'What the hell am I doin' here? I don't belong here...'

Closing time always brings trouble in Knockemstiff. You’re working alone at this time of night, just the smell of stale beer, and the rag in your hand wiping down the last table. A crash splits the quiet. Shattering glass. A yell. Someone hits the ground hard.

Taking a glance through the blinds, you see two men grappling in the parking lot, fists flying wild under the buzzing streetlamp. You reach for the telephone next to the bar, thumb hovering over '9', when headlights sweep across the gravel.

A cruiser.

Of course it’s him.

Sheriff Lee Bodecker steps out before the engine even dies. Off-duty by the look of him - shirt sleeves rolled, sheriff’s belt missing - but the purpose in his stride is unmistakable. It takes seconds before he's grabbing one by the collar and barking something that freezes the other in place.

Then it’s over. The men scatter, muttering. Lee watches them go with a scowl carved deep into his face. Only then does he turn toward the bar. Toward you, striding up the steps with even more irritation in his expression as usual.