Separate from the World

by P. L. Gaus

  “There is that,” Robertson agreed.

  “This isn’t going to end well, Bruce.”

  “I know. Look, Mike, Missy is finished with Cathy Billett’s body. She says there’s no sign of a struggle. No bruising, nothing like that. She tested under Cathy’s fingernails, but it’s not conclusive, since Eddie admitted she scratched.”

  “So, it was suicide,” Branden said.

  “Missy says there’s no way to tell. She says there’s nothing to suggest Cathy Billett didn’t throw herself off that bell tower, but that doesn’t prove she did.”

  “Her parents were supposed to fly in today,” Branden said.

  “They’re already here. Arne Laughton brought them down to Missy at the hospital. She says she’s going to release the body after her toxicology samples come back from the BCI labs.”

  “What about Eddie?” Branden asked.

  “Saw him, Mike, and sent him home already.”

  “You were going to interview him again.”

  “Yeah, I did that. We just finished.”

  Branden waited.

  Robertson said, “Mike, he’s too stupid for words. I’m surprised you guys are handing him a degree.”

  “That’s not the Eddie I know,” Branden said.

  “Then he’s been rendered stupid by grief, Mike.”

  “Eddie’s not stupid, Bruce, even if he is stricken with grief. It’s more likely you two didn’t exactly ‘hit it off’ very well. You’ve had him pegged wrong from the start.”

  “I don’t like rich college kids, Mike.”

  “I know that, Sheriff. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “OK, so I talked to him,” Robertson said. “Point is, he can’t have killed Cathy Billett. Not the way I see it. If they had a struggle and she fell, or something like that, then he’d have told us that. The guy’s just not smart enough to make something up. And if she fell in a struggle, we would not be charging him with murder, anyway. So it’s a wash on my end. We’re done.”

  “OK, look, I’m going home,” Branden said. “Call me there.”

  “You’d have more fun down here at the courthouse, Professor.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Your friend Aidan Newhouse has a crowd of hippie students down here. He’s got a little protest march going on.”

  “He still in those handcuffs?”

  “What do you think, Professor?”

  20

  Saturday, May 12 7:30 P.M.

  AFTER SUPPER, the professor finished telling Caroline what he knew, while stretched out on the bed in their second-floor bedroom. Caroline sat in her rose nightgown, brushing her long auburn hair in front of her vanity.

  “We’re sure he had a phone,” Branden was saying, “but Hershberger claims he burned it.”

  “You don’t know the number?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “So that’s a dead end.”

  “Right.”

  “This Benny sounds like he was a people person, Michael. He had friends all over the county.”

  “Enos called him a chatterbox.”

  “We would have liked him, Michael.”

  Branden nodded his silent agreement and sank deeper into the pillows, hands clasped behind his head. When Caroline had finished brushing her hair, she turned from her mirror and said, “I don’t like Aidan Newhouse.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “I just don’t like him, Michael. He’s arrogant. He always has been.”

  “He’s harmless, Caroline.”

  “No, Michael, he teaches. That’s not harmless.”

  “You don’t like him because he’s political, Caroline.”

  “I don’t know why you defend him,” she replied.

  “Aidan and I have been colleagues too long for me to take a dislike to him just because he’s theatrical.”

  “Is that what you call it, Michael? Theatrical?”

  “He’s theatrical and political. The two go together in his world.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Look, Caroline. I got to know Aidan when his son was a student here. He’s not a bad character.”

  “You admit he’s a character?”

  “But not a bad one.”

  The doorbell rang and Branden checked his watch. “A late caller?” he said and went downstairs to answer the door.

  It was Deputy Pat Lance, in uniform. She was a short, round woman with Germanic features—blond hair, stern blue eyes, and thin lips. Branden invited her in and showed her into the living room. She saw the stack of blue books on the coffee table and said, “I remember those from college.”

  Branden explained, “I haven’t finished my grading.”

