Panzer
Panzer sat at his desk in the sheriff's office after midnight, staring at the fax he'd received from the state police. It included several photos from the security cameras of the previous banks, and he carefully studied the heights, weights, and postures of the three robbers in their black ski masks.
The more he looked at them, the more he was sure that they looked like the three bikers from the bar.
Maybe Billie had seen three different bikers earlier that day and confused them with the ones who came in later. Or maybe she'd told him she'd seen them when she actually hadn't, as some kind of joke at his expense—she made a lot of those jokes, and he didn't understand most of them.
Either way, he knew he shouldn't have just walked away. He should have made sure.
In one of the photos, one of the robbers had a narrow strip of skin exposed between his mask and the collar of his vest, revealing a tattoo of an eagle. And hadn't one of the bikers in the bar—the mean-looking one with red hair—had some kind of winged creature inked on the side of his neck? Panzer wasn't sure, but he cursed himself anyway. He should have walked up to the redhead and demanded to examine the tattoo...
...and then it would have turned out to be a skull with wings or something like that instead of an eagle, and Billie would have laughed at him, and everyone else in the bar would have laughed at him too.
Just like they always did.
Damn it, why did he always feel like no matter what decision he made, it was the wrong one?
When he and Billie had been in high school together, he'd taken her to the movies almost every weekend so they could watch Westerns, thinking it'd strengthen their friendship to the point where it could become something more. Instead, it just gave her a taste for wild, reckless outlaw types.
He'd behaved like a perfect gentleman toward her and treated her with nothing but respect, only to watch her fall in lust with a never-ending string of foul-mouthed, dirty-minded boys who snuck cigarettes and swallows of whiskey between classes. He started drinking beer to impress her, and she mocked him relentlessly for trying to seem like a “bad boy” when he so clearly wasn't and never would be.
And when he got old enough, he became a deputy and later ran for sheriff, thinking that the gun and badge would remind her of the heroes from their beloved Westerns and finally earn her respect. But the first time she saw him in uniform, she howled with laughter, saying he looked like Dudley Do-Right from the old Bullwinkle cartoons.
And year after year, it was “Panzie” this and “Panzie” that, no matter how many times he told her he hated that nickname. As though his feelings simply didn't matter to her.
He wished he could just forget about Billie and move on, but even if he could—and he knew damn well that he couldn't—it wasn't like there were other women in town who would be willing to date him. He was well aware of how everyone made fun of him behind his back, even though he tried not to let it show. They all thought he was an awkward, potbellied, slow-witted lump of a man who'd only become a lawman because he knew nothing dangerous would ever happen here.
But those robbers in the photos...it was them. The bikers. He was ninety percent sure of it.
Still, ninety percent was not a hundred.
He briefly thought about calling Coop Scanlon at the bank tomorrow morning, just to put him on alert in case he was right. But then what? The robbery wouldn't happen after all, and Coop and the rest of the people in town would have another hearty chuckle at his expense.
Panzie, the useless donut-muncher. Panzie, the boy who cried “wolf.” Panzie, who was actually dumb enough to believe he could stop a real crime.
Panzie, Panzie, Panzie.
No, he decided. He wouldn't call Coop or tell anyone about his suspicions. Not even Broyles, his deputy—who had an IQ of about 80, and was the only person in town who actually seemed to look up to him. He'd keep it to himself, but he'd keep his cruiser parked close to the bank tomorrow anyway, just out of sight. Just in case.
If Panzer was wrong, no one would ever have to know.
But if he was right...
Well, maybe he could arrest some real criminals for once in his career, and earn the respect of Billie and the rest of Cactus Hollow.
Panzer put down the faxed pages, put his feet up, leaned back in his office chair, and dozed off. He dreamed of exciting shoot-outs, of headlines and medals and Billie's voice in his ear as she made love to him and called him her hero.