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

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 7

John Tomasetti left his office in Richfield at just before 3 P.M. and took Interstate 77 north toward Cleveland. He assured himself he wasn’t going to do anything ill-advised. Just a little recon. He liked to know what he was dealing with, after all. A cop could never have too much information, even if he didn’t use it.

Regardless of his intentions—or lack thereof—he had to be careful. Three years ago, there had been rumors about John Tomasetti. Ugly rumors that after his wife and children were murdered, he’d gone rogue and taken the law into his own hands. Nothing had ever been proved. Cops made the best criminals, after all. Besides, everyone knew that certain kinds of people tended to have a short shelf life. Just because you had a reason to want someone dead didn’t mean you’d done the deed.

But Tomasetti knew that if anything happened to Joey Ferguson in the coming days or weeks or months, he would be scrutinized. He might as well have the word “motive” tattooed on his forehead. He hadn’t missed the way people looked at him this morning when he’d walked into the office. Some of his coworkers had gone out of their way to say hello and ask him how he was doing. Others had steered clear, as if maybe they were worried he might prove all those rumors true and snap. None of them had had the guts to ask him how he felt about Ferguson’s release.

Tomasetti wasn’t too worried about it. He had a better handle on the situation this time around. A more solid grip on himself. He’d had three years to deal with his losses, to climb out of that black abyss of grief, and to extinguish the wildfire of rage that had burned him from the inside out. He’d come to terms with the past and learned to accept the unacceptable. He was fine with a capital F, and everyone who mattered knew it. That’s what he told himself as he headed north to a city he’d avoided for the better part of three years.

He hit traffic on I-90, and by the time he arrived in Bay Village, an upscale suburb west of Cleveland, a lowering sky spit rain against the windshield. He exited at Clague Street, passed the tennis courts and baseball diamond in Reese Park, and headed west on Lake Road. Flanked on both sides by mature trees, the narrow, two-lane street cut through a fashionable residential area with Lake Erie just a few hundred yards to the north. There were older, well-kept bungalows and ranch homes to his left and pretty side streets lined with blue spruce and maples and Bradford pear trees that would be budding in a few weeks. The lakefront lots to his right were long and narrow, as if the developer had tried to squeeze in as many waterfront properties as possible. Many of the older homes on the lake—even those of historical significance—had been torn down and replaced by extravagant mansions with tennis courts and swimming pools and stunning views of the water.

He’d memorized the street number and slowed upon reaching the two-acre lakefront estate Joey Ferguson had inherited from his parents. Trees obscured the house from full view, but Tomasetti could see that the place was lit up like a football stadium. It looked like Ferguson was celebrating his newfound freedom.

He drove slowly past. Ten yards from the driveway entrance, a heavy wrought-iron security gate and post-mounted card reader warned off interlopers. He continued west on Lake for a hundred yards and then made a left into the parking lot of the Presbyterian Church, turned around, and idled past the estate a second time. From this vantage point, he could see the tennis court through the trees and a dozen or so cars parked in the circular driveway. He knew there were a pool and gazebo at the rear of the estate and a boathouse where Ferguson parked his parents’ thirty-four-foot Sea Ray. It was amazing what you could see from the sky without ever leaving the ground.

He had to hand it to the guy; Joey Ferguson knew how to live. He had a reputation for throwing world-class parties, hiring local chefs and bartenders, and shelling out plenty of cash for musicians or comedians. He lived in one of the most exclusive areas of the city, with a wine cellar filled with booze that cost more than Tomasetti earned in a year. Yes, Joey Ferguson lived his life to the fullest. He’d amassed most of his fortune back when he worked for the late Con Vespian. Before his untimely demise, Vespian had had his fingers in all the nasty pies. Extortion. Money laundering. Heroin. He’d been riding high—until the night they hit Tomasetti’s family.

He could barely remember the days and weeks that followed, but he knew something terrible had been unleashed inside him. In the end, Vespian paid dearly for his sins. For Tomasetti, the victory had been bittersweet, heavy on the bitter.

The Cuyahoga County prosecutor hadn’t taken it sitting down. John Tomasetti might have been one of their own, but that thin blue line went only so far when it came to murder. He’d been put before a grand jury. But the evidence was sketchy and the citizens of Cuyahoga County were sick of the bad guys getting away with murder. They’d handed down a no bill and Tomasetti walked away without so much as a scratch on his record. Chalk up one for the good guys.

