Page 10 of Where the Fields Don’t Reach

Now that she had a hold of the problem, she determined that it wasn’t just a piece of paper. It was some type of folder that had somehow gotten wedged up between the underside of the middle drawer and the back of the desk. The corner finally came free, and then the rest of it slid down into the bottom drawer with a small, soft thud.

She sat back in the chair and pulled the drawer the rest of the way open without any issue. The manila folder was thin, which told her there couldn’t be much inside. Maybe two or three sheets of paper, by the weight of it. What had caught her interest was the yellow sticky note on the front.

Show Hadley.

The two words on the yellow square had been written in blue felt-tip pen, and in handwriting she would have known anywhere. She rubbed the middle of her chest as the antacids from earlier failed to do their job. She leaned back in the chair and stared at the note.

The handwriting was one hundred percent Reed’s.

She had searched his desk back then. She had combed through the entire station the week after he was killed, and again two months later, and a third time after that. They had all searched, from the state detectives to those inside the sheriff’s office. One of their own had been brutally murdered, and they wanted the guilty party to pay. So, they had pulled every drawer, checked every shelf, invaded his personal space upstairs, and no one had found a single thing that pointed to Reed’s killer.

She turned the folder over in her hands.

The bottom of the manila was creased the wrong way, and there were two track marks from the drawer. It was obvious that something heavy had been pressed across it for a very long time. The only explanation that made any sense at all was that after so many searches, the folder had gotten wedged tighter and tighter, until it had practically become part of the drawer itself.

Reed had wanted her to see the contents, though.

He’d meant to show this to her back then, but he hadn’t gotten the chance.

She turned it right-side up and opened it.

The first page was a citation form. The standard kind. White on top, yellow underneath, and a perforated edge along the top where the white copy was meant to be torn off and handed to the violator. Oddly enough, both copies were still attached even though the white form had been filled out. Again, she recognized Reed’s handwriting.

She was also familiar with the violation code. She read down the page, scanning the details. Trespassing on the Vinton place, east section, at eleven thirty-seven on the night of October second. The violator’s name was front and center in the first box.

Roland Mercer. 11 Sweetbriar Lane, Holloway.

Hadley read the name once, then again.

The surname didn’t ring any bells. Carefully lifting the citation, she set it aside on the desk so she could read what she originally assumed was a supplemental report. While it was an official form, in part, Reed had mostly used it to jot down what had taken place to warrant a citation in the first place.

Earl Vinton called in a complaint at 11:12 pm regarding a man with a flashlight in his east cornfield. I responded. Encountered a white male, approximately mid-fifties, dressed in dark clothing, holding a notebook, flashlight, and a camera. Subject identified himself as Roland Mercer of Holloway. When asked about his business on the property, the subject stated he was conducting research and hadn’t meant to bother anyone. Subject was cooperative. Vinton still requested that charges be pressed.

Hadley leaned forward and spread the manila folder completely open on the desk. She slid the supplemental report to the left and placed the citation on the right. She studied both. The bottom of the citation, where the officer’s signature went, had Reed’s name signed in full. The signature line above the violator’s name, where Mercer was supposed to sign acknowledging receipt, was blank.

The citation had never been handed off, and the supplemental report had essentially been used by Reed to document his personal encounter. Why had Reed changed his mind? Why wouldn’t he have followed through with Earl Vinton’s request to proceed with pressing trespassing charges?

One thing was for certain, and something she couldn’t ignore, was that Reed had been killed about three weeks after the date on the citation. Hadley had just been given her first lead in Reed’s murder since she’d taken office. Before excitement could take hold, the front door of the station opened and revealed Mrs. Foster.

Hadley reluctantly pulled her attention away from the evidence in front of her.

“Chief Dawkins, I tell you what, those Wheeler boys are going to put somebody in a casket,” Mrs. Foster announced after stepping into the office. She was waving a piece of paper. “If it’s not one of them, it’s going to be Mr. Pritchard, who can’t see five feet past his own shoes anymore, and you and I both know it.”

Hadley slid both documents together before closing the folder.

“Good morning, Mrs. Foster,” Hadley greeted, rising from Reed’s chair and giving the woman the smile she had been practicing every single Monday. “Coffee?”

“Coffee? You never offer me coffee,” Mrs. Foster replied skeptically, pausing long enough to give Hadley a suspicious stare. “And you don’t use that desk, either.”

“I do today,” Hadley quipped before walking around the office furniture and holding out her hand. She would take Mrs. Foster’s inquiry as a negative on the coffee. “What do you have for me this morning?”

Mrs. Foster was a petite woman with brown hair tucked behind her ears and a slight hunch in her shoulders. She was also the most frequent visitor to the station and very vocal about her disappointments. This Monday wasn’t going to be any different.

“Names,” Mrs. Foster replied, deciding apparently not to push with any more questions. She released her hold on the piece of paper. “Tucker and Cody Wheeler. Twelve years old, both of them. They’ve been skateboarding outside the shop every afternoon after school for the past two weeks. There’s a curve in the curb right where my display window is, and they like the way it lets them ride up on the sidewalk and back down again.”

“I’ve seen the twins skate past the station, too.”

“Well, then you know what a danger they are,” Mrs. Foster continued with her complaint. “It’s only a matter of time before one of them comes around that curve and runs straight into Mrs. Latham coming out with her arms full of azaleas, or worse, falls off into the road and gets hit by Jim Crowder’s truck, because Jim is doing fifty up Main Street at lunchtime no matter how many times Reed told him not to.”