The sheriff in Hinton was busy. There were three other officers in the room. The tall thin one was talking to a man about a trespasser in his yard. The short one with the bald head was listening to a complaint about a stolen mule. The third was busy with paperwork. The sheriff was furiously rifling through a file cabinet, mumbling about people that didn’t know how to do their jobs.
Dewey sat in a chair next to a wall in what appeared to be a small waiting area. The sheriff slammed the file drawer closed, turned on his heel and yelled, “Brady, what did you do with the file on Simpson?”
“It’s on your desk.” Brady seemed completely unperturbed by the sheriff’s brusque manner.
The sheriff sat in his chair, picked up the file and scanned its contents. “This all you got?” He didn’t even glance in Brady’s direction.
Brady, the short bald deputy, excused himself to the mule owner. “It’s all the information I could get out him. You know how he is when he gets a snootful of moonshine in him. Can’t hardly understand a word he says.”
“Well, this is no help. Go talk to him again.”
Brady nodded his head toward the wall where Dewey sat. “We got...