Page 21 of What She Saw
“Sheriff Paxton?” I extended my hand.
He accepted it. “Sloane?”
“One and the same.”
“Come on back to my office. We can have a little chat.”
“Great.”
Jennifer buzzed us back in. I followed him down a long, painted cinder block hallway. It was covered in formal images of the sheriffs who’d served the town of Dawson. I paused when I passed Taggart’s portrait. Judging by his dark hair, the photo had been taken shortly after he’d arrived on the job.
“Taggart left some big shoes to fill.” Paxton paused at his office door.
Taggart’s vivid gray eyes glared, as if daring the world to contradict Paxton. I pulled my gaze away and produced what should have passed for a friendly smile. I decided Paxton had had his fill of comparisons to the last sheriff. “A complicated legacy, from what I’ve read.”
“That’s what some say.” His gruff voice was stuffed with emotions.
Though still in Taggart’s shadow, Paxton was the sheriff. I needed to highlight that distinction often.
I followed him into his office. More white cinder block walls with photos of Paxton with state and local officials. Bookshelves included awards from local businesses and the state association. They reminded me of participation ribbons that parents gave to kids when they finished dead last in a swim meet.
He motioned toward two olive-green chairs angled in front of his desk. As I sat, he moved around to the chair behind his desk. A classic power move that always amused me.
I didn’t reach for my notebook because it tended to make people nervous. They were inclined to talk if they believed their words were unrecorded and could be forgotten. Lucky for me, I had one hell of a memory.
“Quite the operation you have here,” I said. “Looks like you run a tight ship.”
His chair squeaked as he leaned back a fraction. “I like to think so.”
“You’ve been sheriff for five years now?”
“I have.”
“What made you want the job?” I asked.
“I’ve been with the department since I was twenty-one. No one knows this county better than me.”
“Nice for the business owners to know who they can call if they need help. Not a 9-1-1 number but a name and face on the other end.”
“Exactly. Dawson is a close-knit community.”
“One big happy family?”
He chuckled. “Like all families, sometimes we get along and sometimes we don’t.”
“Crime can’t be that bad in this area.” That was the image the tourism bureau promoted in all their posts.
“You didn’t come here to talk about crime statistics.” He threaded his fingers over his rounded belly. “You said in your email that you’re doing a piece on the Mountain Music Festival in 1994.”
He’d broken the ice. Good. Small talk annoyed me. “That’s right. It’s been thirty-one years, and cold cases are always of interest to readers.”
He steepled his fingers. “It’s not a cold case. We caught the killer.”
“I was thinking about the bodies. They were never found.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
“It’s a mystery. A missing piece of the puzzle. The human brain likes pieces in their rightful place.”
