“Good,” the lawyer said. “Keep it that way. You’ve already won the first round. Earl, you’re sitting here, rather than in a jail cell, because there wasn’t anything to hold you on. The courts clearly saw that. I believe I can get them to see the sheriff is off on a fishing expedition with you guys when the real killer is obvious. I’m going to argue that Johnny Roth is the killer here and there’s physical evidence to tie him to the Harding kid. He was disturbed and depressed over the death of his girlfriend. I want to talk to the prosecutor this week and lay this out for him to see, and maybe this harassment can be over real soon.”
Joya didn’t say a word.
It sounded so completely logical and honest—Lowe sounded so confident and competent—that all three men bobbed their heads in ready agreement.
Joya was always grateful that Bernard looked over at her. “And thank you, Joya. You saved us. Thank you.”
Earl also grumbled, “Thank you.” Ralph looked away because he’d already said it once and that was enough.
“Yes, you have quite an investigator here, Mr. Bonner. You should be real proud that she knows so much about evidence. She kept you from handing over your gun and she got the reports and she found me. We all owe her our thanks.”
Joya knew she’d never hear words like that from her own father, but she knew he’d heard them. She decided to believe he would have said them if his German stubbornness had let him.
Joya and Lowe went to the bakery and Alice vouched for each man with certainty and passion. “I’ll testify if you need me,” she said. “I’ll tell how these men are pillars in our community and would never do something reckless and illegal.”
Lowe guessed she knew the truth, but was a good liar. He liked that in a woman.
“Should I tell how that sheriff came in here and tried to browbeat me into saying those men killed Crabapple?” Alice added, and Lowe looked at her like she was the biggest prize in Crackerjacks.
“What?”
“Yes, he was in here the day after they arrested Earl. Wasn’t that ridiculous? He didn’t even spend the night. And the sheriff told me he had evidence those men kidnapped Crabapple and then murdered him and he knew for a fact that I had knowledge of these crimes and if I didn’t come clean, I’d end up being charged as an accessory to murder.”
“You never told me that.” Joya looked at her cousin with new eyes.
“I knew he was bluffing, so I just blew him off.”
“You know what one of his deputies did to me?” Joya was anxious to share. “He ran me off the road—but don’t you dare tell my folks. I made up an excuse.”
“Oh, my God,” Alice shrieked. “Both you and me? That’s harassment, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is, my dears,” the attorney said with a self-satisfied sigh. “I’ll need an affidavit from each of you to present to the court, and we’ll put an end to this right now!”
Alice treated everyone to donuts, then excused herself to get back to her chores.
“I don’t want Mom and Dad to know about this affidavit, but it will help Dad, won’t it?” Lowe reached across the table to squeeze her hand as he bobbed his head and filled up his face with a smile.
***
A week later—Friday, January 28, 2000—the district attorney of Richland County announced his investigation had concluded Darryl “Crabapple” Harding had been murdered by Johnny Roth in retaliation for the death of Amber Schlener. Northville’s 104-day nightmare was over.
Lowe was laughing when he called Joya to say the entire courthouse could hear the district attorney ripping the sheriff a new asshole. And he demanded Badge 329 be fired. “I’m betting somebody’s going to run against that sheriff in the next election, if the DA has anything to do with it.”
It seemed amazing that it was finally over. Ralph Bonner didn’t even make a fuss when he wrote out the check to pay Lowe’s fee.
Throughout Northville, there was a giant sigh of relief. People felt bad for poor Johnny, so bad that many went to his funeral at St. Vincent’s and ate funeral hotdish afterwards. Cissy German was there, of course, leaving her dime.
Johnny was buried on the backside of the Catholic Cemetery, where the suicides are relegated.
The town mourned for his folks and his friends and that the Class of 2000 had lost yet another member. Even Kenny Franken understood that his best friend had become a killer and then hung himself in guilt.
Darryl Harding didn’t belong to any church in Northville, but a country church held a simple funeral for him. There was no meal afterwards. Huntsie paid for the funeral and the burial plot at the back of the Protestant cemetery.
To be honest, some people thought that three town leaders had something to do with all this, but whatever they’d done was nowhere near as bad as what Johnny did, so “let sleeping dogs lie.” The first time Joya heard someone use that phrase, she feared they knew the secret, but then realized it was simply the phrase that fit the moment.
At Alice’s Bakery, the gossip died down quickly because it was such an ugly thing, and ugly gossip didn’t go well with sweet donuts.
Maggie, Angie, and Norma kept their secret pact. Each of their men had cried in their arms at night in bed, sorry the boy had died, sorry Johnny was gone. “We just wanted justice,” each one had said, and each wife believed her man.
Joya flew home to Phoenix, deciding that someday she’d write a book about the time she saved her dad. She had a lot of work to catch up on. The Sammy trial was gearing up and, of course, she’d cover that. She ran into Rob now and then and they were polite, but neither wanted to try again. She started dating a lawyer, but he was a Republican, which didn’t work.
From her Sunday calls home, she heard Northville was grateful it was all over.
