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third floor, ran down to my office, and grabbed the Johnston file.
    Next, I took the stairs down to the second floor where the road patrol unit was, signed out a Taser, and grabbed the keys for the cruiser I wanted. Then I strode down another flight of stairs and out the door to the compound to start my shift.
    I could hear all kinds of domestic disputes, fight calls, and disturbance calls being put out on the radio, and as I was pulling onto the street, dispatch called me, “Seven-hundred to seven-two-seven.”
    I perked right up, thinking I was getting a decent call, but to my horror, they sent me on what’s called an “assist person call” clear down at the bottom of the county. I was to make contact with a guy and tell him to call a neighboring county sheriff’s department about his dog because the neighboring sheriff’s department could not reach the individual by telephone.
    You have got to be kidding, I thought to myself. I was only working four hours, and my first hour would be blown driving down to God’s country for this bullshit? I cleared on the call (told dispatch I was on my way), and continued spewing obscenities. All this excitement going on out here on the street, and I have to deal with this crap. I told myself it was just part of the job and everyone had to do it, but I was still angry. I called Eric on my way down and checked on the girls.
    “Hello, Mr. Schroeder,” I purred into my mobile.
    “Hello, Mrs. Schroeder, or Gallagher, whichever you prefer.”
    I think it bothered Eric that I still went by my maiden name, but I think my first marriage had convinced me that changing it was bad luck.
    “What’s the matter?” Eric asked, immediately knowing something was wrong.
    “I’m going to see a man about a dog,” I said sarcastically, and then told Eric about the call I was going on.
    As usual, Eric cheered me up and I talked to Selina and Isabelle briefly before hanging up. They were excited because Grandma was babysitting for a half an hour tonight.
    I was still in somewhat of a good mood when I pulled into the driveway of the house where the guy I was to contact lived. The house looked nice enough. It was a red brick number, two stories with white shutters, a breezeway to the garage, and a beautiful view overlooking the valley. I noticed there were two cars parked in the driveway. One was a broken-down old blue Toyota pickup truck with the back wheels up on cement blocks. The other was a beat-up old gray Honda Accord covered in rust.
    The Honda had a West Virginia license plate on it. I thought it was a little odd to see two old beaters in the driveway of a nice house like this, but in my line of work, you can never be surprised by anything.
    At least someone’s home
, I thought as I got out of my car. I figured I could be in and out of there and headed back towards the city in less than five minutes. The guy I was to give the message to was named Jack Delphy. I’d repeated the name a few times on the ride in so I wouldn’t forget.
    I went to the side door that was under the breezeway, which seemed like the door everyone used. I knocked a couple of times, and then rang the doorbell, getting no response either time.
    I knocked one more time, waited, and was just getting ready to leave when I sensed someone behind me. It wasn’t that I heard anything. It was the smell. I was overcome by the stink of what I call the
hillbilly funk.
It’s hard to put into words, but it can best be described as the smell of extremely dirty hair and pungent body odor mixed in with the tang of sour feet and bad breath. It’s a smell that permeates half of Roseland, but Roseland was a long way from this house. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with source of the stinky odor.
    He stood about six feet tall, had brown hair that was matted in some parts and sticking up in others, and brown eyes that were so red and glassed-over that it took me a second to see that they were actually brown. Dried spit,