M. Sellars - In the bleak midwinter

Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while using his free hand to groom the gray-white thicket that lined his upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.

“Go on and put your badge away, honey,” he drawled. “I already know damn well what they look like.”

Constance quickly slid her index finger to the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her blazer.

“Sheriff Carmichael, I’m sure you know…” she started.

He interrupted. “Skip.”

“Excuse me?”

“Skip,” he repeated. “Everybody around here just calls me Skip. Always have. If you’re gonna work with me, you might as well too.”

“I see,” Constance replied with a nod. “Well, Skip, as I was…”

“Where’s Agent Drew?” Sheriff Carmichael asked, speaking over the top of her once again.

“Agent Drew was reassigned,” she answered after an annoyed pause. “In fact, he’s no longer with the bureau’s Saint Louis office.”

“Yeah, guess I’m not surprised. They send me a different Fed every year.”

“Actually, you were supposed to be meeting with Agent Johnson, but he came down with the flu.”

“Well, he would’ve been a new one too.” He shook his head. “So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?”

“I was assigned to this case if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

“Dunno,” he grunted. “Is it?”

“It shouldn’t be.”

He huffed. “I actually kinda liked Drew. He had a sense of humor.”

“As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned. Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “They always do. That’s exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent Keene before him… I could go on. You make number five, ya’know that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So now, as usual, I’ve gotta waste my time bringing you up to speed.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve read the file.”

“And so did the four in front of you, sugar. Let me ask you this: Did you learn anything with all that reading?”

Constance bristled slightly at the condescending sobriquet but allowed it to slide for the time being. “I’ll admit, the file is a little sparse on hard information.”

“That’s because we don’t have any. Besides, readin’ and knowin’ are two different things, young lady.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a quick study. Like I said, it really shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda… You Feds are all a bunch of damn parrots with the same vocabulary, you know that?” he grunted, then gestured toward a wooden chair. “Well, since you’re here, go on then… Sit down.”

Constance sighed. It appeared this man still wasn’t taking her seriously, so she dug in. “I think I’ll stand, thank you.”

The sheriff snorted. “Yeah, right… Go on… Take a load off.”

“Really, I’m fine. If you’ll just…”

“Listen, sugar,” the sheriff interrupted yet again. This time he rocked forward in the chair, then rested his elbows on the paper-strewn desktop as he tilted his head down and looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. “I know what you’re doing, and I ain’t got time for your little bureaucratic, girl-power bullshit.”

“Excuse me? My what?”

“Position and power, honey. Basic psychology. Right now you’re trying to prove that you can write your name in the snow bigger and better than anyone else because you’re a woman with a badge who has something to prove. On top of that, you’re showing me that you’re the one in charge because you work for the FBI. So look…I get it. You’re a Fed, I’m a small town cop. We’re all one big happy family as long as you’re on top. Fine. But I’m here to tell ya’, you can stop dancin’ because I’ve already done this waltz with every damn one of your predecessors.

“Now…” He waved his finger at her then thrust it toward the chair. “Since you’re standin’ there in a pair of brand new high heels, and we both know you’re dyin’ to sit down because your feet are killing you, quit tryin’ to prove that you’re the alpha bitch in this pack and just park it.”

Constance stood her ground and snapped, “I take it you have some sort of problem with women, Sheriff Carmichael?”

He shook his head and replied in an exasperated huff. “Damn, you’re a piece of work… First off, I said call me Skip. Secondly, hell no, I don’t have a problem with women. I love ‘em. I even married one. Got three daughters too.

“What I do have a problem with, however, is people wasting my time playing games like you’re doing right now. So either sit your ass down or get the hell out of my office, Special Agent Mandalay. Your choice.”

Once his diatribe was finished, the sheriff picked up his pencil and returned his attention to the paperwork at hand, as if Constance wasn’t even in the room.

Well, at least he was paying attention enough to catch my name, she thought to herself while continuing to stare at him long enough for the second hand to make a quarter orbit around the clock face. Personality-wise, Ben-the homicide detective she’d been dating for some time now-was a younger version of the sheriff: gruff, opinionated, and more than willing to speak his mind. He definitely hadn’t been mellowing with age, either. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she was stuck in some sort of Dickens-inspired nightmare and the Ghost of Christmas Future was torturing her with a glimpse of what may come. She gave a small shudder at the thought and then shook it off.

Finally she conceded. Draping her coat over the uncomfortable-looking straight back of the chair, she let out a small sigh then perched herself in the seat. As it turned out, appearances were not deceiving at all. The chair was just as uncomfortable as it looked.

“There, I’m sitting,” she announced. “Are you happy now?”

A full minute passed before the sheriff answered. Without looking up from his work he grunted. “Not my feet that’s hurtin’, young lady. Question is, are you happy now?”

She regarded him quietly for a moment, then asked, “Okay, I’ll admit it; I’m curious. How did you know my feet were hurting? Lucky guess?”

“Those shoes would hurt my feet. I figure they gotta hurt yours.”

“You barely glanced at me when I came in. How did you even know I was wearing heels?”

“I ain’t deaf yet, honey. I heard ‘em the minute you hit the front door.”

“Okay,” she conceded. “But that still doesn’t explain how you know I just bought them.”

The sheriff sighed and tossed his pencil back onto the papers again as he leaned back. He gave her the sort of look a teacher would bestow upon a student who wasn’t grasping the idea that one plus one equals two. “This a test?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean did your other Fed buddies tell you to screw with me?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Sweetheart…” he muttered, then shook his head. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with so we can get some police work done.” Wagging his finger up and down at her, he began to explain, “That blazer you’re wearing is a Charles Gray of London, unless I missed my guess, but I don’t think I did because my youngest daughter has one just like it. Not the highest dollar, but pricey, nice, and it’s current on the style. The one you’re wearing has been custom altered to drape properly because you carry your sidearm in a belt rig-on your right, by the way. That tells me you’re particular about your appearance and like to keep up with fashion, so it stands to reason that the shoes would be important too.” Now directing his index finger at the doorway, he continued, “But, when you walked in here a few minutes ago, you were favoring your left foot, even though based on the way you move it’s obvious you’re no stranger to walking in heels. In fact, I’d say you could even run in them if you were pressed.