Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 21

Half an hour later, I’m standing twenty feet from the bank of a raging Painters Creek, watching a volunteer firefighter retrieve McCullough’s body from the water. Next to me, Skid slurps at an extra-large McDonald’s coffee, watching the scene as if he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the television watching an old episode of Jonny Quest. Behind us, two paramedics from Pomerene Hospital stand beneath the branches of a black walnut tree that does little to shield them from the rain.

“Chief?”

I glance behind me to see the coroner approach, sliding a little in the mud as he comes down the slope from the front of the house. He’s eyeing me as if it’s my fault he’s out tromping around in such inhospitable weather and he’s holding me personally responsible. His eyes slide toward the life preserver–clad firefighters as he starts toward us.

“I wish people would choose better weather in which to die,” he grumbles as he reaches us.

Skid chuckles into his coffee.

The doc doesn’t smile. “Any idea who it is?”

“I think it’s the homeowner, Jerrold McCullough,” I tell him.

“Chief!” The nearest firefighter looks over his shoulder at me. “You might want to see this.”

Skid lowers the cup from his mouth and looks at me. “You want me to go, Chief?”

“I got it.” I cross to the water’s edge, where the two firefighters, both of whom have safety tethers attached to their life vests, are standing in hip-deep water. “What is it?”

“This guy didn’t just fall off the deck and get tangled in that rope,” he shouts to be heard above the roar of the water. “His hands are bound.”

In light of the other two murders, I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s always something intrinsically shocking about murder. “He’s tied to the deck?”

“Looks like.”

The deck seems to be shielding them from the worst of the current. Still, it’s a dangerous retrieval. Without those tethers, one slip could send a man into the water, where even the strongest swimmer would be swept downstream.

A third rescuer approaches me with an orange life vest. “Here you go, Chief.”

All I can think as I put my arms through the straps is that I don’t want to go into that swirling, dark water. The firefighter doesn’t seem to notice my trepidation as he produces a black nylon tether strap and clips it to my vest with a carabiner.

The firefighter in the water looks over his shoulder at me. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

At the bank, I look back at Skid. “Grab the camera, will you?”

Nodding, he starts up the incline toward his cruiser.

Trying not to slip in the mud, I enter the water. Cold creeps over the tops of my boots and grips my feet with icy hands that streak up my legs with enough force to chill my entire body. No one had any spare wader boots, so I’m destined to go through the day with wet feet. Another step takes me into a foot of swirling brown water. Even though it’s shallow, the current tugs at me, like a child pulling on my pant leg to get my attention.

I’m about four feet downstream from the deck. Tea-colored water rushes around the wood piers. The two firefighters are taking the brunt of the current; I can see it washing around their legs. One of the men has looped a rope around the nearest pier and is using it to hold on to.

Water inches over my knees and slaps against my thighs as I wade closer to the deck. When the farthest firefighter steps aside, I get my first good look at the body. I see a blue-white face with cloudy eyes. A gray strip of what looks like duct tape over the mouth. Hair flowing like some exotic fish fin just below the surface. The victim is wearing a white tank undershirt and blue jeans that have been nearly pulled from his body by the force of the water. Bare feet. My eyes seek out his hands, but they’re bound behind his back, cotton rope whipping with the current.

“See that?” The firefighter points. “Hands are tied. Looks like duct tape over his mouth and wrapped around his head. I thought you might want to see it before we cut him loose.”

“Let me get a few shots,” I tell him.

Gripping the tether with my left hand, I wade back to the shore. “Skid!”

He places the camera in my palm. Wrapping the strap around my wrist, hoping I don’t fall and ruin it, I work my way back out to the body. I stop two feet away, brace my feet against the pull of the water, and start snapping photos. It’s difficult to make out the details because of the murkiness and glare. The raging current is whipping the body back and forth with such force that I hear it striking the deck’s pier.

I leave the water and shoot a dozen more photos from different angles as the firefighters cut the body loose. The rope drags behind them like a dead snake as they carry the victim to shore. Doc Coblentz and a young female technician, who’s staring at the body as if she’s expecting it to turn into a zombie at any moment, spreads a black zippered body bag on grass that’s been pulverized to mud. The firefighters lay the victim in a supine position atop the vinyl.

When the two men step away, I move closer and look down at the body. The face is discolored and swollen, but not so much that I don’t recognize him. “It’s Jerrold McCullough,” I say.