Once the media coverage dropped off, Tomasetti quietly resigned his position with the Cleveland Division of Police and, with the help of one of the few friends he had left, landed a job with BCI. In the following months, he worked hard to put that dark chapter of his past behind. But he didn’t forget. A man never forgot something like that. The only question that remained now was if he was going to do something about it.

The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present. Not giving himself time to debate, Tomasetti turned into the sleek blacktop driveway, pulled up to the call box, and pressed the button.

“Name?” came a youngish male voice.

“John Tomasetti,” he said.

“I don’t see you on the invitation list.”

“Ferguson will see me.”

They made him wait nearly ten minutes. Two cars crowded against his bumper—a vintage Jaguar and a Viper—the drivers looking put out and anxious to get at all the swag awaiting them inside. Tomasetti was considering turning around and leaving when the gate slid open.

The asphalt curved right, snaking through a forest of tall, winter-dead trees. The Viper swept past, the passenger sticking her hand out the window and flipping him off. Tomasetti caught a glimpse of long blond hair an instant before the sports car skidded around a rococo fountain, swept through a brick archway, and disappeared from view.

He parked behind a black Escalade with darkly tinted glass and got out. He barely noticed the rain as he started toward the tall double doors. He could smell the cold, wet air of the lake now. The earthy scent of rotting foliage and the bark nuggets surrounding the boxwoods and blue point junipers growing on either side of the front door. He’d just stepped onto the Italian tile of the porch when the door opened.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Tomasetti. You’ve got balls showing up unannounced.”

“I like to keep things spontaneous.”

Joey Ferguson was thinner than he remembered. Tomasetti knew he was forty-six years old, but Ferguson looked closer to fifty.

“What do you want?” Ferguson asked.

“Just a quick chat.”

After a too-long hesitation, he opened the door wider and ushered Tomasetti inside. “Is this an official visit?”

“Personal.” Tomasetti stepped into a foyer with twenty-foot-high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and fieldstone floor. A curved mahogany staircase, its far wall adorned with oil paintings framed in gold leaf, beckoned the eyes to a railed balcony. Through a wide doorway, he could see into a living room, where a dozen or so people milled about, martini glasses held in elegant hands, curious eyes cast his way. Beyond, a wall of glass looked out over a brooding Lake Erie.

“Hell of a view,” Tomasetti said.

“My lawyer owns it now.”

“I guess he earned it.” He pretended to enjoy the vista. “I bet Vince Kinnamon is wishing he had as good a lawyer as you did.”

Ferguson stiffened at the mention of Kinnamon’s name. Word on the street was the men had once been partners. Tomasetti didn’t know that to be fact, but judging from the other man’s reaction, it was damn close. Ferguson motioned toward the hall. “We can talk in my study.”

Tomasetti didn’t turn his back to him. Ferguson got the message and started down the hall first. They passed framed photographs of women and children in a sick parody of the all-American family. He was aware of the din of voices behind him. Ferguson walked a few feet ahead, and Tomasetti wondered if he could pull his weapon and shoot Ferguson in the back of the head before someone pulled out their piece and cut him down.

At the end of the hall, Ferguson opened a set of double doors that took them into a paneled study. The scent of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco met Tomasetti when he stepped inside. Mahogany hardwood shelves filled with thousands of books comprised three walls. The fourth offered another stunning view of the lake. A corner hearth crackled merrily, giving the room a warm glow. Despite his hatred for the man, Tomasetti was impressed.

Ferguson seemed completely at ease as he crossed to a bar, where crystal decanters sat atop gleaming mahogany. “Can I get you anything? Scotch? Or maybe you’re a bourbon man?”

Instead of taking one of the two visitor chairs, Tomasetti strode to the window and looked out at the lake, placing himself between Ferguson and the desk. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Ferguson tossed ice into a tumbler and poured amber liquid from a decanter. “You’re not going to do something you’ll regret later, are you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Ferguson must have seen something in Tomasetti’s eyes because suddenly, he didn’t look quite so sure of himself. “A hasty decision at this point would be unfortunate for you.”

“It would be unfortunate for one of us.”

Making a sound of annoyance, Ferguson picked up the tumbler and threw back the alcohol in a single gulp. “So talk. I don’t have all night.”

