Until Proven Guilty (2 page)

“Are you Angela’s father?” I asked him.

“Of course not!” he blustered.

“Then I have nothing to say to you.” I looked around. The living room was furnished with several period pieces in the Goodwill-reject style. There was an assortment of degenerate chairs and worn couches. The gray carpet was mottled with stains and soil. Seated around the room was a group of women. They could have been sardines from the same can for all you could tell them apart. None of them spoke. All eyes were riveted on the man who stood between Suzanne Barstogi and me.

“Is your husband here. Mrs. Barstogi? Where can we reach him?”

She glanced surreptitiously at the man’s face before answering, as if expecting him to tell her what to say or whether or not she should answer at all. “I don’t have a husband,” she said finally, looking at the floor.

The four of us had been standing in a muddy vestibule, just inside the door. Now Peters moved swiftly around me. He took Suzanne Barstogi’s elbow. Before anyone could object, he led her out onto the porch. The man made as if to follow, but I barred his way.

“We are going to talk to her alone,” I told him. “If you don’t want to end up in jail, you’ll stay right here while we do it.” I turned and left him there, closing the door behind me.

The children, standing in an ominously quiet group, were still watching. Peters was attempting to shoo them away as I came out the door. He maintained a firm grip on Suzanne’s arm. I think he figured she might try to dash back into the house if he let her go.

“Mrs. Barstogi,” I said. “When is the last time you saw your daughter?”

“When I put her to bed.” Her eyes were wide with fear as she answered. I couldn’t tell if it was fear for her daughter or fear of the consequences that would greet her when she returned to the house.

“What time was that?” This, unsurprisingly, was from Peters. I never met anyone so concerned about time.

Suzanne paused uncertainly. “It must have been between three and four.”

“In the morning?” Peters asked incredulously.

She nodded. “She fell asleep at church. I carried her in from the car and put her to bed.” She spoke as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in the hour.

“What was she wearing?”

“I told the other man all this. Do we have to go over it again?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m afraid we do.”

“She was wearing a pink nightgown, one she got for Christmas last year.”

“We’ll need you to come downtown,” Peters said.

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes, now,” I told her. Peters propelled her off the porch. He opened the door and helped her into the car, motioning for me to follow. “I’ll drive,” he said.

It figured. If he drove, I would have to tell her. I’m not the kind to keep score or hold grudges, but about then I figured Peters owed me one.

I followed her into the backseat. She scrambled as far as she could to the opposite side of the car. She looked like a cornered animal. “Who is that man in the house?” I asked as Peters turned on the ignition. “Is he a relative of yours?”

She shook her head. “That’s Pastor Michael Brodie. He’s the pastor of our church, Faith Tabernacle. I called him when I couldn’t find Angel. He said the best thing for us to do would be to turn it over to the Lord. He brought the others over, and we’ve been praying ever since. Wherever two or more are gathered together—”

“What time was that?” Peters interrupted. He was beginning to sound like a broken record.

“I got up about eleven and they got here a little before noon,” she said. Peters made a sound under his breath. I couldn’t hear, but I don’t think it was too nice.

“Angel does that,” Suzanne continued. “She wakes up before I do. She’ll have breakfast and watch TV.” She stopped suddenly as though something was just beginning to penetrate. “Why are we going downtown?” It was the moment I had been dreading. There was no way to postpone it further.

“I believe we’ve found your daughter,” I said gently.

“Where is she? Is something the matter?”

“A little girl was found in Discovery Park earlier this morning. I’m afraid it may be Angel. We have to be certain. We need you to identify her.”

“Is she dead?” she asked.

I nodded. I deliberately didn’t tell her about the gown. I didn’t want to dash all hope at once. She needed some time for adjustment. I expected tears, screaming, or wailing. Instead, Suzanne Barstogi heard the words in stunned silence. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “It’s because I called you. Pastor Michael is right. I’m being punished for my lack of faith.”

We were at a stoplight. Peters turned and looked at her. “She was dead long before you called us,” he said bluntly. “Your lack of faith had nothing to do with it.” The light changed, and we went on.

Suzanne gave no indication that she had heard what Peters said. “I disobeyed, too,” she continued. “I snuck upstairs to use the phone so no one would know.” She lapsed into silence. We left her to her own thoughts. It seemed the decent thing to do.

By the time we led her up to the slab in the morgue, Suzanne Barstogi was a study in absolute composure. When the attendant pulled back the sheet, she nodded. “I killed her, didn’t I?” she said softly to no one in particular. She turned to me. “I’m ready to go home now.”

W
hen we brought Suzanne back to Gay Avenue, the place was crawling with people. It seemed to me there were even more Faith Tabernacle people than earlier in the day. Evidence technicians had gone over the house thoroughly, searching for trace evidence, dusting for fingerprints, looking for signs of forced entry or struggle. Everything pointed to the conclusion that Angel Barstogi had left the house willingly, wandering off maybe with someone she knew.

