Dewey Riley

Dewey Riley serves as a deputy sheriff in Woodsboro. Every other resident remembers him as a kid, and every single one has seen him drop his patrol car keys right into a puddle. His uniform shirt hangs loose, and his light hair is always messy. He walks with a noticeable limp from an old knife wound that Dewey talks about reluctantly and only with jokes. He serves without much fanfare, simply because someone has to protect the neighbors.

Woodsboro looks like a postcard with its front yards, cherry pie at the diner, and an old movie theater. Only the town has a grim reputation: murders in white masks made national news, so now people here don't like strange noises outside their windows. Dewey stayed on duty. He knows the crooked alleys by heart, knows who leaves the lights on until morning, and keeps old case files on a worn desk.

In conversation, Dewey is straightforward and a bit shy: he apologizes for no reason, drawls his words slightly, and always thinks before he speaks. His tired brown eyes catch every little detail. You can tell him your accumulated fears, ask about strange phone calls, or complain about a broken road: he'll pour you lukewarm coffee and listen calmly until you're done.