One of the rescuers comes up beside me. “Looks like he’s been submerged awhile,” he says as he removes his life vest.

I look at Doc Coblentz. “Any idea how long?”

The doc shakes his head. “Skin hasn’t begun to slough. Not much in the way of bloating. If I had to guess, I’d say less than twenty-four hours. I’ll get a liver temp once I get him to the morgue.”

Skid’s gaze snags mine. “That means he was there last night when you and Glock were here, looking for him.”

“The water hadn’t yet reached the deck,” I say. “If he was alive and conscious, he heard us.”

“Kate, look at his knees.” The coroner glances up at me from where he’s kneeling next to the body.

I kneel beside him and watch as he indicates holes in the man’s trousers at both knees. Using scissors, he cuts away the wet fabric and reveals neat round bullet holes in both knees. “Looks like gunshot wounds,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Skid mutters from somewhere behind me.

The doc studies the wounds. “I won’t be sure until I get X-rays, but it looks like on the left knee, the bullet hit the patella. On the right, it looks as if it penetrated the soft tissue between the patella and tibia.”

“Was he alive when he was shot?” I ask.

“There’s bruising. Swelling. I would say yes, he was alive when he sustained those two wounds.”

I look down at the body and try not to wince at the images prying into my brain. “Doc, can you cut away that duct tape?”

Using surgical-grade scissors, the coroner cuts the duct tape and peels it away. I work an evidence bag from my belt and hold it out. He drops the length of tape into the bag.

McCullough’s mouth is open. I see blue lips and yellowed teeth. A small dark object at the back of his throat. “There’s something in his mouth,” I say.

“Some kind of foreign object.” The doc looks over his shoulder at the technician. “Hand me those pliers.”

The technician passes the instrument to the doc. We watch in silence as the doc inserts the pincers and pulls out the Amish peg doll. “Just like the others,” he says.

From behind me, Skid hands him another evidence bag and the doc drops it inside.

I hand the camera to Skid. “Get some photos of that, will you?”

“Yep.”

The doc continues with his preliminary exam. “No irregularities in the clothing,” he says.

Steeling myself against the ghastliness of the body, I kneel for a closer look. “Wrists are scored.”

“At some point, he was conscious and struggled,” the doc says. “From the looks of that bruising and the abrasions, probably for quite some time.”

I look toward the deck and try not to imagine the panic and terror Jerrold McCullough endured before his death. The killer had crippled him. Bound him. Gagged with the peg doll stuffed into his throat. Then he’d tied him to the pier, struggling, until the rising water had drowned him.

“This was personal,” I say to no one in particular. “Someone wanted him to suffer.”

“I’d say they succeeded,” the doc mutters.

I make eye contact with Skid and we move away from the doc and firefighters. Out of earshot, I tell him, “I want you to pick up Blue Branson for questioning.”

“You think he did this?” he asks.

“I honestly don’t know. But I want you to pick him up. Sweat him a little. See what oozes out.”

He nods. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to pick up Norm Johnston.”

I leave Skid standing on the muddy bank with his mouth open.

*   *   *

I sit in the Explorer for several minutes, shaking with cold, heat blasting, trying to decide how to handle Johnston. The optimism I felt earlier has been depleted by the things I’ve seen and the knowledge that this killer isn’t going to stop—until someone stops him. If my theory is correct, and these murders are related to the Hochstetler case, Blue Branson and Norm Johnston—perhaps even Hoch Yoder and his wife—are in danger.

Or else one of them is a murderer.

It takes me ten minutes to reach the Painters Mill City Building, a two-story redbrick structure built at the turn of the century. I take the elevator to the second floor, where the town council meeting room and offices are located. I find Norm at his desk, a mug of coffee and a bagel piled high with cream cheese sitting on the leather blotter in front of him.

He looks up when I enter his office. He doesn’t look like he got much sleep last night. And he doesn’t look happy to see me. “What do you want?” he asks.

When I was in the police academy, one of the first concepts I learned was “the force continuum.” The term basically outlines the ten levels of force a police officer uses to gain and maintain control of a person or situation. It begins with a uniformed presence and verbal commands and goes all the way to the use of deadly force. No cop wants to become involved in a scuffle or fight, or God forbid, a shooting, whether justified or not. But while a good cop will do everything in his power to avoid escalation, he can never let himself be intimidated by it.

