I didn't know anything was wrong until the police arrived.

As it turned out, Henry had been missing for 12 hours.

His wife had left the front porch light on for his expected later rival, as usual, and

nestled into bed.

But when she awoke the next morning, the sheets beside her was still folded flat. Hallway shouts went unanswered, as did phone calls.

There was no truck in the driveway,

and after a search of the house proved fruitless,

she called the police to file a missing person's report.

Our rural town is small, population 2723, and because of the far proximity from large cities, we have no team to rally behind

during professional sporting events.

So the pillar of the community is, and always has been, the local high school team, where

fans arrive in droves to support the kids no matter the sport.

Because of this outpouring of support, everyone in town knows Henry.

Not only did he attend every game with gloves fashion to resemble Cougar Pours, but he also

had been the school custodian since the Cougars won the championship in 91.

The town adored him. I adored him.

So you can imagine my frustration when three sheriff's deputies made loops around my property

while the sheriff, Portly and Stonefaced as ever, interrogated me about the truck they found across

the road from my driveway.

I told you, Henry's always parked there so my muddy driveway wouldn't get his truck dirty.

I don't know why his truck is still there.

What do you mean by that? The sheriff asked

...