I couldn’t say whether it was Old Spice, Brut or something Avon sold in a colored bottle the shape of a car or boot, but whatever cologne Sheriff-for-life Claude Stephens favored had permeated the foam under the cheap vinyl-covered seats of his unmarked cruiser. He pulled up beside me on the courthouse…

Tic-tic-tic-tic-tic ... Byram Hawkins thought his revving heart was going to throw a rod. No spring chicken, he’d been running for nearly an hour, painfully aware that he was being dogged by shirt-tucking, shiny-booted “revenooers” apparently tipped off to the moonshine he’d been distilling on the…