The Dead Will Tell (21 page)

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.”