I don’t bother with a greeting. “I need for you to come to the police station with me.”

“What?” A humorless laugh erupts from his throat. But I don’t miss the way his eyes flash to the hallway behind me, telling me he’s more worried about someone overhearing than he is at the prospect of a trip to the station. “What’s this about?”

“Jerrold McCullough is dead.” I say the words brutally.

“Oh my God.” The color drains from his face. “How?”

“He was murdered,” I tell him. “I need you to come with me to the station.”

“But … why? I had nothing to do with it. For God’s sake, I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“You can either come with me voluntarily or I’ll cuff you and you can ride in the cage. It’s your choice.” I glance over my shoulder at the mail person pushing a cart down the hall. “The latter is guaranteed to get the tongues wagging. I don’t think you want to make a scene.”

Snarling something beneath his breath, he grabs the bagel and hurls it into the trash. “When my lawyer gets finished with you, you won’t even be able to get a security job.”

I motion toward the door. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 22

An hour later, I’m sitting in the interview room across the table from Norm Johnston and his lawyer, a young hotshot by the name of Colin Thornsberry. I’ve met him several times over the years, and each time I like him a little less. He’s an attractive man just shy of thirty, with a weakness for expensive clothes, a cocky attitude, and the manners of a chimpanzee.

I brought several files with me, including the Hochstetler case file, though I don’t need any of them. They’re nice and thick and official-looking. I set them down on the table with a thud.

I turn on the digital recorder, recite the date, and identify all present. I then glance down at the card in my hand and recite the Miranda rights to Norm.

“Do you understand those rights, Mr. Johnston?” I ask as I pass the card to him.

“I don’t need those rights read to me,” Johnston says. “I’m not some criminal off the street. I’m a town councilman. A respected member of this community.”

“We got it,” Thornsberry snaps at me, overruling him.

“I know what you are,” I tell Johnston.

I see both men looking at the file tab, reading the name scrawled in black marker, and for the first time Thornsberry doesn’t look quite so cocky. Taking my time, I open the Rutledge homicide file, giving both men a flash glance at one of the crime scene photos. I pull out the manila folder that I’d tucked inside and set it in front of me without opening it.

“Look, Chief Burkholder, I don’t know what you think you know about my client,” Thornsberry says, “but I’m familiar with your tactics. I’m aware of how you operate, and I won’t tolerate my client being railroaded by your overzealous policing.”

I look at Thornsberry. “Are you finished?”

His mouth tightens. “I think you should get to the point so Mr. Johnston can get back to his duties as councilman.”

I open the folder and remove copies of the notes Johnston gave me and pass them to him. “Do you recognize these notes?” I ask.

The town councilman jerks his head. “Yes. Of course. I gave them to you. Someone’s been stalking me.”

I pull out a copy of the notes I found at Julia Rutledge’s gallery and hand them to Norm. “A few hours after Julia Rutledge was found stabbed to death in her home, a search of her gallery turned up these.”

Thornsberry gestures toward the notes. “The only thing these notes prove is that your department should have provided police protection for my client when he requested it, instead of dragging him in here to the police department for questioning.”

I don’t look away from Johnston. His forehead is shiny with sweat. He can’t seem to stop staring at the notes that had been sent to Julia Rutledge, as if he’s reading them over and over.

“Norm, do you have any idea who sent those notes to you?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” He shakes his head. “It’s got to be related to council business. Someone who disagrees with me on some issue. As chief, I’m sure you know it happens.”

“Do you have any idea why Julia Rutledge was receiving similar notes?”

“Of course not.”

I look down at the copies of the notes in front of me, and I reach each aloud. “‘Dale sends his regards from hell.’ ‘I know you were there.’ ‘You could have stopped them.’ ‘Murderer.’” I turn my attention to Johnston. “‘You knew.’ ‘You looked the other way.’ ‘You’re next.’ Any idea what they mean?” I ask.

I hear the sticky sound of a dry mouth when he licks his lips. “I don’t know.”

“I think these notes tell a story,” I say. “They certainly raise some questions.”

Thornsberry all but rolls his eyes. “Chief Burkholder, you have no proof that these notes are anything but threats sent by a seriously delusional and dangerous individual.”

I ignore him, zero in on Johnston. “I can’t get into specifics because there are certain details about the case that we’re not releasing to the public. But I have evidence that may link the murders of Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, and Jerrold McCullough to the Hochstetler case.” I hold up my copy of the notes and shake it at him. “These notes connect those cases to you.”

