Virginia, October 13, 1999
The sheriff sat behind his desk, feet up, reclining back in his new office chair. His wife had bought him some doughnuts earlier that day so he sat munching on one. His computer was off for his lunch break, if you could call it that. He checked his Omega watch sitting on his fat wrist. It was half past 3 in the afternoon. Closing his eyes, he dusted off the sugar remnants from his stubby fingers, lying backwards. The past few days had been so tiring. The whole McLean case had been blowing right up in the department's face and he hadn't been home in three whole days.
It had all begun when they were finally sending off the boy's car to the metal repurposing centre or whatever. Deputy Sheriff Myles had noticed, as he was giving it the final go ahead, a blood stain under the edge of the hatch for the boot. It was understood that the back window had been smashed due to the pressure and impact of the crash but this discovery of blood led to a whole forensic analysis of the car, and the case to be reopened.
The forensic analysis of the blood had turned up the same DNA in different patches that suggested that the car had hit somebody before eventually it crashed. They were in the process of running the DNA through the system and determining whose it was. If they found out who this was, they could determine just exactly what happened that night, not that there was anything to determine in the Sheriff's mind. They were just a couple of drunk kids who weren't paying attention and ploughed straight into a tree. They probably weren't even looking out of the window: he had kids of his own of the same age, who even attended the same school as the boy who'd died, so he knew exactly what those kinds of kids were like. Nice kid, tragic crash. Nothing more than that.
All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. The Sheriff pulled himself up, taking his feet off his new mahogany desk and calling for whoever it was to come in. It was the Deputy Sheriff who glanced around the office. He'd always admired it with it's varnished wood, modern computer, leather spinny chair and comfortable carpet, but rarely went in there. He tried whenever there was an excuse, no matter how small, to go inside.
"What is it, Myles?"
Still glancing around, he snapped out of his haze. "Umm, they found 'im, Sheriff."
Myles hung in the door; his tall, awkward figure nearly took up the whole doorway. He readjusted his beige hat over his dark hair, gave one last look around then walked off, with the files grasped between his bony fingers.
Reluctantly, the Sheriff stood up, picking up his own beige Sheriff's hat off the desk to put on his bald head and adjusting his belt which was on way too tightly after those doughnuts.
He waddled out into the office, looking around the large room. Everyone was sitting at their desks, fiddling with fax machines or talking hurriedly on phones, scribbling notes down. A few looked up at him as he walked out, saying Sheriff politely and nodding their heads slightly before going back to what they were so urgently and hurriedly doing. Myles held up the files on the other side of the office; beside the window. The Sheriff made his way over, dodging the people scurrying past him, trying to listen in on what people were saying in their private little desk booths. When he reached the corner, Myles held out a white, standard issue telephone to him, whilst leaning on the wooden desk, staring at the Sheriff and waiting desperately to eavesdrop.
"This is Sheriff Roach of the Virginian State Department." His voice was hoarse and low, partly exacerbated by his impatience.
"Goodday Sheriff. I'm Sheriff Daniels: Oklahoma State. We found your guy."
"Good. What you got?"
"We've faxed it over just now."
He stayed on the phone whilst Myles handed him a sheet of paper.
Robert P. Taylor. Processed twice for petty theft and once for attempted kidnapping. A man with a wide face, a protruding chin and long, lank blondish hair.
"We have him. His address. We're on our way over right now. Why exactly are you looking for him? Would you advise an entire armed force to make their way over?"
The Sheriff shook his head as if they could hear him doing that over the phone. "No. Don't bother. Consider him potentially armed and dangerous in the sense that all Americans, especially who live in Oklahoma, have guns. You may want to take a paramedic as we believe he could be seriously injured."
"Injured?"
"Yes."
The man on the other end of the line was clearly confused. They should've put out a message saying just exactly why they were looking for this man but it was too late now.
"Ok, thank you, Sheriff. We'll get back to you with our findings."