A Witness Above by Andy Straka

youth.
    We crossed the room and found two empty stools. I ordered us both club sodas.
    “Well?” she said.
    “Nice to see you too, honey.”
    “C'mon, Dad. You come barging in here unannounced. What do you want me to say?”
    The drinks arrived and I took a sip. “I don't want you to say anything. Just tell me about Dewayne Turner.”
    Her own drink remained untouched. She crossed her arms and bit her lip. “Is that what you came to talk to me about?”
    “Did you know him?”
    “What are you up to? And what do you mean, did?”
    I told her about the find I'd made while hunting.
    She listened for several seconds. Her hand suddenly seemed to quiver as she picked up her drink. She glanced back at her friend across the room, then interrupted me in mid-sentence. “I can't talk about this right now, Daddy.”
    “What do you mean? Why not?”
    “I just can't, that's all. I'll call you later this weekend.”
    “But—”
    “I'll call you. I promise.”
    A commotion broke out in the back of the place. Two sheriff's deputies in tan uniforms and hats had appeared and were in the process of arresting a black teenager who'd been playing pool. The officers were both white. One had a mustache and the other's skin was badly sunburned. A small crowd had gathered. The bartender came out from behind his counter and went over to get a better look. I turned from Nicole and followed.
    The arrestee, a skinny youth, decked out in blue jeans and a muscle shirt, while not resisting, didn't appear too happy about the situation. “I didn't do nothin’, man. What you goin’ and hastlin’ me for?”
    But the deputies were efficient. One of them twisted the kid's arm up against his back as if it were a pretzel.
    “Hey! That hurts, you know.”
    I stepped a little closer.
    They had him up against the wall and the cuffs on him. The deputy with the mustache took something from one of his pockets and whispered something only the youth could hear. Then he reached for his nightstick.
    “Excuse me, officers,” I said. “But I didn't see this suspect resisting arrest.”
    The deputies turned to look at me. The one with the stick in his hand stared at me as if I'd stepped off another planet. “Who the hell are you?”
    “Name's Pavlicek. I used to be a cop myself.”
    With that he visibly relaxed. Must have been worried I was an attorney. “Just makin’ an arrest, buddy. You'd best be about your business.”
    “Yeah, well I would, except—”
    “Except what?”
    There was a stir in the room and I turned to see another man approach, a muscular type with sandy blonde hair and a sculpted waist. He wore a golf shirt and khaki slacks with a gold star and a gun attached to his belt.
    “I'm Sheriff Cowan,” he said, extending his hand to me. His grip was too strong, either out of habit, nervousness, or wanting to make an impression. His face jogged a connection in my mind, as if that terminus had just been waiting there for those features to show up to activate the circuits. It was handsome and unblemished, except for a nasty scar above one eyebrow. The chin predominated, enough to make you wonder how he would do in a fistfight. The man was practically Hollywood material—Affalachia County conjures up its vision of the all-American peacekeeper.
    “I understand you may have a problem with the way my deputies are making this arrest.”
    “Yes, sheriff, I do.”
    “Would you like to file a complaint?” His eyes bore into mine.
    “No. I just thought your men might be using excessive force.”
    “Says he used to be a cop,” the mustached deputy said. He and his partner were beginning to lead the youth from the restaurant now. The partner was reading the kid his rights.
    “Is that right?” the sheriff said. “Well, Mr. …”
    “Pavlicek.”
    “Pavlicek. Yeah, well I'm awful sorry you see it that way. But, as I'm sure you all can appreciate, police tactics can sometimes vary from locale to locale.”
    I said nothing. What, was this guy