Julia Gibbs’s high-back chair had barely become cold when Ramon Zdunczyk sat his fat ass in it. With a large double-double in one hand and a Boston cream donut in the other, he swiveled round to face the back wall and planted one foot against it, followed by the other. He bit into his donut while he cursorily surveyed her degrees and testimonials. Ten years had gone by since he had been passed over for the position of Chief of Police. Playing second fiddle to the likes of her irked him. He stuffed the remainder of the donut in his mouth and turned back to the desk. At its corner was a wedding photo of her and Zoe Rovedatti. That is unnatural. And he placed it face down. No word on her condition, he quietly hoped for the worst. He sipped his coffee. The work area beyond the glass wall in front of him had returned to its usual busyness. The memorial for Sergeant Gerald Stuart Mills had been wound up for three hours. He noticed Detective Chris Frohbieter, a lanky individual with auburn hair, heading his way and he waved him in.
“Have you heard anything yet, Chris?”
“Not yet. Everyone out there,” he said with a slight tilt of his head, “is on pins and...