Then Fowler starts laughing. Marcum joins her. Within seconds, the night shift is in hysterics, and I can hear the day shift deputies walking through the front door, demanding to know what's so funny.
"All units," I announce over the radio, "stand down from 847 Maple Avenue. Situation is code four. Suspect is a wildlife nuisance, not a criminal threat."
Deputy Torres's voice crackles back through the radio: "Copy that, Sheriff. Should we notify Animal Control?"
"That would be the appropriate response, yes."
I release the radio button and walk calmly, deliberately, to the dispatch station.
Jessica is slumped in her chair, face buried in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking. Whether from mortification or suppressed laughter, I cannot immediately determine.
"The caller said robbery." Her voice is muffled by her palms. "She said someone was stealing from her. She said he was wearing a mask. How was I supposed to know she meant a raccoon?"
"Mrs. Kowalski refers to the neighborhood raccoons as 'the bandits.' She's filed seventeen complaints about them in the past two years."
Jessica raises her head. "Seventeen complaints about raccoons?"
"Mrs. Kowalski has strong feelings about wildlife in residential areas."
"I just dispatched six police officers to arrest a raccoon."
"Technically, you dispatched them to investigate a reported robbery. The raccoon element was an unexpected development."
She stares at me. "Are you making a joke?"
"Perhaps."
"A very bad joke." Her flush deepens. "I'm so sorry. I'll reimburse the department for the wasted resources. Somehow. Eventually. Once I have money again."
"That won't be necessary." I pull the extra chair from the adjacent desk and position it next to her station. "We'll reviewthe call log protocols together. Clarifying questions to ask before dispatching units. Species verification among them."
A laugh escapes her. Watery and embarrassed, but genuine. "Species verification. Right. Because apparently that's something I need to ask."
By the time I return to my office, Jessica has recovered from the raccoon incident and is approaching the dispatch station with renewed determination.
"No raccoons today," she announces when I check on her an hour later. "I'm going to ask clarifying questions. Species, threat level, whether the caller is a known wildlife enthusiast."
"A thorough approach."
"I made a list." She holds up a notepad covered in neat handwriting. "Twenty questions to ask before dispatching. I'm not making the same mistake twice."
She settles into the dispatch station with visible confidence. For the next two hours, everything proceeds according to protocol. She handles a noise complaint about a barking dog. Logs a fender bender at the grocery store parking lot. Transfers a medical emergency to the appropriate services with admirable efficiency.
I begin to think yesterday was an anomaly. A learning experience. She's adapted, adjusted, improved.
Then I realize I haven't heard her voice in forty-seven minutes.
I check the call log. Nothing since oh-nine-twenty-three. No unusual silence period is indicated in the schedule. The phone lines are functional.
I walk to the dispatch station.
It's empty.
"Deputy Marcum." I keep my voice level. "Where is Ms. Delacroix?"
Marcum looks up from his report. "Haven't seen her, Sheriff. She was here about half an hour ago."
I conduct a systematic search of the station. Break room. Restrooms. Conference room. Supply closet. Each location is vacant.