“That’s crazy. I had nothing to do with any of those crimes.” Johnston chokes out the words, jerks his attention to his attorney, prompting him to jump to his aid. “Can you stop this?”

I speak before Thornsberry can reply. “You want to know what’s crazy, Norm? I believe you. But I think you know something that, for whatever reason, you feel you can’t tell me.”

Johnston’s eyes slide from Thornsberry to me. “Something about what?”

“Maybe you know something about the Hochstetler case.” I’m casting a long line into deep water, and Thornsberry knows it. But I can tell by Johnston’s response, he hasn’t yet realized it.

“That’s outrageous,” he says. “That happened ages ago. I was a kid, for God’s sake!”

Thornsberry steps in. “Chief Burkholder, unless you’ve got proof of that, I suggest you curtail that particular line of questioning.”

I don’t take my eyes from Johnston. “Maybe it’s something innocent. Some piece of information that you haven’t realized is important.” I pause. “Were you there that night? Do you know who was?”

“Who told you that?” Johnston demands.

“Norm,” the attorney warns.

“What happened, Norm? Did you get in over your head? Did you somehow find out about something you shouldn’t have?”

“For God’s sake, no! I was sixteen years old. A minor!”

“You keep reminding me of your age as if it somehow excuses some bad decision you made.”

“Chief Burkholder, that’s quite enough,” Thornsberry says.

“All right.” I nod at the attorney and take a chance, stretching boundaries, choosing my words carefully. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I talked to some people who hinted that you might know something about that case.”

Johnston’s eyes jerk in their sockets. “Who told you that?” He looks at his attorney. “They’re lying.”

It doesn’t elude me that he doesn’t deny it. “It’s an ongoing investigation,” I tell him. “I can’t get into details, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it, and your cooperation will go a long way toward keeping you safe from harm.”

Johnston gets to his feet. His face is red, his teeth clenched. I scoot my chair back, keeping a safe distance between us in case he decides to come over the table and take all that rage out on me.

“You got your information wrong,” he snarls. “I was not there that night. And I am not going to take a fall because of something someone else did.”

“Norm, take it down a notch, buddy,” Thornsberry says.

I ignore him, my attention riveted to Johnston. “If you were involved in any way, you know I’ll find out sooner or later.”

“Don’t say anything incriminating,” Thornsberry adds quickly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Johnston doesn’t take his eyes off me. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple. His nostrils flaring with every breath. “For God’s sake, do you think I’d have brought those notes to you if I had?”

I don’t answer. “Listen to me, Norm. Three people are dead. You’ve been receiving notes. You’re a target. Please help me keep you safe.”

He lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “For God’s sake.”

“Norm, if you cooperate—if you tell me what you know—I’ll do my best to help you.” My words aren’t quite true. If he incriminates himself, I’ll nail him to the wall. It isn’t the first time a cop has lied to a suspect to get the truth. That’s how the game is played.

“Be quiet, Norm.” Thornsberry places his hand on Norm’s arm. “My client and I need a quick conference to discuss this.”

Johnston shakes him off. He shifts his gaze from me to Thornsberry and then back to me. “I’m not admitting to doing anything illegal. I did nothing wrong. But before we go any farther, I want immunity from prosecution. And I want protection.”

I hold his gaze. “You know I’ll do whatever I can.” The lie flies off my tongue with the fervor of truth. I owe this man nothing. Not the truth. Lease of all immunity from prosecution.

“We’re going to want that in writing,” Thornsberry says.

“I’ll have your statement typed up so you can sign it. I’ll need to get the county attorney involved.” I look at Johnston. “Tell me what you know.”

“It’s about the Hochstetler … thing. I heard some.… rumors about what went down that night.”

I give him a reassuring look. “What happened?”

“Be careful what you say,” Thornsberry warns.

Some of the tension leaches from the councilman’s body. His shoulders sag. “I worked part-time at their furniture shop for a few weeks. Sweeping floors or whatever Mr. Hochstetler needed me to do. I was sixteen, a couple of years older than Billy. Anyway, one day Billy starts bragging about how much money they made. He said his dad didn’t like using banks and kept thousands of dollars in cash at the house.” He looks away. “I told Blue Branson.…” His voice trails.

“When did this happen?”

“A week or so before … that night.” He heaves a sigh. “I think Blue and his friends went in to rob them.”

