Chief Marshall: A Short Story
“I’m Maryville Chief of Police Greg Marshall, how can I help you Mr. Smith?”
Chief Marshall was a large mountain of a man, easily six feet, six inches. At six foot two, I had to look up at him. In his early sixties, with a shock of thick, white hair on his head and an equally impressive white handlebar mustache, he stared at me from behind a pair of wire rimmed spectacles. His appearance, combined with his watery, blue eyes reminded me of an old walrus.
“Chief Marshall.” I put my hand out across the counter to shake his, introducing myself at the same time. “Justice Smith. Hopefully I won’t take up too much of your time, but I was wondering if we could speak privately regarding a cold case I’m working on. The disappearance forty years ago
Chief Marshall was a large mountain of a man, easily six feet, six inches. At six foot two, I had to look up at him. In his early sixties, with a shock of thick, white hair on his head and an equally impressive white handlebar mustache, he stared at me from behind a pair of wire rimmed spectacles. His appearance, combined with his watery, blue eyes reminded me of an old walrus.
“Chief Marshall.” I put my hand out across the counter to shake his, introducing myself at the same time. “Justice Smith. Hopefully I won’t take up too much of your time, but I was wondering if we could speak privately regarding a cold case I’m working on. The disappearance forty years ago