The Dead Will Tell (18 page)

A murmur of surprise goes around the table at the mention of Johnston. Glances are exchanged as I pass a copy of the notes Norm gave me to Skid. “I want patrols stepped up in Norm’s neighborhood. If possible, I’d like for us to keep a presence at his house.”

“Is Councilman Johnston somehow involved in this?” T.J. asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He hasn’t been as forthcoming as I’d like, but I’ll keep some pressure on him and we’ll see what happens.”

When no other questions come, I look at Glock. “I want you to pick up Jerrold McCullough. Bring him in. Let’s sweat him a little.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“T.J., you’ve been on for two shifts. You probably ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Aye.”

“Pickles, you’re on full-time until further notice.”

“No problem.” The old man nods, not quite able to hide his pleasure.

I bring my hands together. “Everyone else, I hope you don’t have any plans for the weekend. Mandatory OT until we get this guy.”

The groans that follow are token. I know my officers want this killer off their streets as vehemently as I do.

*   *   *

I spend an hour putting my notes into a Word doc, writing reports and rereading every detail of both the Michaels and Rutledge cases. I spend another thirty minutes combing through the Hochstetler file. By the time I hand everything off to Lois, it’s nearly 2
P.M
. I look at my phone, and I find myself thinking about Tomasetti and how we left things. I desperately want to talk to him. My pride reminds me that I’m angry with him. It’s not enough to keep me from picking up the phone.

He answers on the first ring. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I miss you,” I say without preamble.

Surprise produces a certain echo over a phone line. I hear that echo now, intriguing and painful at once. “Cat got your tongue, Tomasetti?”

“Yup.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say automatically, and then add, “no. It’s been a tough day.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Just … be there when I get home.”

I can almost hear his thought processes working. He’s trying to peg my frame of mind. My reason for setting my pride aside and calling him when I was otherwise pissed. Why, when it’s so unlike me to show him that I need him, that I’m so willing to admit it. I’m not sure I could explain any of those things even to myself.

My second line lights up. On the display, I see Glock’s name. “I have a call,” I tell him. “Gotta take it.”

He sighs. “You’ll be home later?”

“I’ll try.” I punch the button for my second line. “You pick up McCullough?” I begin.

“I would have. If I could find him.”

The news drags my attention away from Tomasetti and back to the case. “Where are you?”

“His place. He’s not here. Front door was standing wide open. I figured that warranted a welfare check, so I took a look inside. Nothing out of place, but there’s no sign of him.”

“Shit, Glock, that’s not good.” I think about that a moment. “Car there?”

“Yeah.”

“He could be with a friend.” But neither of us is assuaged. “Look, I’m going to go talk to Blue Branson, and then I’ll head your way.”

“You want me to go with you? Meet you there?”

“I want you to find McCullough. Check with his friends and family and neighbors. See if anyone knows where he is or if they’ve seen him. For all we know, he’s down at the VFW playing bingo.”

“I’m on it.”

But we both know that’s a best-case scenario. With two of his friends dead and ties to a deadly cold case creeping steadily into the picture, I’m not sure we’ll find Jerrold McCullough alive.

CHAPTER 17

Blue Branson lives in a modest single-story bungalow with dormer windows, a homey little porch, and crisp white trim. A six-foot privacy fence separates his property from Brewer’s Salvage Yard, which is situated on the lot next door. I turn into the driveway, plow through slightly mushy gravel, and park a few yards from the front door.

I get out and pass by his Mustang as I make my way to the house. Within the glow of the porch light, drizzle floats down. Opening the storm door, I knock.

A moment later, Blue appears; he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”

“I guess you knew I’d be back,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond, and I remind myself he’s no greenhorn when it comes to dealing with the police. Most people talk too much when they get nervous, usually to their detriment. Not Blue. He looks at me coolly, eye contact steady, as if trying to decide if he should invite me inside or send me packing.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“You heard about Julia Rutledge?”

He sighs, looks away for a moment. “I heard.”

“Jerrold McCullough is missing.”

