Excerpt:

How did I get here?
Well, not physically. I know how I got to this little room in this little town in the southwest.
What I need to figure out is how I got into this situation.
How long ago was my life normal? Or at least as normal as a cop's life can be?
God, what was that?
Damn it, I jump at any sound now.
Paint on ceiling is peeling. Probably the heat. I can't remember if this is Arizona or New Mexico. Both are hot.
I should try to contact -- who is left?
Army.
What do I say?
Anything that would identify me is long gone.
Fingerprints. I could ask them to take my finger prints.
Right. I just walk to the Military Police Officers at the gate and ask to be finger printed.
How long as it been?
I looked around my room. I wasn't in a motel. No, this was a rooming house run by the proverbial little old lady. The kind of place that people without cars could stay. What was that old song, "rooms to let, fifty cent"? No phone here. Single bed. Closet. Dresser. One window. The screen on it was in good shape. Had to be since the only way to cool the room was to open the window. Browns and blues. Ceiling was brown. So was the hard wood floor. No carpets, not even a throw rug. Wainscoting of the same hard wood as the floor, like the frames of the doors and the doors. Between the top of the wainscoting and the ceiling the plaster had been painted a blue color.
I had been here a week.
The last time I talked to anyone in the DEA had been a year ago.
When reality came apart at the seams.
I looked around the room again wondering how I managed to go from Sheriff Andy of Mayberry to Popeye Doyle to David Vincent.