Cold Case


Sheriff Bill Wilkins popped an antacid and ground it between his teeth as the reporter fumbled with his tape recorder.

It was late on the evening of December 15, and outside, fat flakes of snow fell lazily from the black sky, adding to the six inches from the previous night. When Bill last peeked out, Main Street stood empty, the traffic lights at the corner of Main and Oak swaying in the wind. If the weatherman was right, there would be a foot on the ground come morning.

Bill’s stomach gurgled.

“Are you ready, Mr. Katz?” he asked impatiently.

The reporter looked nervously up. “Y-yeah, I’m ready.”

Bill sat back in his chair and sighed. “That thing’s on, right?”





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