His gaze jerks to mine. I see both shock and concern on his face. He steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.”

I enter a comfortably furnished living room. Starving artist paintings on the walls. A newish flat screen mounted above the hearth. The air smells of some spicy aromatic I can’t quite place. Classical Spanish guitar hums from speakers on either side of the TV. A sleek laptop hums atop a TV tray next to a half-eaten bowl of ice cream. Blue has shed his sport coat. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, exposing forearms that are covered with tattoos—a strange mosaic of blue and red and green on flesh browned by the sun.

He notices me looking at his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He motions toward a newish sofa. “Have a seat.”

I don’t take him up on the offer. “Have you seen or spoken to Jerrold McCullough?”

“No.”

“What about Julia Rutledge?”

“I haven’t seen her.” He grimaces. “I heard she was stabbed to death in her home. Is that true?”

I don’t answer. “Where were you last night between eleven
P.M
. and five
A.M
.?”

“I was at the Grace Victory Church in Glenmont. Black Creek flooded out some homes, and there were five families in need of shelter. I helped Pastor Bergman get everyone set up in the rec room.”

“You were there that entire time?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know I’m going to check.”

“That’s fine.” He tugs his phone from his pocket, taps the screen a couple of times, and recites the number for the Grace Victory Church.

I pull out my notepad and write it down. “Can anyone else vouch for you?”

“There were ten or fifteen volunteers around all night. Once we got those families picked up, we delivered food and blankets and set up cots. I had at least one person with me all night.”

“So you say.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with Julia’s murder.” He tilts his head. “Do you think something has happened to Jerrold McCullough?”

“I don’t know.” I stare hard at him, waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t give me anything. He stares back, completely unperturbed by the silence and the tension slicing the air between us. “What do you think, Blue? Do you think something happened to him?”

“I have no idea. I’m worried about him.”

“Do you think if you’d come clean about whatever it is you’re hiding, Julia Rutledge might still be alive?”

It’s a harsh, unfair question, but I let it stand, hoping to rattle him. He doesn’t react to the unspoken implication, but I don’t miss the quiver in his hand when he runs it over his goatee. “I’m not hiding anything. I didn’t kill Dale. Or Julia. And I have no idea where McCullough might be. You have my word.”

“Do you know Norm Johnston?”

“Councilman Johnston?” He looks flummoxed. “I’ve met him a few times.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“No.”

I nod, letting the silence ride. After a moment, Blue shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “If we’re done here, I’d like to get back to work.”

I lean forward and whisper. “I know you’re hiding something. I’m going to find out what it is.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Good night, Chief Burkholder.”

I tap the front of his shoulder with my index finger. “Don’t leave town.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I leave him standing in his living room with his bowl of melted ice cream and a decidedly troubled expression.

*   *   *

It’s after 6
P.M
. by the time I arrive at Jerrold McCullough’s place. I find Glock standing on the front porch, and we spend an hour or so walking the property on the chance the man fell or somehow injured himself and is unable to respond. But we don’t find any sign of him. Earlier, Glock was able to reach one of McCullough’s grown children, a son who lives in Sacramento. Jerrold Jr. hasn’t heard from his father in over a week. He didn’t sound too concerned. When I try McCullough’s cell phone, my call goes straight to voice mail.

We’re standing in the backyard, twenty yards from the shore of a very swollen Painters Creek, looking out at the woods. It’s raining again and I can hear the water crashing over rocks and rushing around the trees that grow along the flooded bank.

“You don’t think he fell into the water, do you?” Glock asks.

“I think it’s probably premature to start dragging the creek.” I say the words lightly, but the notion that at some point it could be necessary bothers me. “He’s not even officially missing yet.”

“Yeah, but you’re worried or you wouldn’t be here.”

I sigh because he’s right. “Did anyone you talked to mention his favorite watering hole?”

“He’s been known to stop in for a beer at McNarie’s. I thought I’d swing by on my way home.”

I nod, but I don’t think he’ll find McCullough at the bar. “Apparently, we’re the only people who seem to be worried about him.”