“So, how is it that you get the six-thousand-square-foot mansion on the lake,” Tomasetti said breezily, “and Vince Kinnamon gets a trial with the possibility of life in prison?”

Ferguson smirked. “Don’t you love the criminal justice system?”

Tomasetti was across the room before the other man could set the glass down. Vaguely, he was aware of Ferguson’s eyes going wide. He took a step back, opened his mouth as if he couldn’t believe Tomasetti was actually going to cross the invisible line that had been drawn. Tomasetti slapped the glass from his hand. The tumbler thudded dully on the floor. He clamped his other hand around Ferguson’s throat, digging his fingers into the flesh, and shoved him against the bar.

“You cut a deal, Joey?” Tomasetti ground out. “Is that what you did?”

Ferguson clawed at Tomasetti’s hand. “Can’t … do … this,” he choked out. “You’re … cop.”

Crushing the other man’s throat with his fingers, Tomasetti leaned so close, he could smell the whiskey on his breath, the stink of fear coming off his skin. He could feel Ferguson’s pulse raging beneath his fingertips and he marveled at how easy it would be to kill him. He squeezed harder, long-buried rage driving him toward a precipice and inevitable drop.

Tomasetti put his mouth an inch from the other man’s ear. “I haven’t forgotten what you did.”

Ferguson made a strangled sound, his mouth gaping, tongue protruding. His face turned purple. Veins throbbed at his temples. He slapped at Tomasetti, but his blows were ineffective.

All Tomasetti could think was that he wanted him dead. Gone. In hell, where he belonged. It would be so easy to cross that line.

But this wasn’t like before. Far from it, because for the first time since the deaths of his wife and children, Tomasetti had something to lose. Thoughts of Kate and the life they’d built flashed in his mind. He knew if he took this any further, he would lose her and destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build.

Ferguson went slack. Tomasetti released him. The other man went to his knees, leaned forward, sucking in great gulps of air. “You son of a bitch,” he croaked.

Giving himself a hard mental shake, Tomasetti stepped back. He watched impassively as the other man got to his feet. He saw the imprint of his fingers on his throat, but there was no satisfaction. No sense of justice.

“You fuck.” Ferguson’s hands fluttered at his throat. His face was red. He was breathing hard, glaring at Tomasetti, murder in his eyes. “You’re a cop. You can’t come in here and assault me.”

“You’re right.” Tomasetti let his mouth twist into a smile. “I can’t.” He started toward the door.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ferguson snarled.

Tomasetti twisted the knob, let the door roll open. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

CHAPTER 8

By the time I reach the station, the rain is pouring down so hard, I drive past my designated parking spot and have to back up to turn into it. Flipping up the hood of my jacket, I hightail it to the door. The interior is dry and smells of heated air and paper dust laced with nail polish. It’s after 5 P.M.; Despite my fatigue, I’d been entertaining thoughts of heading back to the farm, if only for a shower and to check on Tomasetti, but there are a few more things I need to tie up before I can call it a day.

“Hey, Chief.” Jodie Metzger, my second-shift dispatcher, is sitting at the phone station, a magazine spread out on the desk in front of her.

“Hi.” I stop at her desk and glance down to see her quickly stash the nail polish in a drawer. “I like the blue.”

She grins sheepishly as she hands me a stack of messages.

My conversations with Hoch Yoder and the Seymours dog me as I walk to my office and unlock the door. While I have no concrete proof that any of them were involved in the murder of Dale Michaels, I can’t discount the connections.

I’ve barely made it to my desk when my cell phone vibrates. I glance down and see BCI LAB on the display and snatch it up quickly. “Burkholder.”

“Hi, Chief. This is Chris Coleman with the lab. I have some preliminary info for you.”

“Anything on the blood in the car?”

“We’re still processing the car, but we do know the type is O positive. There was quite a bit, actually, so he may have sustained the gunshot wound right before being put into the trunk or maybe even while he was in the trunk. DNA is going to take a few days. Sorry for the delay, but things are stacked up here.”

“Prints?”

“All over the place. We were able to match Michaels’s. We should have the rest tomorrow sometime.”

“What about the tire marks?”

“We picked up a successful tread. I scanned them into the computer, and we were able to match it to Michaels’s Toyota.”

I’d been hoping the tread would implicate an as-of-yet unidentified vehicle, and I try not to be disappointed. “Did you guys look at the wooden doll yet?”

