Friday June 13, 2014. Fischer, Texas. 5:45 a.m. Sheriff Morgan Wilkes had gotten into the habit of showing up to the station early to relieve the night dispatcher. As the first term, recently elected sheriff of Fischer County, Texas, Morgan was still trying to to build “positive superior-subordinate relations.” Near as he figured that meant not being an asshole of a boss.

The station was quiet this early, only staffed by a dispatcher and another detective, assigned on a rotating basis. Morgan assigned himself the worst shifts as part of the integration initiative for first-term sheriffs outlined by the Texas Association of Sheriffs. Tiffany Schultz worked last night’s dispatch, but Morgan wasn’t sure which investigator he’d find. They often switched with one another. Tiffany popped her head up when the sheriff shut the station door, closing it with force to make sure the worn knob actually latched.

“Hi, Sheriff Wilkes,” Tiffany said, a little too cheerily for so early in the morning.

“You can still call me Morgan unless we’re in an official capacity.” Blond haired and blue eyed, Morgan had the height and size that made small town football coaches and drill sergeants salivate. His large frame now shifted uneasily to find comfort in his fresh new uniform.

“Well, Morgan,” she said through a smile, drawing out his name mockingly. “Wearing that uniform in this station on duty qualifies as official capacity.” The sheriff let out an uncomfortable laugh and nodded, conceding.

“Now that I’m here, why don’t you go ahead and take off early? Get a jump on your weekend,” Morgan sheepishly offered. Tiffany shot him a suspicious look before he quickly added, “And I can get the station to myself. Fumble around for a couple of hours without feeling embarrassed.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” Tiffany sweetly replied. “Thanks Sheriff Morgan, I appreciate it. But I need the time, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll punch you out and watch the radio until the next shift begins. I got that fancy setup in my office, so it won’t be an issue.”

“On the job just a few months and already stealing from the county to help your friends.” Tiffany removed her headset and started flicking switches, feigning a look of disapproval while gathering her things. “You want me to grab you something? I do have a few hours to kill before the family gets up.”

Morgan declined. “Nah, if you have the energy for something, you should do pancakes or whatever for your kids. I loved it when my mom did that unexpectedly.”

Tiffany nodded in approval and waved goodbye, then stopped before opening the door. “Oh, Exley is working tonight, switched with Rosewood.” Morgan remained silent but smiled in acknowledgement, sighing in relief as she closed the door behind her. Hobbling to the station coffee pot, gradually putting weight on his right knee and rubbing his lower back, he then loaded a filter, set the drip and started over to his office.

The creaky wooden office chair behind his paperwork-covered desk popped and cracked with Morgan’s knee as he sat down. He looked around his office and through its open door. “Exley?!” Morgan shouted, waiting silently for a response. When his ears adjusted to pinpoint the quiet drip of the coffee pot, he was satisfied. Using the chair as support, Morgan lowered himself to the floor behind his desk and slowly worked into the lotus position. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and moved into a sitting crane, gasping with aerated pain as he held the position, whimpering in ecstasy as he released a few moments later.

Morgan worked methodically through the rest of a simple yoga routine, finishing just as his first pot of coffee was ready. He sat on the floor for a beat, legs extended, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Then, reaching for the ancient, sturdy wooden desk for assistance, Morgan lifted his bulky frame from the ground with an annoyed grunt. His gait was now more casual and less painful to watch. Filling his Fischer County Sheriff’s Department mug with the low-grade brew they could afford, he read the brand on the coffee’s packaging and slowly sipped the hot liquid, pursing his lips in disappointment.

Returning to his desk, Morgan reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone, a bulky Android device he was often chided by the younger deputies for having. Gently sitting down, he swiped through a few commands before stopping to let a program load. A gentle bell rang, prompting Morgan to look around nervously before leaning into his phone to audibly whisper, “La tortuga come una manzana.” The program beeped in approval and moved on to the next question. Morgan continued to work the phone, learning adjectivos, sintaxis, y muchas palabras.

Around seven o’clock, when the day shift started to arrive and the deputies patrolling at night returned to punch out, Exley wandered into his office, bleary eyed and yawning. Paunchy and balding, with piercing, untrusting eyes, Exley was the department’s senior investigator and significantly older than his new boss. His worn white shirt was stained with yesterday’s coffee, eliciting a disapproving head shake from the sheriff.

“Planning on changing before the shift meeting?” Morgan asked, genuinely curious.

“No.” Exley’s response was matter-of-fact, without malice or insubordination. Morgan remained silent, continuing to give the department’s most experienced investigator more leeway than he probably deserved. “Ready to get this over with?”