“That’s pretty sad.” Glock grimaces. “You think he flew the coop? Maybe he had something to do with the murders.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think he’s our guy.” I consider that a moment. “For one thing, he’s an amputee. He doesn’t use a prosthesis.”

“That we know of.”

“Look, I’m going to put out a BOLO.”

Around us the rain increases, fat drops slapping against the trees and the saturated ground. Despite the fact that we’re both getting wet, neither of us seems to notice.

“I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight,” I say after a moment.

He nods. “I’m going to swing by McNarie’s.”

“We’ll pick up Blue tomorrow,” I tell him. “Put some pressure on him.”

Glock gives me a mock salute and then turns and starts for his vehicle, leaving me in the pouring rain with the sound of rushing water in my ears and my own thoughts echoing in my head.

*   *   *

I’m on my way home when I pass by Old Germantown Road. On impulse, I hit the brakes, back up, and make the turn. It’s fully dark now, and my headlights reveal fog hovering above asphalt that’s pitted and cracked. The vegetation is slowly devouring the road so that it isn’t much wider than a single lane. Not many people use this road since the new highway went through. The county no longer maintains it, and I imagine in a few years the land will reclaim it completely.

The Hochstetler farm—what’s left of it—sits on a hill a half mile down. The house burned to the ground and was never rebuilt, but some of the trees survived and now look as if they’re standing sentinel—or waiting for the family to return. The old German-style round barn that Willis Hochstetler transformed into a furniture showroom still stands. I remember my
mamm
and
datt
talking about how the farm had once been a showplace with its white four-rail fence and wraparound porch adorned with hanging Boston ferns. Camera-wielding
Englischers
traveled for miles to park at the end of the lane and shoot photos.

The place fell to ruin after the family was killed. The tourists stopped coming. The Amish spoke of the things that happened that night only in whispers. But I heard the stories. When I was a teenager, rumors abounded. Ghost stories mostly. And a few sightings of Wanetta Hochstetler walking the hilltop, calling out for her children. Some said if you came out at midnight and listened, you could hear the screams of the children as they were burned alive.

Those stories scared me when I was a kid. But as I entered my teenage years, I became intrigued and even partook in several illicit visits myself. Tonight, as I approach the beat-up mailbox and turn into the muddy lane, I feel all those old stories creeping up on me.

I park in knee-high weeds with my headlights illuminating the place where the house had once stood. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on, I grab my Maglite and get out. I pull on my slicker as I start toward what had once been the side yard. I didn’t know the Hochstetlers; though they lived in the same church district as my own family, I was too young when they died to remember any of them. But I feel the loneliness of this place. The lingering sadness. A sense of injustice.

All that remains of the house is the brick chimney and the eight-foot-deep crater where the basement had once been. The walls have eroded and crumbled over the years. Saplings and weeds grow up from the basement floor, which is now filled with what looks like several feet of water. At some point, someone used plywood and sawhorses to cover the pit—probably for liability reasons—but the wood has long since collapsed. The only thing left is the remnants of a single caution flag, as faded and shredded as the memory of the people who once lived here.

I think of Hoch Yoder, and I wonder if he ever comes back here. I wonder if he’s stood where I’m standing now and grieved for the family he lost. I wonder if he’s been able to embrace the age-old Amish tenet of forgiveness.

I jump when a sudden gust of wind sends droplets of rain from the branches of a pine into the water below. The sound seems inordinately loud in the silence, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. Turning slowly, I fan my light in a 360-degree circle, but there’s no one there. No vehicle. No lights.

Thrusting my flashlight out ahead of me, I start toward the silo and barn. My pants are damp from the hip down from walking the McCullough property earlier and, now, from wading through weeds. I reach the rusty silo first. Once upon a time, it had been painted silver, but rust has eaten through the paint. The hatch stands open. I hear it squeaking as the breeze rocks it back and forth. Bending, I shine my light inside. There’s a hole in the roof where the wind has peeled away the shingles. I see yellow cornstalks rotting on the ground and a rat the size of a groundhog looking at me from the ledge of the concrete footer.