to see what they can find. I want an answer before noon.”

Hank nodded. “You got it.” He hurried down the hall.

“Carol,” he said, “get Chet Yates on the phone for me, will you? I want to talk to him.”

“He’s probably still asleep.”