Sadly, it wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-three
Wednesday, February 2, 2000
Father Singer knew Ralph Bonner hadn’t killed Crabapple.
He knew Earl Krump and Bernard Stine were innocent, too.
He knew the three had kidnapped the boy.
All three men had come today to confess their sins.
All spoke with dismay and remorse at what they had done.
All declared what they hadn’t done.
Catholics know they can confess murder and be safe—their secret will never leave the priest’s lips. And a Catholic who has killed knows the only way to erase that horrible sin is to confess and do penance.
So Father Singer was certain that the men who swore they were not murderers were telling the truth. Because they believed, as the church teaches, that their confession wasn’t to the mortal man standing in, but was to Jesus Christ himself.
Knowing the three town leaders weren’t killers was a great relief. Father had a harder time with knowing that Johnny Roth didn’t kill Crabapple, either. Most of all, the priest mourned that he couldn’t stop Johnny from killing himself.
Father Singer would spend months on his knees, saying one Rosary after another, trying to reconcile the rules of his faith with the holes in his heart.
“If only I could have done something. If only I could have gotten help for Johnny—called his mom, he loved his mom She could have talked him down. She could have made him see there was still a life for him.”
But he couldn’t call Lois Roth. The sanctity of the confessional forbade him from doing anything but listening to the boy’s sins.
He could only plead with the boy, trying to slice through his fog of depression and shroud of hate. He had tried. God knows, he tried. But nothing in his training had prepared Father John Singer for a moment like that.
He was a simple man, a disciple of the rituals and rules of his church. He studied the Bible with an intensity most don’t expect from Catholics. He lived in the parsonage next door. He refused a housekeeper so he made his own meals, washed his own clothes and cl
eaned his own house. He wasn’t the best cook, so he ate mainly soup—cereal was supper some nights. He ate little meat, didn’t drink or smoke—all due to his pledge of humbleness.
He was a man educated in the ways of the church, the ritual of mass, the management of a parish. He had never had a single second of training in what to do when a parishioner comes to confess and almost screams that he’s going to commit suicide.
If Father Singer thought his simple, humble life would impress God enough to help out at a time like that, he was sorely disappointed.
“Please son. Please. Call your mother. You don’t want to hurt her like this. You know she loves you. Please don’t make her grieve. She sat at your bedside every day when you were in the coma. She prayed every day for you to come back. I was there many times at her side and we prayed the Rosary over you. Please don’t hurt her. Please, son, Please.”
But his begging did no good. As he gave Johnny the absolution he was due, Father Singer prayed with all his heart.
“Lord, watch over your son who is troubled and in great pain. Help him see that his loving mother and father and friends would mourn forever if he were not here with them. Help him find his way to you and your grace and forgiveness. And help him face another day with the knowledge that You are by his side and You will never abandon him.
“For your penance, say six Our Fathers and six Hail Marys.”
Father Singer heard Johnny weeping as he said his prayers. He heard the boy’s footsteps echoing off the marble floor of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church. He prayed to hear God’s whisper that he had done what he could. But he heard nothing more than his heart breaking.
He was shocked when he walked into the sacristy and found Gertie Bach, holding a polishing rag full of Brasso. He’d forgotten she was there. Their eyes met.
“I tried to stop him,” Father blurted out before realizing he was breaking an oath.
“I know, Father. I know.” They cried together.
Later that day when his fears were confirmed, Father Singer needed an hour to compose himself before he drove out to the Roth farm to comfort Lois and Paul.
Now today, he again was reminded of that awful day as he heard more confessions.
It vexed him that there was still a killer in town that nobody suspected, because they believed Johnny was the guilty one.
There is a burden in carrying around knowledge that can never be shared, but is carried on your shoulders alone, just as Jesus carried that cross. It didn’t help Father Singer to think of the Passion of Christ to ease his burden. He lost weight, suffered through sleepless nights, and he wondered if he could live the rest of his life with such horrible knowledge.
In the fourteen years he’d been a priest, he’d heard thousands of confessions. He’d heard a little girl at her first confession screaming out her sins as her classmates tittered and he whispered, “Whisper, Janney, whisper.” He’d heard grandmothers admit they were being abused at home by grandfathers who were ushers on Sunday morning. He’d heard boys admit they masturbated and stole apples, and men admit they cheated on their wives. He’d heard a woman admit she didn’t love her children.
As he was trained, he said a Rosary after every session of confession and then parked what he’d heard in a closed vault in the far corner of his mind. He knew confession was there, not to punish, but to forgive. It was a sacrament that allowed Catholics a do-over. Any sin could be forgiven. Any sin was forgiven.
But the words he’d heard in the wake of Northville’s tragedy refused to be parked. The vault refused to close. It plagued Father Singer that he kept hearing the words again and again.
He thought that was the greatest burden he’d ever carry.
Until the day the killer confessed to murdering Crabapple.
Chapter Twenty-four
Tuesday, July 4—Wednesday, July 12, 2000
The Fourth of July parade in Northville is something to behold.
