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.”
“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 l
aw. 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.”
The Dead Will Tell Page 17