“We did. There’s not much there. No prints we could pick up. Blood is the same type as the victim’s.”

I think about that a moment. “Is there any way to tell if the doll is old or new?”

“I can have one of the other lab guys take a look at the paint. Might be able to give you a ballpark.”

“That’d be great.”

“Back to the car,” she says. “We found yellow nylon fibers on the rear bumper.”

“From the rope?”

“We’ve still got to do the matching, but I’m betting they’re one and the same.”

“Any idea how the fibers got there?” But my imagination is already running with possibilities, none of them good.

“We inspected the rope and found that it had some recent damage, as if it had been abraded. A few of the nylon strands were sort of scraped off; some were broken. Could have been from the bumper or even the wooden beam in the barn.”

Disturbing images flood my mind. “As if someone tied one end of the rope around the victim’s neck, looped it around the beam, and tied the other end to the bumper of the vehicle and strung him up.”

“I’d say that’s a possible scenario.” She pauses. “But get this: Remember the tear in the victim’s jacket?”

“I do.”

“We found fibers from that jacket on the trunk latch.”

“So maybe he caught his jacket on the latch?” I ask.

“Jacket is canvas, which is a pretty sturdy fabric,” she tells me. “I’d say the jacket caught on that latch while he was being forcefully pulled from the trunk.”

“You mean with his own vehicle?”

“I can’t say for certain, of course, but that’s a possibility.”

I think about that a moment and try not to shudder. “Anything else?”

“Saved the best for last, Chief. We found an iPhone registered to Michaels.”

My interest surges. Michaels’s daughter had told us her father owned a cell phone. Glock and I did a cursory search of the vehicle, but once we discovered the blood in the trunk, I decided it would be best not to risk contaminating possible evidence, so we stopped and turned everything over to BCI.

“Where did you find it?” I ask.

“Trunk. Under the mat. Looks like while he was inside the trunk, he dropped it or was incapacitated and couldn’t get back to it.”

“Did you get any phone numbers off of it?” I ask.

Paper crackles on the other end. “I put all the names and numbers into a spreadsheet. You want me to e-mail it to you?”

“That’d be great.” I give her my e-mail address and disconnect. In the outer office, I hear Jodie talking to someone on the phone, laughing. She’s got her radio turned up too loud, but I don’t mind. My exhaustion from earlier is gone. I’m energized by the prospect of new information. I launch my e-mail software and a flurry of messages pours into my in-box, the last of which is from the BCI lab with a PDF attachment. I open the document. It’s a spreadsheet with names, phone numbers, dates, and a slew of unrelated numbers that are meaningful only to the technician who entered the data. I hit the Print key as I skim the document on my monitor.

There aren’t many calls, incoming or outgoing. Apparently, Dale Michaels wasn’t much of a talker. In the month leading up to his murder, he received thirty-two calls, most from his daughter, Belinda Harrington, and lasting a few minutes. I skim over several names and numbers I don’t recognize, then go to the second page. There are twenty-six outgoing calls, several to his daughter. Local businesses. A car dealership. The farm store. Some of the names I don’t recognize.

I go to the final calls Michaels made. One to Belinda Harrington on the morning of March 6. At 11 P.M. on March 7—which was probably the last day of his life—he made a call to The Raspberry Leaf, which is a local art gallery. A few minutes later, he made a call to Jerrold McCullough, whom I don’t know. Shortly thereafter, he made his final call to a name I do recognize. Artie “Blue” Branson is a well-known pastor of a local multidenominational church—and the last man in the county I’d have paired with Dale Michaels.

In his early fifties, Blue spends every Sunday preaching the gospel from his pulpit at the little frame church he built with his own hands. The rest of his time is dedicated to counseling troubled souls—drug addicts, prostitutes, and ex-cons—and providing for people who can’t provide for themselves. Known for his trademark black suits and sporting a goatee, Blue looks like a modern-day version of Johnny Cash, but he and his church have done more good for the impoverished than anyone else in the area.

I look at the list, but there’s only that one call to Blue. It lasted fourteen minutes. Did the two men know each other? Were they friends? Was Dale part of Blue’s congregation? There could be a dozen or more reasons for the call, but the timing of it bothers me, and I’m compelled to take a closer look.

I forward the PDF to Jodie with instructions to run all the names through LEADS to see if any of the callers or recipients have a criminal record or warrants.

