Deputy Jesse Maddox thought nothing could top The Chicken Incident of 2003. That is, until a rainy Tuesday morning in June fourteen years later. The noise woke him up—a metallic crash, screech, and a squeal. No, lots of squeals. He blinked to clear the sleepy blur from his eyes. Something ran past his police car. Whatever it was clocked eleven miles per hour on his speed camera.
He cursed himself for falling asleep on the job. Again. The sheriff would have his hide. He climbed out of the car on shaky legs and onto the gravelly shoulder of the rural highway. His left foot had fallen asleep, so he stomped it on the ground a couple times while he leaned against the open door. Tingles climbed up his leg, which he quickly ignored.
Pigs ran down the road. Across the road. Along the ditch line.
“Oh, for the love of—”
One of them hit his car door and almost knocked him off his feet. A hundred yards down the road, their transport truck lay on its side. The driver clambered up and out the passenger side door. He seemed no worse for wear, thankfully.
Jesse lifted the police radio from its holder on his duty belt. He hesitated then pressed the transmit button. “Deputy Maddox to dispatch.”
A response came a few seconds later. “Ten-four. Go ahead, Deputy Maddox.”
“Dispatch, I think we have a…” What the hell was the code for that? “We have an eleven-seven.”
“Ten-four. What’s the location of the prowler?”
He groaned and pressed transmit again. “Dispatch, no, we have an eleven-fifteen.”
“Ten-four.” A pause. Her tone changed from robotic to annoyed. “A ball game in the street? Jesse, are you okay?”
He poked his forehead with the radio antenna and squeezed his eyes shut. Tires skidded on the road. Then a thump and a splat. He opened his eyes, afraid to look. A new GMC pickup had plowed into one of the darting pigs. Blood and guts were splattered across the highway.
The driver, a young man in business casual khakis and a polo, jumped out and ran around to the front of the pickup. Hands fisted in his hair, the man let loose a scream of pure disbelief. “What the hell? What the actual hell?”
Jesse pressed transmit again. “Dispatch, we have a ten-fifty-four, a nine-zero-one T, and a ten-forty-five.”
“Ten-four. Livestock on highway, non-injury accident, and animal carcass. Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sue, I’m sure. It’s a pig truck. They’re running all over the place.”
“Ten-four. Do you need backup?”
The driver spotted Jesse. "Well, if it's not ticket-a-minute Maddox. Are you going to write me up a ticket for this like you did for driving thirty-seven in a thirty-five? Go ahead! I won't pay it, you son of a bitch!"
Jesse pressed transmit and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, Sue, I need lots of backup. We’re gonna be here a while.”
****
Nobody wanted to piss off a boss. Especially when that boss was two hundred fifty pounds of fat-padded muscle who wore a duty belt equipped with a Colt M1911, a stun gun, and a billy club with more than a few dents in it. Sheriff Ken Stanton steepled his fingers and propped his chin on their tips. His fixed stare conveyed neither anger nor disappointment, which worried Jesse. One could usually expect the sheriff to launch a barrage of verbal admonishment that could bring even the vilest criminal to tears. Not this time. He regarded Jesse like someone torn over whether to order a Bud or Coors Light.
Jesse’s attention drifted to the five-by-seven wedding photo on Sheriff’s desk. A much younger, red-haired bride stared up at the tuxedo-clad sheriff with admiring eyes. She’d been what folks called a “comfort wife” after Sheriff’s first wife died a few years back.
Snapping his focus back to the situation at hand, Jesse shifted in his seat. “Sir, if I could—”
The sheriff cut him off with a stiff hand. “This is three times, Maddox. Three times you’ve fallen asleep while on patrol. This pig truck driver was speeding and could have easily been pulled over before he tried to round that tight curve had you been awake. And let's not forget the complaints from people you've ticketed for stupid shit and your asshole attitude.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Another stop signal. “Most folks would abide by the three-strikes-you’re-out route. But most people have more than one deputy in their department. Not me. All I got is you.”
“Yes, sir, and if you could—”
“You need help.”
“Help? As in another deputy?”
“No, help as in medical or mental. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve got narcolepsy or something. But I really don’t want to have to train another deputy. Not many kids these days want to be in law enforcement when they graduate, much less at the sheriff’s department. Most of them are delinquents that don’t need to be anywhere near a gun.”
“I could get some sleeping pills.” Jesse scratched the back of his neck. Caked mud flaked off and joined the filth already under his fingernails. Mud, pig manure, oil, and God knew what else, covered his uniform and once mirror-shined shoes. He reached up for his hat. It wasn’t there.
“Lost your hat again, too.” The sheriff let out a long, tired sigh and opened his yellow pages. He flipped through until he stopped and wrote down a name and number on his notepad. He tore off the page and handed it to Jesse.
Jesse read it aloud. “Leigh Meriwether? Who’s that?”
“A therapist.”
The word raised Jesse’s hackles. “As in physical? Occupational?”
“No, as in mental. Somebody to talk to about what’s keeping you up at night. This job ain’t easy, you’ve seen some awful things, and lived a rough life. Maybe those things are dug in too deep for you to let them go.”
“Sir, I don’t think—”
The sheriff’s voice rose in volume with every word, as did the red in his complexion. “No, you don’t think. If you did, you’d have already addressed the problem so we wouldn’t be sitting here in my office with you covered in pig shit!”
Jesse glanced down at the paper then rubbed his eyes. They burned, not only from the mad dash to catch running pork chops, but from the measly two hours of sleep he’d gotten the night before.
“Call her. Make an appointment and go. I want you to report back here when that’s done. And I don’t care what time of day you have to go. If it’s not an emergency, I can handle it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” He might as well be sentenced to a month of Sundays in a fire and brimstone Baptist church. “But, can’t I just—”
“You’re dismissed, Deputy. Call her and get back to work.”
Jesse nodded, willed his tired body to stand, and went to the door.
“And Deputy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Find your damn hat.”