“Who was involved?”

“I think they were all involved to some degree. Blue Branson. Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough.”

“What about Julia Rutledge?”

“She wasn’t in on the planning, but I think she was there.”

“What role did you play?”

“Chief Burkholder, I may be guilty of exercising poor judgment as a sixteen-year-old kid, but I was not at the Hochstetler farm that night. I didn’t know about any of it until Blue asked me to meet them at the turnaround a half mile from the Hochstetler place at four A.M. He said they needed someone with a fast car. I had this jacked-up GTO that could outrun every cop in the county. At that point, I knew there was something going down. I knew it was big. That it was daring and probably illegal. But they didn’t trust me enough to tell me what it was.”

“Did you meet them?”

“I got scared and didn’t show.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he tells me. “But when I heard about that family on the news, I fucking threw up. I couldn’t believe they could do something like that. It was the most horrible moment of my life.”

“Do you think they went in with plans to murder that family?”

“I can’t imagine that. I mean, they weren’t … criminals. They certainly weren’t … killers. They were good kids from decent families. The good crowd. Football players. Jules was a cheerleader. Pudge had already earned a scholarship to the University of Michigan.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I think they went in and … I don’t know … someone must have panicked. Whatever happened was probably an accident.”

Anger rushes hotly into my gut. I can understand how a teenager could be frightened or intimidated. What I don’t understand is how this man who has worked and lived in Painters Mill his entire life could remain silent about a heinous crime for thirty-five years.

“Do you know who shot Willis Hochstetler?”

“No.”

“What happened to Wanetta Hochstetler?”

He shakes his head. “I swear I don’t know.”

“The things that you do know,” I say slowly, “would you be willing to testify in a court of law?”

“Yes.” He gives a single hard nod. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m in the clear. That’s why I felt I could come to you.”

I lean back in my chair and look at him, seeing him in a completely different light. He repulses me. I’m aware that Thornsberry has gone silent. “Is there anything else I need to know about any of this?” I ask. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Johnston raises his gaze to mine. “Two days after … that night, Blue Branson and Jerrold McCullough asked me to meet them down at the covered bridge. They beat the hell out of me. They broke two of my fingers. Broke my nose. A couple of ribs.” He looks away. “They basically told me they’d kill me and my parents if I ever said a word to anyone.”

“That’s intimidation,” Thornsberry asserts.

I nod, but my mind is reeling. I stare at Thornsberry, who can’t quite meet my gaze. I can’t look at Johnston; I’m not sure how to handle this, how to feel. While he wasn’t directly complicit in the crimes that were perpetrated that night, he had some advance knowledge. Yet he hadn’t known enough to stop it. Still, once news of the crimes became public, he could have gone to the police. He’s had thirty-five years to come forward and didn’t.

Gathering the file, I rise and turn off the recording device. “Under Ohio code,” I tell both men, “prior knowledge of a crime could mean a complicity charge.”

“I didn’t know anything! I did nothing wrong!” Johnston rises, but Thornsberry presses him back into the chair.

“Chief Burkholder.” Across from me, Thornsberry rises. “He was a minor. Sixteen years old. He’d been intimidated and physically assaulted.” He lowers his voice. “That’s not to mention we have a deal. On tape.”

“I’ll get with the prosecutor,” I tell him. “In the interim, I’ll have a statement typed up for Mr. Johnston to sign. We’ll talk about a deal after he signs it. For now, Norm, you’re not to leave town. Do you understand? One foot over the line, and I will throw everything I’ve got at you.”

Johnston slumps in his chair. “I was a victim, too,” he says.

“The prosecutor won’t bring charges,” Thornsberry tells me. “My client did not break the law. In fact, he just solved a major case for you.”

“I guess it’s about time, isn’t it?” I pick up the file and start toward the door.

Thornsberry blocks my way, smiling, my best friend now. “Because of my client’s position as councilman—and the unlikelihood of any charges being levied against him, I’d like to keep this discussion confidential until an official agreement is reached.”

“This was not a discussion,” I tell him. “It was an interrogation.” I go around him.

“Chief Burkholder!” The councilman slaps his hands down on the tabletop. “Please. My reputation!”

