Habeas Corpse (working title)
an excerpt

Chief Deputy Anderson arrived shortly, accompanied by another deputy with a shovel. Behind their squad came another car, unmarked. From this vehicle stepped a brown-uniform-clad man. He was large and forbidding, with a close-cropped head of hair, but a full beard and moustache and the body of a professional wrestler--well, okay, a retired professional wrestler. His belt bristled with equipment: a holstered pistol, billy club, handcuffs, cellphone and Blackberry and other leather covered attachments I couldn’t identify. It was a wonder he could sit down. I could see a shotgun mounted vertically in the passenger compartment of the car, along with a radio and dashboard light. He paused to settle a battered cowboy hat on his head before turning toward us. Deputy Anderson introduced the newcomer as Sheriff Harris.

The Sheriff shook my hand gravely, his huge hand swallowing mine. “I’m sorry you have been having such unsettling experiences here in our town, ma’am. I assure you, Crescent Ridge is a peaceful place, and we aim to keep it that way.”

I looked at him carefully for any sign of humor, but there was none. His faded blue eyes returned my evaluative gaze, as if gauging my sanity, or perhaps how much influence I might have over the electorate in the next election. I’d wait until after he looked at the grave of whatever-it-was to tell him that I was not even a registered voter in the town.