“Sure.” Slowly rising from his chair, Morgan was now more focused on the pain in his lower back.

“One too many jumps took its toll, huh?” Exley managed to sound sympathetic, looking around the sheriff’s cluttered office, glancing from one Army commendation to another. “Thirteen years, right?”

“Closer to twelve really,” Morgan answered reflexively as he gathered some paperwork, organizing it into a neat little pile. He led Exley out of his office, shutting its door behind them. Together, they made their way to the squad room, where the vast majority of the county’s law enforcement professionals were gathered. Only two deputies had the day off, with two more out on patrol. The remaining absentee was, hopefully, making pancakes. In total, four investigators and fourteen deputies were present.

The sheriff offered the group a quick “Morning” before launching into business, knocking out items without interruption for twenty-three straight minutes before stopping. He looked around the room for body language indicating confusion or angst. “Any questions?”

“Yeah, sheriff,” said Deputy Jimenez, rising to ask his question. “Have you sorted out county rules for carrying personal firearms on duty?”

Though visibly annoyed, Morgan answered calmly, “For now, we’re going to adhere to the state guidelines for county level law enforcement. Soon, I will analyze and create our own guidelines and anyone interested can apply to carry additional weapons beyond department issue. There will be an application process. To carry any weapon in my department, I have to know you’re fully qualified and capable of identifying appropriate use scenarios. You need to able to use that weapon correctly and responsibly. Sheriff Dunlavy may have had his policies, but I have mine. And I have a higher standard for qualification.” He scanned the room to gauge the reaction and found it wanting. With too many disinterested eyes for his liking, the sheriff added, “Anyone caught violating my rules on this policy will be subject to unpaid suspension.” All eyes quickly darted to Morgan, who flashed an amused smirk before asking, “Anything else?” Most remained quiet, but the night shift deputies shook their heads, their shoulders leaning for the door. “Dismissed.”

The staff quickly filed out, followed by the efficient punch-punch-punch-punch of the time clock as the night shift headed home. On the way back to his office, Morgan reached for a card, punched it and returned it to its slot.

“Gotta let me in on that one day,” Exley said, grin plastered to his face. Morgan didn’t answer and continued on to his office, with Exley following. “I guess at this point, I should mention I’ve been carrying a Colt 1911 during duty.”

Taking a seat at his desk, Morgan looked up, slightly amused, “I think we can agree that you’re alright with that. Do me a favor and register it.”

“It was registered long before you sat in that chair,” Exley replied, softly but looking Morgan in the eye for the first time that morning. The sheriff accepted the reply, silently sorting through the papers on his desk, looking for a copy of the morning duty log to fill out. Exley exited the office without drawing any more attention.

The next few minutes passed quickly, filled with mundane paperwork. In general, the dispatch radio on his desk only provided white noise. It was nearly eight when Morgan heard the call come in: a single vehicle accident, one fatality.

The incident occurred on Route 337a, one of the “Twisted Sisters,” three roads running through the county frequented by bikers for the hilly terrain, long slopes, and sharp turns. The Sisters were popular enough with the weekend warrior crowd to keep a few biker bars in business. The patrons didn’t typically cause problems for Fischer deputies, aside from the occasional (and profitable) DUI. Most of them were aging, educated professionals looking to tap into their inner badass.

Morgan assumed it was a biker getting an early start to the weekend. When he heard the vehicle description, a 1969 Chevy Camaro SS, his stomach knotted. Resisting the urge to jump on the radio and shout questions, he listened for more details. Deputy Thomas was the first to respond, with Jimenez en route to assist. Exley popped his head into Morgan’s open office doorway with a look of concerned surprise. “You hear that?”

“Yeah,” The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “You know it’s him?”

“Not yet, but the plates match,” Exley entered the office, his tone grave, his answers dutiful. “It’s Jack Mitchell’s car.”

“Shit,” Morgan sighed. “Who’s up in rotation?”

“Rosewood,” Exley started. “But I should take this. This is one of those ‘we’ve got our best men on it’ sorts of things.”

“How many open files you have?”

“Three, but so does Rosewood. You know I can handle four better than he can.”

“And the overtime doesn’t hurt.”

“Well, I’ve got priority or seniority on that anyway,” Exley said through a wide smile, extending his arms, asking Morgan to embrace the obvious.

“Alright.” Morgan stood to make his point. “Just use the time well. Don’t drag your feet cause you’re looking to remodel your boat. Let me know if you need anything.”

Exley nodded and briskly exited the office. Morgan, his right knee throbbing again, slowly lowered himself into the chair and went back to his paperwork.