On the third page, incoming and outgoing texts are listed in order by date. The BCI technician transferred the actual text into a separate cell, so I’m able to read them. Again, there are several to his daughter. Dinner @ 7:00 PM Sun. Damn good game! Thanks for all the help. Will call U when I get home. Meet for lunch noonish? At the bottom of the page, the final text Dale Michaels sent snags my attention. Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome. I look at the date column and see that it was sent on March 8 at 12:45 A.M. to Blue Branson.

Who did Dale Michaels meet with that night and why? What does Blue Branson know about it? And why, if he’d received news of Dale’s murder, didn’t he come forward?

“Only one way to find out,” I mutter.

Grabbing my keys off the desk, I start toward the door.

*   *   *

The Crossroads Church is located on an acre or so of what had once been farmland, four miles outside of Painters Mill. Bounded on three sides by plowed fields, the clapboard structure reminds me of the Amish school where I received my early education. I’ve heard that Blue Branson built the place with his own hands and paid for the materials out of his own pocket. Rumor has it, he worked like a man possessed—going without sleep for days at a time—until the church was complete. Word around town is he’s a good public speaker and gives a rousing sermon twice on Sunday and once every Wednesday evening.

I’ve met Blue a handful of times over the years, mostly at LaDonna’s Diner, where I stop in for coffee some mornings or dinner if I’m working nights. Usually we exchange a nod or smile, or maybe we comment on the weather as we pass. Until now, that’s been the extent of my contact with the self-made preacher. I have a feeling I’m about to get to know him a lot better.

I park in a gravel lot that’s demarked with railroad ties. There are two other vehicles in the lot: a pickup truck that looks as if it won’t be running much longer and a vintage Mustang, which I recognize as Blue’s. I get out and start toward the front door. A huge cross constructed of railroad ties stands sentinel in the front yard. In the flower bed at the base, I see the pointy green tips of irises peeking out through a layer of mulch.

Double wooden doors open to a large room with a cathedral ceiling and exposed beams that have been painted white. Mullioned windows usher in a meager amount of natural light. Pews line either side of a wide aisle. Ahead is a raised stage with a podium at its center bearing an inscription: WE DON’T CARE WHERE YOU’VE BEEN; WE JUST CARE ABOUT WHERE YOU’RE GOING. There’s no mike, but then I’ve heard Blue doesn’t need one. To the right of the stage, a door stands open. I hear voices from inside and head that way.

I find Blue and another man seated at a rectangular table. Blue’s looking down at some type of register that’s open in front of him. Dozens of corrugated boxes line the wall to my left, and I see that each is packed with foodstuffs: canned goods, cereal, sugar, flour, packaged pasta, Sam’s Club–size jars of peanut butter and coffee.

I tap on the jamb. “Looks like you two are conspiring to feed everyone in the county.”

The men look up. I see surprise on their faces when they notice my uniform.

“A lot of hungry families out there, Chief Burkholder.” Taking his time, Blue hefts his substantial frame from the chair. He’s got a commanding presence and seems to fill up all the space in a room. He stands somewhere around six-four and probably weighs in at about 250. His thick gray hair is combed straight back from an interesting face with a broad forehead and high cheekbones. Deep grooves on either side of his mouth add yet another layer of character to an already compelling persona. His goatee is black and trimmed with razor precision. He’s wearing his trademark clothes: Black sport jacket. Crisp white shirt that’s open at the collar to reveal a large silver cross on a chain. Dark slacks and oxfords polished to a high sheen.

“It’s our aim to feed them until they can feed themselves.” He extends his hand to me and we shake. “Welcome to Crossroads.”

His grip is firm, but not excessively so, and his eyes are level on mine. “I hear you do good work here at the church,” I tell him.

“We do our best.”

I nod at the man sitting at the table and then address Blue. “Can I speak with you in private?”

“There are a dozen or so pews out there could use some more breaking in.” He looks at the man he’s with. “Box up the rest of the canned goods, and I’ll help you load them.”

Blue ushers me through the door, and we walk into the main room of the church, our shoes echoing against the high ceilings and unadorned walls.

“I understand you built this place yourself,” I tell him.

“Never picked up a hammer until I got the calling. Once I did, I couldn’t put it down. Didn’t have much capital, but we made do. A few volunteers lent a hand.…” He shrugs, as if the feat is inconsequential. “Spreading the word of God doesn’t require anything fancy. With your being Amish, I’m sure you probably already know that.”