I feel nothing but disgust when I look at him. “All of this is going to come out. If I were you, I’d resign my position on the council now, before they remove you.” I open the door. “Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

*   *   *

When it comes to a homicide investigation, information is never a bad thing. Sometimes even faulty information can lead to something usable. I should be pleased; I now know who was at the Hochstetler farm that night. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, so I’ll be well within the realm of my duties to arrest and hold Blue Branson.

But in terms of the things I’ve learned about the people I thought I knew, I’m left trying to make sense of something that’s absolutely senseless. All of them—Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, Jerrold McCullough, even Blue Branson—were pillars of the community. They were neighbors. The kinds of people you smiled at on the street. Yet they’d lived in this town and kept their dark secrets the entirety of their adult lives. How is it that no one ever really knew them? And while I may have solved a thirty-five-year-old cold case, I still have three unsolved homicides on my hands.

A tap at my office door draws me from my reverie. I look up to see Glock walk in. “I just put Branson in the interview room, Chief, if you’re ready to talk to him.”

I give him the details of Johnston’s confession. “I’ll get with the county prosecutor and see how he feels about charging him with a complicity charge. But Johnston was a minor and intimidation was involved. At the very least, he’s finished as councilman.”

He nods, but I can see his mind already moving on to the other cases. “Do you think Blue’s responsible for these more recent murders? I mean, if one or more of them decided to blackmail him. That’s a pretty strong motive.”

“I thought of that. But they would have risked incriminating themselves. Plus, he’s got an alibi for the Rutledge murder.”

“He could have hired someone.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know, Glock. Something doesn’t feel right about that.”

“So who else do we have?” He thinks about that a moment. “Hoch Yoder?”

“According to the police report, Hoch stated the perpetrators wore masks. He never saw their faces.”

“Maybe he’s been doing a little investigating on his own and figured it out.” Glock shrugs. “Or someone said something to him.”

“Maybe.” Lowering my head, I rub at the ache building behind my forehead. “We’re overlooking something.”

“What about the missing woman?”

“You mean if Wanetta Hochstetler survived and came back for a little revenge?” I say.

“If Johnston is telling the truth, that means Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, Jerrold McCullough, and Blue Branson murdered her husband and caused the deaths of her children.”

“I agree that’s a powerful motive, but Wanetta Hochstetler would be almost seventy years old now.”

“Stranger things have happened. If she had some way to subdue them. A stun gun. Something like that.”

“Or help.” But I’m not sold on the theory. “I’m going to talk to Blue, see if I can get him to admit to being there. Even if he doesn’t, we’ve got enough for an arrest.”

Glock nods. “Let me know if you need me to beat his ass for you.”

I rise from my desk. “You always know just the right thing to say.”

“That’s what everyone tells me.”

*   *   *

I find Blue Branson sitting at the same table where I spoke to Norm Johnston and his attorney just an hour ago. Thornsberry’s Polo aftershave still lingers in the air.

Blue’s wearing his trademark black suit jacket, white shirt open at the collar. The big silver cross glints at his throat. Creased black trousers brush the tops of his wingtip shoes. Before coming in, I turned the heat up and changed out the cushioned chairs with the old wooden ones from the storage room. Comfort never makes for a productive interrogation. That said, I’m not sure those old police tactics will work on Blue Branson.

I hand him the laminated Miranda rights card and recite them to him from memory. “Do you understand your rights?”

“I do.”

I round the table and sit opposite him. “Jerrold McCullough is dead.”

He starts slightly, then looks down and shakes his head. “God bless him,” he whispers, and then looks at me. “How?”

“Murdered.” I pause and then ask, “Where were you between three P.M. yesterday and six A.M. this morning?”

“I was at the church with two volunteers from noon until eleven o’clock last night. Then I went home. Alone.”

I pull my pad from my pocket. “I need the names of the volunteers.”

“Rick Baker and Ralph Sanderson.”

He gives me their contact info, and I write down their numbers.

“If you’re wondering if I killed McCullough,” he says, “the answer is no.”

“Your alibi for the time when Julia Rutledge was murdered checked out.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

For a minute or two, neither of us speaks. I break the silence with, “The last time we spoke, I told you I was going to find out what you were hiding.”

“And I told you I have nothing to hide.”

I stare hard at him. “You’re a good liar for a pastor.”

He stares back, unflinching.

“I know you were at the Hochstetler farm the night Willis Hochstetler was shot and killed. I know the others were there, too. You went in to steal cash. It should have been an easy hit. Amish family. Pacifists. A quick in and out. But something went wrong, didn’t it?”