I take out my notebook and write: Vehicle has been abandoned for at least twelve hours, prestorm.

I duck into the edge of the woods as another police car arrives. This one is unmarked and ordinary, except for the domed police light magnetically affixed to the top. The man who gets out of it is tall and has red hair. He is wearing a black overcoat and heavy boots. On one of his hands, he has a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid.

I write this in my notebook, too.

“Captain,” an officer says, coming out from between the trees. He’s dressed in a uniform, with heavy gloves and boots, too. “Sorry to call you in.”

The captain shakes his head. “What have you got?”

“A jogger found a body in the woods. Guy’s half naked and there’s blood all over him.”

“Who the hell goes jogging at night in the dead of winter?”

I follow them into the woods, careful to stay in the shadows. There are searchlights illuminating the area around the body, so that the evidence can be fully recorded.

The dead man is lying on his back. His eyes are open. His pants are gathered around his ankles, but he is still wearing his underwear. The knuckles of his hands are bright red with blood, as are the bottoms of his palms, and his knees and calves. His jacket is unzipped, and he’s missing one shoe and one sock. All around him, the snow is pink.

“Holy crap,” the captain says. He kneels down and snaps on a pair of rubber gloves that he takes from his pocket. He examines the body up close.

I hear two more sets of footsteps, and another man steps into the pool of light, escorted by a uniformed officer. The uniformed officer takes one look at the dead guy, goes totally pale, and throws up. “Jesus H.,” the other man says.

“Hey, Chief,” the captain replies.

“Suicide or homicide?”

“I don’t know yet. Sexual assault seems like a given, though.”

“Rich, the guy’s covered in blood from head to toe and he’s lying here in his tighty whites. You think he got sexually assaulted and then committed hara-kiri?” The police chief snorts. “I know I don’t have the vast detective experience you do after fifteen years on the job in the metropolis of Townsend but-”

I look down at the list in my notebook. What would Dr. Henry Lee do? Well, he’d examine the wounds up close. He’d analyze why there was only superficial blood-that pink transfer on the snow, without any dripping or spatter. He’d note the footprints in the snow-one set that matches the lone sneaker on the victim’s foot, and the other set that has been matched to the jogger who found the body. He’d ask why, after a sexual assault, the victim would still be wearing his underwear if other items of clothing were still removed.

I am so cold I’m shaking. I stomp my frozen feet in their sneakers. Then I look down at the ground, and suddenly everything’s crystal clear.

“Actually,” I say, stepping out of my hiding place, “you’re both wrong.”

I don’t know why I kid myself into thinking that I’ll get anything done on the weekends. I have the best intentions, but something always gets in the way. Today, for example, I was determined to build an ice rink in the backyard for Sasha, my seven-year-old. She lives with my ex, Hannah, but she’s with me from Friday night to Sunday, and she is currently planning on joining the U.S. Figure Skating team (if she doesn’t become a singing veterinarian). I figured she’d get a kick out of helping me flood the tarp I set up in the back, bordered by two-by-fours that I hammered into place all week long after work, just to get ready. I promised her that when she woke up on Sunday morning, she’d be able to skate.

What I hadn’t counted on was the fact that it would be so freaking cold outside. Sasha started to whine as soon as the wind picked up, so I nixed the plan and drove her to dinner in Burlington instead-she’s a big fan of one place, where you can draw on the tablecloths. She falls asleep on the car ride home while I am still singing along to Hannah Montana songs on her CD, and I carry her upstairs to her bedroom. It’s a haven of pink in a bachelor pad. During the settlement, I got the house, but Hannah got nearly everything inside it. It’s weird to pick Sasha up from her other home and see her new stepdad sprawled on my old couch.

She stirs a little while I get her undressed and into her nightgown, but then she sighs and curls on her side beneath the covers. For a minute, I just stare at her. Most of the time, being the only detective in a one-horse town is a losing battle. I get paid crap; I investigate cases that are too dull to even make the police log in the local paper. But I’m making sure that Sasha’s world, or at least this tiny corner of it, is a little bit safer.

It keeps me going.

Well… that and my twenty-year retirement bonus.

Downstairs, I grab a flashlight and head out to the aborted ice rink. I turn on the hose. If I stay up for a few more hours, maybe there will be enough water in the tarp to freeze overnight.

I don’t like breaking promises; I leave that to my ex.

I’m not a bitter guy; I’m not. It’s just that, in my profession, it’s a lot easier to see actions as either right or wrong, without shades of explanation between them. I didn’t really need to know how Hannah realized her soul mate was not the guy she’d married but instead the one who serviced the coffee machines in the teachers’ room. “He started bringing hazelnut for me,” she said, and somehow I was supposed to be able to understand that meant I don’t love you anymore.

Back inside, I open the fridge and grab a bottle of Sam Adams. I settle down on the couch, turn on a Bruins game on NESN, and pick up the newspaper. Although most guys turn to the stocks or sports page, I always go for the entertainment section, because of the column in the back. I’m hooked on an agony aunt-that’s the old-fashioned term for an advice column. She calls herself Auntie Em, and she’s my guilty pleasure.

I’ve fallen in love with my best friend, and I know I’ll never be with him… so how do I get over him?

My partner just walked out and left me with a four-month-old baby. Help!

Can you be depressed if you’re only fourteen?

There are two things I like about this column: that the letters are a constant reminder my life doesn’t suck as much as someone else’s, and that there is at least one person on this planet who seems to have all the answers. Auntie Em is forever coming up with the most practical solutions, as if the key to the great riddles of existence involves surgically cutting away the emotional component and looking at just the facts.

She’s probably eighty years old and living with a horde of cats, but I kind of think Auntie Em would make a great cop.

The last letter takes me by surprise.

I’m married to a great guy, but I can’t stop thinking about my ex, and wondering if I made a mistake. Should I tell him?

My eyes widen, and I can’t keep myself from checking the byline. The letter writer doesn’t live in Strafford, like Hannah, but instead hails from Stowe. Get a grip, Rich, I tell myself silently.

I reach for the beer bottle, and I’m just about to take that first indescribable sip when my cell phone rings. “Matson,” I answer.

“Captain? Sorry to bug you on your night off…”

It’s Joey Urqhart, a rookie patrolman. I’m sure it’s my imagination, but the new officers get younger every year; this one’s probably still wearing a Pull-Up at night. No doubt, he’s calling to ask me where we keep the extra Kleenex down at the station or something equally inane. The new kids know better than to bother the chief, and I’m the second in command.

“… it’s just that we got a report of a dead body and I figured you’d want to know.”