“I do.”

He motions toward the first pew, and I slide onto the hard surface. “I need to talk to you about Dale Michaels.”

His gaze sharpens on mine as he lowers himself to the bench next to me. His eyes are steel gray beneath heavy brows. He’s got a kindly, grandfather’s face, one that’s full of adventure stories and love for his grandchildren. But there’s something darker behind those eyes, too. Scars, I think, left by a harsh past.

“I heard.” He hangs his head, and his body seems to sag for a moment. “He was a good man. Any idea who did it?”

“Not yet,” I tell him. “How well did you know him?”

“He came to services on occasion.” He chuckles. “Not often enough to suit me, but that’s the way it is sometimes.”

“How long have you known him?”

“We went to high school together. Never knew him well, but I do remember him.”

I purposefully delay asking him about the call and the text, giving him the chance to bring it up first. “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

“At church probably. A few weeks ago. Just to say hello. See how he was doing. That sort of thing.”

“How did he seem? Did he mention any problems he was having?” I ask. “Or any people he was having problems with?”

“He seemed fine. Upbeat. Warm, as always.”

I nod. “Do you know who his friends were?”

“He usually came to church alone. I’m not sure about his friends.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Blue?”

His eyes meet mine. I see something I can’t quite read in their depths, and I suspect he’s just realized I know about the call. “He called me a couple of days ago. Late. I thought that was a little odd.”

“What was the purpose of his call?”

His facial expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t look upset by the fact that he got caught withholding information from me. “Just to talk. I think maybe he was a little lonely. He’s divorced, you know. Children are grown. Not every parent adjusts to those things well.”

“Were you surprised to hear from him?”

He nods. “My first thought was that he was sick. Found out he had cancer or something. I asked him about it, but he assured me his health was fine.”

“Is there some reason why you didn’t bring this to my attention when you found out he’d been murdered?” I ask. “Or maybe when I first arrived?”

“Look, Chief Burkholder, I don’t have anything to hide. There wasn’t anything unusual or suspicious about the call. Dale just wanted someone to talk to.” He sighs again. “We welcome everyone at Crossroads. As you probably know, some members of my congregation have troubled pasts. Honestly, I didn’t want my church involved in this murder investigation.”

“Who was he meeting with that night?”

He stares at me a moment and then shrugs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I pull out my notes and read the text message to him. “‘Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome.’” I make eye contact with Blue. “Dale Michaels sent you that text shortly before he was murdered. In fact, you’re probably the last person he communicated with before he was killed. I need to know who he was meeting with and I need to know right now.”

“I wish I could help you, Chief. But I don’t even recall receiving that text.” He pulls out a sleek little smartphone and begins to scroll with his index finger. “To tell you the truth, I’m still learning how to use this thing.”

“Mr. Branson, I feel the need to remind you that it’s against the law to withhold information from the police in the course of a murder investigation.”

“I haven’t lied to anyone.” He turns the phone so I can see the screen. Sure enough, there’s a small icon for unread messages with a small 2 next to it. I watch as he thumbs a button and the text from Dale Michaels appears, along with the date and time.

Blue stares at it, grimacing. “As a pastor, it’s disturbing to know he needed me and I wasn’t there for him.”

“The content of that text makes it seem as if you had previous knowledge of the meeting,” I say.

“I can assure you, I didn’t.”

I wait, saying nothing, reestablishing eye contact, looking for a chink in his righteous armor.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention the call,” he says, “but as you must know by now, I’ve got a past, too, and I’m not exactly proud of it. I didn’t want it dredged up and I didn’t want to involve the church. You know how folks are around here. They like their gossip, and they’ve got long memories when it comes to that sort of thing. Some people in this town still look at me like I’m a criminal.”

He’s right about the gossip. Having been the subject of many a malicious conversation when I was an Amish teen and left the fold, I know how painful it can be. But I’m not sure I believe the slew of explanations he’s so diligently thrown out for me, and I don’t cut him any slack.

“Are you?” I ask. “A criminal?”

“I did my time. Paid my due to society. And by the grace of God, I turned my life around.”

It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t answer my question. Rising, I extend my hand. “Thanks for your time.”

He gets to his feet and we shake. “I’m a firm believer in that everyone gets their due, Chief Burkholder, even if they don’t get their day in court.”

“It’s my job to make sure they get that day in court.”