UnTill-Death

Sheriff Jacob Huston ran a hand through his hair and gulped down his second cup of black coffee that hour. It was days like this that made him believe that criminals actually conspired with each other to overload the police department. In twenty-four hours, there had been no fewer than four confirmed homicides, eight assaults, two controlled substance possessions, and one attempted robbery. It was that last item that was threatening to tip Huston over the edge. Apparently, some cowboy-wannabe had walked into the Wells Fargo over on 122nd, pointed a revolver at one of them tellers, and demanded the money in the register. By the time the cops