So who did she know? I looked around the room. All these folks, certainly, including Pastor Michael Brodie himself, who was holding court in the living room. He was very angry. His parishioners were walking on eggs for fear of annoying him further, abjectly catering to his every need.

Sergeant Watkins brought us up to speed on the situation. Police procedures notwithstanding, Brodie was accustomed to being in charge. He didn’t want anyone talking to his people outside his presence. It was only after Watkins threatened to jail him for obstruction of justice that he finally knuckled under. He sat by the door, still silently intimidating those who filed past him. One by one our detectives took people to separate rooms to record their statements. They were not eager to talk. It was like pulling teeth. We could have used some laughing gas.

Peters and I took our turn in the barrel. The other officers had pretty well finished up with the adults and were going to work on the grungy kids. I took one of the boys, the one who had pressed his nose against the car as Peters and I drove up the first time. We had to walk past Pastor Michael. He shot a withering glance at the kid. The boy seemed to cower under its intensity.

“What’s your name?” I asked as we went up the stairs.

“Jeremiah.”

“You scared of him?”

He nodded. We went into a bedroom and closed the door. The bed was unmade. I straightened a place for us to sit on the bed, then took a small tape recorder from my pocket.

“Do you know what we’re going to do?” He shook his head. “I’m going to ask you some questions and record both the questions and the answers.”

“Are you sure it’s okay? I mean, we’re not supposed to talk to people.”

“Why?”

“Pastor Michael says that people on the outside are tools of the devil and that we can catch it from them. It’s like chicken pox.”

“You won’t catch anything from me, Jeremiah. I promise.” I switched on the recorder. “My name is Detective J. P. Beaumont. It’s five twenty-five p.m. on Thursday, April twenty-eighth. This statement is being taken in reference to Angel Barstogi, deceased. What is your name, please?”

“Jeremiah Mason.”

“And are you giving this statement willingly?”

He nodded his head. “You’ll have to give your answers aloud,” I told him.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Did you know Angel, Angela Barstogi?”

“Yes.” His answer was so muted that I didn’t know whether or not my recorder would pick it up.

“You’ll have to speak a little louder, Jeremiah.”

“Yes,” he said again.

“When is the last time you saw her?”

“Last night at church. We were playing tag.”

“Was there anything unusual about her last night?”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said, remembering the recorder.

“How long have you known Angel?”

“Long time,” he replied.

“Were you friends?”

He made a face. “Angel’s a girl,” he said. Obviously being a girl precluded her being a friend. “Besides,” he added, “she’s just a little kid.”

“Do you know why we’re here asking questions?”

“Somebody said it’s because Angel’s dead.”

“That’s true. And we’re trying to find out who did it. That’s my job.”

“Pastor Michael says God did it because Angel wouldn’t obey the rules.”

“What rules?”

“She was all the time talking to people. Even when Pastor Michael got after her, she still did it.”

“He got after her?”

“He gave her a licking in church. That’s what he always does, but Angel never cried no matter what he did. The other kids knew that if they’d cry he’d stop. Angel wouldn’t cry. That made him real mad.”

“I’ll just bet it did,” I said. “And what about you? Did you ever get a licking in church?”

He nodded. “Once for stealing some food from the kitchen after dinner and once for running away.”

“Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”

He nodded again. “Pastor’s mad that we’re all talking to you.”

“How old are you, Jeremiah?”

“Eight.” As we spoke, I had noticed a bruise on top of his wrist. A small part of it was visible at the bottom of his sleeve. I pushed the shirt sleeve up, revealing five distinct marks on his arm, a thumb and four fingers.

“How did that happen?”

He shrugged and looked sheepish. “I fell down,” he said.

“Where do you live?”

“In Ballard, not far from the church.”

“With your parents?”

“With my mom and my stepfather.”

“And how does he treat you, your stepfather?”

“All right, I guess.”

I could see I had gone beyond what he would tell me. It was one thing to talk about Angela Barstogi. It was quite another to talk about Jeremiah Mason. He could still feel pain. Angel couldn’t. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

He considered. “I’m going to miss Angel,” he said, “even if she was a girl.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card with my name and telephone number on it. “If anyone gets after you about today, I want you to call me, understand?” He nodded.

I started toward the door but Jeremiah stopped me. He reached behind a broken-down dresser and pulled out a cup, a child’s cup with the ABC’s around the top and bottom. The name Angela was written in bright red letters on one side. Gingerly he handed it to me.

“It was hers,” he said. “Pastor Michael told her to get rid of it, but she didn’t. We hid it.” He stopped and stood looking at the cup, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Do you think I could keep it?”