  Lance said, “The seniors are going to graduate Monday,” with a slight undertone of interrogation.

  Branden laughed. “These are juniors and sophomores. The senior exams are done.”

  Officiously, Lance nodded her approval and took a seat on the sofa, saying, “Anyway, Dan Wilsher wants me to give you a report.”

  Caroline came down the stairs in jeans and a Duke University sweatshirt. Lance stood to introduce herself formally, and Caroline said, “Congratulations on joining the sheriff’s department.”

  Caroline sat next to Lance on the couch. The deputy explained, more formally than was necessary, “I’ve got a report from Dan Wilsher. He has suspended the search for Albert Erb. The search teams are exhausted, especially the dogs. Dan said to tell you, Professor,” here she consulted her notes, “‘he’d get back out there, tomorrow.’”

  Branden waited for her to finish studying her notes and said, “That trail was fresh. I thought the dogs would find something.”

  “They did,” Lance said. “They found the carcass of a small beagle puppy, beside a road about three miles east of the farms. The dog had been gutted. That’s what you found on the trail near Mattie—dog’s intestines. He used the murder of a puppy to terrorize the children.”

  Branden shook his head and said, “This was planned.” He felt himself drifting into despondency, and muttered, “It’s a pedophile.”

  “Michael!” Caroline objected.

  “I think you’re right, Professor,” Lance said with intensity. “But he made a mistake.”

  Branden nodded, “He left Mattie behind.”

  Lance agreed, “The little Amish girl is going to be able to identify him.”

  “If we ever find him,” Branden said. “My guess is he’s a thousand miles away by now.”

  Caroline said, “This isn’t like you, Michael. This resignation is not like you at all.”

  Lance rose and said, “I should be going.”

  After he had seen Lance to the door, Branden sat back down next to Caroline in the living room and said, “Too many things have happened.”

  Caroline said, “I know you’ve been despondent lately, Michael, but you shouldn’t give up like this. Dan said he’d have his people out looking again tomorrow.”

  Several minutes passed as Professor Branden’s gaze focused inward. He remembered the visit from Enos Erb in his office. Then, Cathy Billett and Eddie. He remembered Nina Lobrelli’s account of her research. Then the strange stillness at the Erb farms. The boy’s hair, shorn. The look of stricken resignation in Mary Erb’s eyes. Last, he thought of Cal and marveled at the disorganized wanderings of his mind.

  Eventually he said, “Cal won’t talk to me about his letter.”

  “You’ve been grumpy, Michael.”

  After a pause, Branden said. “I don’t want to grade papers anymore.”

  “What’ll you do if you don’t teach?”

  “I don’t mind teaching,” the professor said. “What I don’t want to do is any more grading.”

  “Then you’ve just had a bad couple of days.”

  “It’s more than that, Caroline. I’m tired of the college.”

  “See how you feel this summer,” Caroline said. “You always look forward to fall semester.”

  “Hmmpf.”<
br />
  “Think about this, Michael. You’ve just had two rotten days. That’s likely all this is.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “I do,” Caroline said. “Little Benny Erb was murdered. Enos Erb came to see you, but ran off because Cathy Billett threw herself off the bell tower. Bruce was all over Eddie Hunt-Myers’s case, and Aidan Newhouse is running around campus like the jerk he is, in handcuffs, of all things. Then, Ben Capper, who’s a decent enough fellow, is mixed in with Newhouse, and he’ll probably lose his job over cuffing him. Mattie and Albert Erb were kidnapped, and Albert’s still missing. This Willa Banks is making a spectator sport out of baiting Andy Miller, and Hershberger burned the only link you had to Benny’s phone pal. Arne Laughton has mishandled the Billetts, Cal’s not talking about his letter, and you’ve got thirty blue books to grade before commencement.”

  The professor looked at Caroline as if to say, “What’s your point?” and Caroline said, “You’ve been depressed right before commencement for the last several years, anyway, Michael. You just don’t like saying good-bye to your students, but on top of that, this whole Erb case is starting to slip away from you.”

