The Dead Will Tell (22 page)

“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?”

Shock resonates in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come.

“I’m sure you’re aware that there’s no statute of limitations on murder,” I tell him.

“I think I’d like to call my lawyer.”

“I think you’re going to need one.” I look down at the file in front of me, letting the silence work. Then I ask, “Do you know who murdered the others?”

“No.”

“What happened to Wanetta Hochstetler?”

A ripple moves through his body. His fingers twitch on the table in front of him. But he doesn’t reply.

“Did you kill her, Blue? Was it an accident? Did you bury her body somewhere? Leave her for dead?” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “I will get to the bottom of it. You help me now, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Setting my hands on the table between us, I partially rise and lean toward him so that my face is only a foot away from his, close enough to smell the meaty odor of his skin. “I have a witness who can put you at the scene. It’s over. You’re done. Do you understand?”

He stares at me, saying nothing.

I move away, work the handcuffs from the compartment on my belt. “Stand up and turn around. Give me your wrists.”

Blue Branson rises and turns his back to me and offers his wrists. I thought I’d draw some small sense of satisfaction from this moment—solving a thirty-five-year-old open case and taking a killer into custody—but the only thing I feel in the pit of my stomach is a great deal of emptiness.

CHAPTER 23

Someone always knows something.

When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I partnered up with a veteran cop by the name of Howie Sharpe. He was old school and just six months away from retirement. I worked my first major case with Howie. A six-year-old girl, little Melissa Sussman, had gone missing, and the entire police department worked around the clock to find her. Like so many missing child cases, Melissa’s story didn’t end happily. But I learned more in the course of that case than at any time in my career. Howie always told me: “Someone always knows something.” It was one of his favorite idioms, and that case proved it true, albeit too late for the child.

I never forgot that weeklong frenzy of good old-fashioned police work. I never forgot little Melissa Sussman or the life that would never be. And I never forgot the things wise old Howie—who got his retirement, by the way—taught me.

I’m at my desk, combing through the Hochstetler file for the dozenth time when it strikes me how few Amish people were interviewed in the course of the investigation. Ron Mackey had been the chief of police back then and retired shortly after. I didn’t know him personally, but I’ve heard that in the late ’70s there was a good bit of friction between the Amish and “English” communities. Most disputes were over the use of slow-moving vehicle signs, building codes, and taxes. I can’t help but wonder if, because of the tension and that cultural divide, Mackey ruled out turning to the Amish for help.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer and heading toward Bishop Troyer’s farm. He’s been the bishop for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know if his tenure goes back to 1979. Even if it didn’t, he probably had a grasp on what was going on in the Amish community. I’m hoping he can tell me something I don’t already know.

I make the turn into the narrow gravel lane of the Troyer farm and park near the sidewalk. Most of the Amish in Holmes County have extraordinarily neat yards with shorn grass and manicured shrubs. Many go so far as to plant flowers, display potted plants, and landscape their yards. Not the Troyers. Both the front and back yards are plain. No flowerbeds or potted plants or even shrubs. Just a small garden and a birdhouse mounted on a fence post in the side yard, but even that is unadorned.

I’m midway to the house when someone calls out my name. I turn to see the bishop trudging toward me from the barn. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since last fall, when I was working the Borntrager case. Though it’s been only a few months, he looks years older. I’ve never seen him use a walking stick, and I can’t help but notice that his legs seem to be even more bowed.

“Bishop.” I start toward him, wishing him a good morning in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Guder mariye.”

“I’m surprised you still speak the language,” he says, a hint of reproach in his voice.

I withhold a smile. Bishop Troyer may be old, but he’s got a keen mind and a sharp tongue. He’s clad in black trousers. Black jacket. White shirt. Flat-brimmed black hat. His long beard is wiry and gray with small bits of alfalfa hay in it. I stop two feet away from him. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Bishop, but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”