“Ma’am, I’ve always found working with the press can be a two-way street,” Quinn said. “Y’all sometimes find out things we’d like to know. And to be clear, I was only two years older than Brandon when he went missing.”

“But your uncle was the sheriff.”

“Right.”

“And this is a small town,” she said. “Surely you heard things. Did your uncle ever talk about the case?”

“I know my uncle found a rifle close by and his death was ruled a suicide,” Quinn said. “And I also know Brandon’s family has never believed it.”

“Was the rifle sent off for testing?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said.

“Was the body examined by the state?” she said. “Or just the local funeral home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were there photos taken?” she said. “Evidence examined? Time lines established?”

Quinn held up his hands and shook his head. “I was pretty much just trying to get through my senior year and raising hell with my friends. I knew Brandon. But I didn’t know him well enough to tell you what he was going through personally.”

Tashi Coleman nodded, taking a long moment before saying, “So what you’re saying is you don’t know a whole hell of a lot, Sheriff.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “About all I can offer you right now is a hot cup of coffee.”

“No thank you,” she said, stuffing the notebook and pen back in the purse. “I’m fine.”

“It’s the only good coffee in town,” he said, smiling. “Much better than the Fillin’ Station. That stuff tastes like hot dishwater.”

“You have to understand how frustrating this is,” she said. “Files can’t just disappear.”

“I understand,” Quinn said. “I’d be glad to ask around when I can. But I’m a little busy right now. We had a stabbing at the Walmart last night and I have a U.S. Marshal delivering a prisoner to me real soon. I’ve been wanting to talk to this man for a long while.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Tashi said.

“You sure you don’t want coffee? Get whole bean from a company in Oxford,” Quinn said, smiling. “Dark roast they called Faulkner’s Fury.”

“OK,” Tashi said, and her face softened a bit. “And maybe you can help me with a few general details?”

“You bet,” Quinn said, reaching across the desk and offering his hand again. “You can call me Quinn. You might find my methods a bit different than some Mississippi sheriffs you’ve heard about. I like reporters. I keep an open jail log. Unless it’s an active investigation, I’m happy to share with you what I know.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Did you think I’d wear mirrored sunglasses and chew Red Man?”