  “Is that all?” Branden asked, smiling.

  “It’s the children who’ve gotten the worst of this,” Caroline said. “Mattie and Albert. If this weren’t a case about little children, you’d be more hopeful.”

  Branden leaned back and stretched out. He closed his eyes, and Caroline drew closer. She brushed her fingers through his hair and said, “We’d fight for our kids, Michael. We’d die before we let someone hurt them.”

  Eyes closed, Branden said, “We’re not pacifists. The Amish are. It’s not their way to strike back.”

  “They could at least defend themselves against evil things,” Caroline said. “I’d respect it more if they did that much. At least fight for their children.”

  “They’ll never add violence to violence,” the professor said. “They’d rather die.”

  “What would you fight for, Michael?”

  “You. Me. Friends.”

  “Strangers?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Our kids, Michael, if we had any?”

  “With my life. You know that, Caroline.”

  “Times being what they are, Michael, it may come to that.”

  “You’re worried about terrorists, again,” the professor said. “There’s likely more danger from a break-in robbery than there is from a terrorist group.”

  “But we’ve trained for that, Michael.”

  “Yes, we have. We’re ready. We’ve thought this through.”

  “Because if you can’t shoot back . . . ,” Caroline started.

  “You’re just a target,” the professor finished.

  21

  Sunday, May 13 1:45 P.M.

  CAL SHOWED up at the Brandens Sunday afternoon looking apprehensive, and Caroline drew him into the house and out onto the back porch before he could turn around. There she planted him in a deep wicker chair and said, “Michael needs to speak with you, Cal. You’re worrying him.”

  Cal surrendered to her, palms up, and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  When Caroline had her husband seated next to him, Cal said to them both, “I’m sorry I was cross.”

  Branden dismissed this with a wave of his hand, but Caroline had the insight to say, “It’s OK, Cal. Don’t worry.”

  “It was just so much out of the blue,” Cal said. “That letter from Rachel Ramsayer came right out of the blue.”

  Branden asked, “You getting over it? Made a decision?”

  Cal smiled and lifted a plastic medical vial out of his shirt pocket. Then he fished a sterile paper packet out of his pants pocket and opened it to reveal a swab on the end of a plastic stick. He said, “You’re supposed to run this swab around inside your cheek, and seal it in this vial.”

  Caroline and the professor stared back at Cal as if he’d been speaking Amish dialect.

  “It’s the DNA test to see if Rachel Ramsayer is my daughter.”

  “Good, Cal,” Caroline said. “This is the right decision.”

  “I didn’t want to do this alone,” Cal said. “In fact, Caroline, I’d like you to do it for me.”

  Branden smiled in relief. This was the Cal he knew.

  Caroline took the vial from the pastor and reached out for the swab. He opened his mouth, and she ran the swab against the inside of his cheek. When she pushed the swab into the vial, Cal said, “Wish me luck.”

  22

  Sunday, May 13 4:50 P.M.

  THE BRANDENS spent the rest of the afternoon at home, Caroline reading in the living room, the professor making calls on his cell phone, out on the back porch. Twice he called Chief Deputy Dan Wilsher and learned only “We’re still looking for him, Mike.”

  Twice he called Ricky Niell, who said each time that the search dogs had been all over the countryside at Calmoutier, and the only scent they could track led to the spot beside the road where they had found the gutted beagle puppy. It was Ricky’s best guess that little Albert Erb and his abductor had gotten into a vehicle and driven off. The trail was cold.

  When the professor called Bruce Robertson, the sheriff reported that the Amber alert had produced no leads. There hadn’t been a single clue to give them hope for the boy.

  As he was hanging up with the sheriff, the doorbell rang, and the professor walked through the family room and into the hallway in time to see Caroline letting Eddie Hunt-Myers in at the front door. Eddie had a note-sized envelope, and he pulled out a card, asking if the professor would read it and help him improve it. Caroline left them there and went back to the kitchen.

