It’s past nine thirty, and I’m in the process of packing the file and my computer into my laptop case when a knock sounds at my door. I glance up to see Town Councilman Norm Johnston standing in the doorway, looking like he’d been physically dragged into my lair and I’m about to jab my spider fangs into his heart and suck out all his blood.

He’s not one of my favorite people, and the sentiment runs both ways, I’m sure. Shortly after I became chief, I busted him for a DUI, dashing his mayoral aspirations and setting the tone for an adversarial relationship that’s lasted almost four years now. The rift deepened during the Slaughterhouse Killer investigation when his daughter was murdered. I was the primary investigator, and like so many family members of victims, he blamed me.

“Hi, Norm.” I set down my laptop case. “Come in. What can I do for you?”

Norm is never comfortable around me. I know it’s because he doesn’t like me, but his job requires him to set his personal feelings aside. Tonight, I get the sense there’s another reason for his discomfort.

“I need to talk to you.” He enters my office and closes the door behind him. “Confidentially.”

I wonder if he’s going to cut my budget again despite the fact that it’s barely enough to keep my small department afloat. I mentally shore myself up, formulating my arguments as he settles into the visitor chair across from my desk.

“I think someone’s stalking me,” he begins.

It was the last thing I expected him to say. I try not to show my surprise. “Who?”

He glances over his shoulder at the door, as if expecting someone to come through it and catch him in here with me, and I realize he’s not merely upset; he’s frightened. “I’m not sure, but in light of this recent murder, I thought I should let you know.”

I may not like Norm, but I’ve never known him to be an alarmist. I know he wouldn’t be here talking to me about this if it wasn’t serious. As a cop, I’ve learned to take any threat seriously.

I pull out a yellow legal pad. “Tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”

He reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and retrieves several folded sheets of what looks like lined notebook paper. “I found the first one taped to my car window. Three days ago.”

I open my drawer and pull out a single latex glove, then work my right hand into it. I take the papers, lay them on my desktop, and unfold them. I see cursive scrawl in blue ink. You knew. Nothing else. Puzzled, I go to the second page.

You looked the other way. I go to the final page. You’re next.

“Kind of cryptic,” I say.