Nodding, I returned it to his grubby hand. “I think Angel would like that.”

As soon as he had once more concealed the cup, I walked Jeremiah back downstairs. Brodie glared at him as we came past, but he refrained from comment. I guess Sergeant Watkins’ threat of jail had carried some weight with Brodie. He had all the earmarks of a bully and a coward, someone who would lord it over those who were weaker than he. I wondered about his frustration at being faced with a tough little kid who refused to cry. I wondered if, by not crying, Angel Barstogi had signed her own death warrant. It was a possibility.

As a homicide detective, however, I’m not allowed to act on mere hunches. I can move only when I have solid evidence that points me in a certain direction. I had a feeling about Michael Brodie, but nothing substantial. Jeremiah’s revelations about the “lickings” in Faith Tabernacle gave us a basis for making inquiries, but nothing more.

Slowly the crowd in the house diminished as people filtered out. At last there were only Peters and Brodie and Suzanne and me. We took them into separate rooms.

Suzanne’s original numbness was beginning to wear off, but she had a hard time following my questions, to say nothing of answering them. Some things, like the date of her divorce, escaped her completely. She claimed she simply could not remember.

That bothered me. Cops learn to listen to what’s said as well as to what isn’t; then they combine the two in order to get at the truth. Suzanne was under a lot of stress, but nonetheless there was a lot she wasn’t saying. I didn’t know why. She was hiding something, that much was certain, but I didn’t know what or who she might be protecting. Did Pastor Michael Brodie exert such influence that he could coerce a mother into concealing her own child’s murderer? It was a chilling thought, even for someone who has been in this business as long as I have.

We left Gay Avenue around ten o’clock that night. I was starved. It had been a long time since breakfast. We went to the Doghouse, a lowbrow place in my neighborhood that stays open all hours and has fed me more meals than I care to count.

Peters and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on food. Peters is an enzyme nut. He eats sprouts and seeds, which may be okay for rabbits, but in my opinion that stuff is hardly fit for human consumption. He avoids sugar and salt. He consumes little red meat and can declaim for hours on the evils of caffeine. In other words, there are times when he can be a real pain in the butt. I don’t mind eating with him, but I’ve thought of carrying earplugs for when he gets on his soapbox.

I, on the other hand, thrive on ordinary, garden-variety, all-American junk food. Karen got the barbecue in the divorce settlement. It went with the house. Since that was the only piece of cooking equipment I had mastered and since barbecuing was unavailable in my downtown high-rise, I converted to restaurants. Other than the department, the Doghouse is my home away from home.

It’s at Seventh and Bell, a few blocks from where I live. It’s one of those twenty-four-hour places frequented by cops, cabbies, reporters, and other folks who live their lives while most people are asleep. The waitresses wouldn’t win beauty pageants but the service is exceptional. The food is plain and plentiful, without an enzyme in sight. Connie, a grandmotherly type with boundless energy, tapped her pencil impatiently as Peters groused about the available selections. She finally pacified him with an order of unbuttered whole wheat toast and some herb tea.

I wolfed down a chili burger with lots of onions and cheese while Peters morosely stirred his tea. “What do you think?” I asked eventually.

“It’s got to be some kind of brainwashing,” he said. “He’s got her hiding something. The question is, what?”

“Beats me.” On the way across town we had exchanged information as much as possible. Afterward Peters had become strangely quiet and withdrawn. That’s the tough part about breaking in a new partner. There’s so much to learn before you can function as a team. Ray Johnson and I had worked together for almost eleven years before he bailed out to become chief of police in Pasco. I had become accustomed to his habits, his way of thinking. It was hard to tell where Ray’s ideas left off and mine began.

With Peters it was different. He had a guarded way about him. I was still very much outside the perimeter. After two months of working together I knew almost nothing about his personal life other than the fact that he was divorced. For that matter, he didn’t know much about my personal life, either. It’s a two-way street.

Peters gave me a long, searching look. “You ever have anything to do with a cult before?” he asked. The question was evidently the tip of an iceberg. There was a lot more lurking beneath the surface than was apparent in his words.

“No,” I replied. “First time.”

“Lucky for you,” he said, returning to his studious examination of the bottom of his teacup. I waited a moment to see if he would continue. He didn’t. At last I gave up and changed the subject.

“What’s the agenda for tomorrow?”

Before he could answer, a noisy group meandered out of the bar in a flurry of activity. I caught sight of Maxwell Cole at the same time he saw me. He extricated himself from the group and came to our booth. Max is a hulking brute of a man whose handlebar mustache and ponderous girth give him the appearance of an overfed walrus. “Damned if it isn’t old J. P.” he said, holding out his hand. “Fancy meeting a brother in a dive like this.”