  Branden led Eddie to the couch in the living room and sat in his swivel rocker to read Eddie’s note to the Billetts.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Billett,

  I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Cathy. She was a wonderful girl and didn’t deserve to die like that. I know it was my fault. Please forgive me.

  Sincerely yours,

  Edwin Hunt-Myers III

  P.S. I wish you had liked me more. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

  Branden flinched at the postscript and looked up at Eddie, astonished. “You can’t write this, Eddie,” he said. “You can’t give it to them like this.”

  “Why not, Professor?” Eddie asked, coming forward on his seat.

  “Eddie,” Branden said, shaking his head. “This postscript makes it seem as if you think they’re to blame, because they didn’t like you.”

  Eddie gave him a blank stare. He didn’t get it at all.

  Branden tried again. “Eddie, you should just write that you are sorry and leave it at that.”

  “I thought I had done that,” Eddie said.

  “You did,” Branden sighed. “But the postscript says that you think this wouldn’t have happened if they had only liked you more.”

  “Well,” Eddie said slowly, “I do kinda think that.”

  Branden shook his head again. “You can’t write this to the Billetts. They just lost their daughter.”

  Eddie lowered his eyes and thought. When he looked back to Branden, he seemed dismayed. With shame, he said, “I’m such a screw-up, Dr. Branden. I’m just as stupid as they come.”

  Branden said, “I’m sure you mean well, Eddie. You should write your note again, but leave off this postscript.”

  Eddie hung his head sadly. “I should just go somewhere by myself. I just screw everything up for people.”

  “Eddie,” Branden said, “the note is fine without the postscript.”

  “OK,” Eddie whispered. “I’ll write it again.”

  Caroline came into the living room with a tray with three water glasses, but Eddie stood up abruptly and said, “I can’t stay, Mrs. Branden.”

  Caroline said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Eddie,” and set the tray on the coffee table.

  At the door, Eddie said, “Thanks, Dr. Branden. I would have screwed this up, too.”

  23r />
  Monday, May 14 Morning

  FOR THE first time at Millersburg College, on the request of the Board of Trustees, the commencement bulletin gave the title of each senior’s thesis, with the adviser’s name beside it. Branden sat in the oak grove and watched the seniors walk across the stage, and as each one shook the president’s hand, Branden read the thesis title. It passed the time for him, and he found that he liked the personal touch it gave. The ceremony began with a prayer for Cathy Billett, and several students came forward to speak of their friendship with her.

  The weather that day was unusually warm for northern Ohio, and many of the students and some of the faculty opened their academic gowns to the breeze and sat with their shoes off, toes in the cool grass, according to the Millersburg College tradition. On the back of the commencement bulletin, a note explained that this was done in honor of beloved Professor Newton White, who had died on a hot day in 1922 during commencement, with his shoes off and his robe open to the breeze.

  Aidan Newhouse stood during the awarding of degrees, fist raised high overhead, with Ben Capper’s manacles shining brightly in the sun. It was his badge of honor, and he wore it well, for a while. By the time the president had worked through the alphabet to the Cs, Aidan’s arm had slumped a bit. During the Ds, he found it necessary to move it in a slow circle over his head in order to maintain circulation. In the Hs, Newhouse let his arm drop so he could hold his elbow up with his other hand. In the Qs, the psychology professor sat down, but found new strength in his arm. In the middle of the Ts, he settled for lifting his fist at intervals, when inspiration overcame his fatigue. And during the benediction, he had nothing left. He just sat in his chair with his head bowed for reasons that had nothing to do with the prayer.

  Through it all, Branden sat next to him. They had always marched together, lately near the head of the line, having come to Millersburg College the same year. Their seniority surpassed that of all but two active professors ahead of them, plus a half dozen Emeriti who still needed the grand march to give meaning to their lives.