Jefferson Beauregard Trestlehorn had just dozed off when Ralph stumbled through the station door flat drunk.

“Chief Ridgway! Chief Ridgway!”

“He ain’t here. Gone up to Brent. What can I do you for, Ralph?”

“Larry done fished a man out the lake!”

Jefferson’s ears perked up. He lowered his feet from the desk and nearly stood up, but his body wasn’t reacting so fast these days. With a swallow of beef jerky and a swig of iced tea, he managed. “Man dead?” he asked.

“As a doornail.”

“Where’s Larry?”

“Down by the boat. I’ll take ye.”

The lakefront was a quick hike from the station, or would have been had Ralph been a bit more sober and Jefferson a bit younger. They finally arrived to find a very worried-looking Larry standing over a waterlogged corpse facedown in the sand.

It wore a police uniform.

Larry looked up, grimacing. “I didn’t do nothing, I swear.“

Jefferson trotted over as fast as he could muster and stopped cold when he saw the pale face. “It’s Junebug… what’d that boy go get himself into?”