Almost every fire department in the county sends its cleaned-up trucks—most red, some yellow. A couple antique pump trucks have been restored to go down Main Street to the cheers of townspeople who bring their lawn chairs and blankets and perch themselves on the sidewalk bordering the street.
Local businesses turn flatbed trucks into crepe-paper fantasies. The big rig company in town sends its purple and green semis down the street, riders throwing out hard candies to the eager hands of children. The Shriners drive crazy little cars and spray water at the audience, and in an election year, politicians in convertibles wave as their volunteers hand out campaign literature.
But most of all, everyone loves the high school band that marches down the street in its new uniforms and plays great patriotic songs. Most people in the audience have someone in that band they call their own.
The bang-up, grand parade starts a day of celebration that includes a cookout at the American Legion and fireworks at the casino. In between there’s a baseball game in one corner of the town park and a crafts fair in the other. Out at Lake Elsie, there’s a picnic in almost every yard. Those without lake houses cruise by on pontoons to admire the gracious homes with water views.
Someone once said that if you can’t find something to like about Northville’s Fourth of July, you must be a communist.
Joya Bonner was always home in time because Northville knew how to celebrate the nation’s birthday, and here she was on Tuesday, July 4, 2000.
Northville looked so different from when she’d been here in January. It felt so different. It was so different.
Her cousin, Alice, described a pall over the town since Amber’s death.
“We’d never been through anything like that, and you know, it changes a place,” Alice explained. Joya knew exactly what she meant. Her laugh sounded too loud in a town where mirth now was reserved. Her glee at the annual parade wasn’t obvious on other faces. Her aunts and uncles gathering for dessert in her parents’ backyard seemed subdued.
Anyone peering in would have recognized a new resignation in Northville. Like a dog that’s been beaten and is careful not to get hit anymore.
Three young people were dead. The Class of 2000 had memorialized Amber and Johnny on graduation day, tarnishing a moment that should have been reserved for joy and hope. Maxine left for The Cities the day after graduation, saying she couldn’t wait to be rid of this town. Some of her classmates wished they’d had the guts to join her.
Alice Peters worried that the story of Amber and Johnny and Crabapple would become one of the town legends people would tell again and again—like the brave father who faced the storm and the brave men who stopped the robbers. She prayed it wouldn’t, but she bet it would.
And Gertie was gone. She died in early June and there was no way Joya could come home that early. How she’d wanted to honor the woman by being there when the town said its final goodbye.
Her mother told her it was an even bigger funeral than Amber’s. The Judith Circle was excused from kitchen duty so they could sit in the front rows, as part of Gertie’s “family.” The Esther Circle took over and they barely made enough funeral hotdish to feed everyone. (How Maggie and her circle clucked about that one!) Cissy German only got two plates that day before they ran out. But she obviously loved Gertie, too. She left a quarter.
Joya was hanging out in the kitchen of Alice’s Bakery the day after the parade when she asked out of the blue, “Do you think he did it?”
“Who? Did what?”
“Do you think Johnny killed Crabapple?” Joya knew she was on tenterhooks, but she had to know if her cousin knew.
Alice stopped stirring her batter and didn’t look up. “I don’t know. I want to believe it. Because I want it over.”
Then Alice looked at Joya and declared, “You know, I never believed your dad had anything to do with his death. The town didn’t. But I know he was proud that you came home and helped them prove it. The ni
ce thing is, people have stopped talking about it and I want it to stay that way. So don’t stir anything up, okay?”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t do that. I was just wondering.”
She left the bakery to continue her morning walk in hopes of taking off the ten pounds she’d put back on over the winter. Her goal was to walk the whole town over her two-week summer vacation. One day she’d walk out to the cemetery to visit the graves of her grandparents and the three aunts she’d already lost. And Gertie.
On her way back to her folks’ house, she stopped at Leona’s to buy her mom flowers. “I’ll take four pink roses, please,” she told the clerk.
“Oh, I’m sorry, two of those are spoken for. You want the other two?”
“Sure, and put in two white ones, too.”
“It’s a standing order, so we can’t sell them,” the clerk explained, as though it needed an apology.
“Who’s got the standing order?” Joya asked.
“Nettie Schlener. Do you know her? It was her daughter that died last fall. Such a shame. She gets two pink roses every Wednesday and puts them on her grave. She’s done it since the funeral.”
“During the winter, too?” Joya wondered.
“Oh yeah, EVERY Wednesday. That poor woman hasn’t moved on. She’s so sad all the time.”
“That’s too bad.” Joya took her four roses in their waxed-paper wrap and continued her walk home. How long had it been now, since Amber died? Joya couldn’t remember exactly, but thought it had been in October, and now here it was, July 5 and she was still doing it? That was, what, thirty-nine, forty weeks? Man, that was a lot of pink roses.
She handed her mom the roses with a flourish as Maggie squealed with exaggerated delight. “There would have been four pink ones but Nettie Schlener has a standing order for two pink roses every Wednesday for her daughter’s grave. Did you know that?” She saw a look of panic cross her mother’s eyes.
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