2

Burdock had a population of 4,692, mostly comprised of mild-mannered and decent blue-collar folks, but that didn’t protect it from the ever-present and various blights brought on by mankind. The holding area of the Burdock Police Department was one long hallway with six cells on both ends, three on either side of the hall. There were only three inmates occupying the cells of the Eastern-Wing tonight, two sitting in opposite cells with a third separated by an empty cage.

The one at the far left was Richard Denning, busted on public intoxication but suspected of having ties to a drug smuggling ring in Canada. He had once been caught in possession of cocaine but wasn’t charged with an intent to sell. He had served six months for that. He was an occasional guest at the “Burdock Police Department Resort and Spa” as he called it, and made a conscious effort to keep cool during his stays. The man across from him on this trip, though, had been trying his patience for the past hour.

Terry Maldonado was a drifter, making his way through the states finding small time businesses to rob and small-town girls to woo, or so he claimed. In reality, he was a petty thief who was trying to escape his building records by fleeing from state to state. An hour prior to his incarceration, he was attempting to steal a blue Buick LaCrosse when an officer patrolling the area quietly rolled up behind him with his lights off firmly said “Freeze” into the megaphone. Terry jumped away from the car and immediately raised his hands in surrender.

The third occupant, who was face down on his mattress snoring loudly, was the town drunk, Rufus Cartwright. He was a descendent of Wayne Cartwright, who had played a large part in developing the town and its economy by building a lumber mill generations previously. Being the great-great-grandson of the town’s founder didn’t have many perks, but it did get Rufus a free pitcher of beer at the Sunset Lounge every Thursday night. He claimed he was a veteran of “The War” though he wouldn’t say which one. Whatever war it was, it left him with three fingers on his left hand, a bad limp in his left leg, and a permanent, “kiss my old ass” attitude. Whatever part of his government compensation didn’t go towards paying his bills went towards feeding his diet of liquor, bar peanuts, and the soup of the day from the Hungry Badger diner across the street, which would occasionally end up in some trash can, a gutter, or worse, on the shoes of some unlucky passerby. Like Richard, he was no stranger to the cells of the Burdock Police Department, but he only entered them with an overnight pass to rehabilitate him from his public intoxication. This cell was like a second home to Rufus, one where the food was brought to him and the bills weren’t his problem. Why wouldn’t he want to stay here?

The door to the main hall of the police station opened. Officer Dean Laherty entered, escorting Donald Francis to a cell in the Western wing. Richard called out, cutting off Terry in the middle of a sentence, “Hey, who we got there copper? Another lost and sorry soul seeking redemption and salvation?”

“Keep it quiet Denning, I won’t have any of it tonight.”

“Come on man, I need somebody to talk to besides this yabbering ass over here.”

Terry started to form a response, but was cut off by the officer, “Don’t think this one’s going to be doing much talking tonight. Best leave him alone, don’t you think?” Laherty looked down the hall and bored his eyes into Richard’s face as he finished the sentence. His goatee heightened the sharp, angular features of his dark, thin face, which gave him a more serious and authoritative disposition; his closely cropped black hair gave him the look of an angry army sergeant

Rich decided to leave it alone. “Yes sir.”

“That goes for you too Mr. yabbering ass.”

Terry looked back and forth at the two. “Why’s everyone picking on me?” The inmates continued their heated discussion while Laherty got Donald settled.

Dean was the only black officer in the department. As a child, his family along with the Dunnes had been the only two black families in Burdock. As such, he was often subject to racism and segregation by others, mostly by those who believed a five-year Confederacy based on stripping away freedoms was worth salvaging and remembering, along with their equally ignorant children. Those difficult times had sharpened his mind and wit, making him confident when dealing with smartasses and loud-mouths. Dean liked to think of himself as a pleasant and amicable guy, but one who could be stern and rough if it came down to it.

“I brought in an extra pillow and blanket for you Don. You’re not a prisoner, no need to treat you like one. The toilet is still open air though, not much we can do about that. But you’re away from prying eyes, so that should be fine. You think you’ll be good for the night?”

Donald looked around the room slowly, saying, “Yeah, I’ll be alright. Thank you, officer.”

Dean Laherty was never fond of being addressed by titles like “sir” and “officer”; he liked to be as informal as possible, which often made his job a lot easier when dealing with rowdy “clients”, which is how he liked to think of them. He wanted to say, “Call me Dean,” and pat the obviously exhausted guy on the shoulder, but knew that the man may have murdered his wife only a few hours prior. So instead he gave a little sigh and said, “Give a holler if there’s any trouble.” Donald nodded and sank onto his cot, resting his elbows on his knees. He held his head in his hands and stared fixedly at the crease in the far wall where it met the ground. Dean walked out of the cell and softly locked it behind him. He let his eyes linger on the broken man for a second longer before turning to leave.