The Bishop

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Officers Craig Walker and Trevor Meyers rolled to a stop in front of the squat, paint-peeled home of Philip and Jeanne Styles, the only house on the vacant county road winding around the state park.

They exited the cruiser.

A few dogs barked in the distance, but the forest behind the house swallowed most of the night noise, so apart from the muffled shouting coming from inside the home, the evening was silent and dewy and still.

Craig ascended the porch’s crumbling steps, Trevor at his heels. He tried to distinguish the words of the people hollering inside. Tried to catch the gist of the argument.

After a moment Trevor cleared his throat. “Aren’t you gonna knock?” He’d told Craig earlier in the day that he liked to be called Trev, of all things. How nice.

“Easy, Tonto.” Even though Craig had only been on the force five years, he’d already dealt with more than his share of drunk husbands and battered wives. “Domestic disturbance calls are the worst.”

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