“Manly,” Henry read from his phone. “Masculine. Strong. Warrior.” He looked up at Andrew, his eyes glinting in amusement, but then it was gone and he said, “Well, my name means I’m a stubborn ruler of a household who cuts down trees, so there you go.”
Despite himself, Andrew’s mouth twitched. “What does Catherine’s name mean?”
“Catherine Luana Ellers…It’s like…innocent, pure, and happy, and then Ellers means she lives by an alder tree.”
“Huh.”
“Names, right?” Henry pocketed his phone. “It’s fucked up, what happened.”
“Yeah.”
“I would have punched the guy. I don’t know why you didn’t.”
“Guys,” Andrew said quietly.
Henry stared at him.
“Three.” Andrew suddenly felt very tired. “There were three guys. That’s why I didn’t do anything.” He ran a hand down his face. He could feel the place where Catherine had hit him like a burn. “I should have, though. I know that.”
Henry’s shoulders gave a flinching sort of jerk. He was still looking at Andrew, but not as though he actually saw him. Andrew could almost see his mind working, frantic. “You can’t tell her,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. She’s barely—”
“Don’t worry,” Andrew said. He’d just spotted Catherine walking toward them down the hall, and a sudden, fierce unease swept over him. “I know how to keep a secret, if I need to.”
Catherine took a seat and the sketch artist—Takira—handed the pencil drawing to Bob, who had just come back to his desk, freeing a cinnamon roll from its sticky plastic wrapping. He took a good long look at the drawing: fringed hair, thin beard, long nose, small eyes. “Eric Russell?” He said it like a question, then bit into the roll, eyes still on the sketch as he chewed.
Takira shrugged and crossed her arms. “You know that’s your job. I’m just here for the art and free coffee.”
Bob swallowed. “There’s only the coffeepot in the side office. The Keurig’s broken.”
“Still?”
Bob gave a grunting noise and went back to examining the sketch. Takira, with one last shake of her head, smiled at Catherine and walked away.
“Does it look like someone?” Catherine asked, a little hopefully. She wasn’t at all sure she’d done a good enough job with Takira. But the face on the paper was very close to the one in Catherine’s memory. Would that be enough?
Bob shooed Andrew out of his chair, sat down heavily, and pulled it toward the computer, typing quickly, the cinnamon roll just next to the keyboard. Then he leaned back so they could see the screen. “What d’you think?”
The image—from some sort of database, Catherine could see a search bar and multiple tabs—was of a tired-looking man in front of a height column showing him just shy of five-nine. But she’d remembered him looming over her, at least six feet tall. Maybe that had been the fear making her think he was bigger than he was. After all, she was only five-four.
And there was something else—the man on Bob’s computer looked…well, better than the man she remembered encountering. He was clean-shaven, for one, and he seemed younger somehow with no facial hair, his hair combed behind his ears. He almost looked like a college student after a night of partying, and likely closer to a senior than a freshman. Had she seen this exact picture yesterday and dismissed it? She couldn’t even remember.
“Is that a recent picture?” she asked.
Bob scrolled down for a moment. “Taken two years ago.”
Catherine frowned, trying to see past the extraneous details and focus on the man’s features, his eyes, knowing all the while that she was taking too long to answer, that she had to say something—but what if she was wrong again? What if this wasn’t the guy at all? Or what if it was, and her uncertainty was a mistake that kept him free?
“I…Maybe,” she managed. “Yeah, it could be.”
Bob shrugged. “Well, he’s a sex offender. Originally from Montana. I know him because my job a lot of the time is to respond to calls from local community centers. Rec center, library, the pool. And…we’ve had some complaints.”
“He watches porn in public places,” Andrew translated, downing the rest of his coffee.
Bob shot him a glare. “We do not provide details like that to the public.”
“Right,” Andrew said blandly.
“Anyway,” Bob continued, “this is someone we’d be talking to regardless, since he’s local with a record. But this is helpful,” he added, looking at Catherine directly, “hearing that he might have had contact with the victim. How positive are you on the ID?”
I’m not.
“Seventy-five percent,” she decided.
Bob gave her an appraising look and handed her a sticky note. “Jot down your contact information for me: full name, address, email, and a good phone number for you. I may call you in again, depending on how it goes with Mr. Russell here, if he’s able to provide an alibi. Course we’re still waiting on time of death for that, but from what I’ve heard the autopsy’s already done, so—”
Amy scalpel cold stripped
“—once we get the report we can start narrowing down our window. You okay with maybe giving a statement? How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Bob nodded. “That makes it easier.” He took her details from her. “I appreciate you all coming in. I know this is…” He paused, scanning the room, his eyes settling on a small unlit Christmas tree on another officer’s desk some distance away. “Right after the holiday. Jesus Christ.” He took another bite of the roll.
Andrew cleared his throat and Bob looked at him.
“Who else are you looking into?” Andrew asked him. “If you can say.”
“I can’t,” Bob replied, his easy grin back in place as he chewed.
Andrew seemed to be considering something. “I can tell Minda you keep chocolate-covered pretzels in the pantry behind the paper towels,” he said.
“Pretty sure she already knows,” Bob said mildly, swallowing the last of the roll before eyeing them all in turn. “Listen, I know you want to help. It’s been tough, this one, and it’s going to keep being tough.” He looked just at Catherine. “I have your information and we’ll keep this sketch on hand. But for now, go home. Be kids, for God’s sake. You all eighteen?”
They nodded.
“Enjoy being kids,” he said, standing up, telling them kindly but in no uncertain terms they were dismissed. “It’s almost over.”
* * *
—
When they reached the lobby, Catherine shrugged on her jacket. Outside the window, it was raining again and it looked freezing. She saw the day stretch out ahead of her, completely, terrifyingly empty, just that endless sound of the winter rain pounding down against her ears. It made her want to scream.
But it also made her want to do something to fill that time.
She remembered what she’d promised herself at the church gathering. She was going to do something. Hell, she’d already done something. The sketch. A possible suspect. Small steps that led away from that nothing-emptiness that threatened to drown her. She just had to keep taking those steps. Keep holding her head above the surface.
She turned to Andrew. “What’s your plan?”
Andrew looked taken aback. “Sorry?”
“Your plan,” she said again. “Are you leaving?”
“Leaving?”
“Going home.”
Andrew blinked. “I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Don’t.”
Henry shot her a look. She ignored it.
“You need to stay. At least a few more days. See if the sketch comes to anything. You’re a direct line to this, the investigation, whatever you want to call it. I think you can help.”
Andrew looked uncomfortable at that. “Bob has your
info. He’ll contact you.”
“And what if he doesn’t? What if the sketch isn’t right or Russell’s not the guy? You need to stay—in case something else comes up.”
Henry was looking at her as though she’d lost her mind, but she fixed him with a glare. “What?” she said. “What’s a few more days?”
Henry shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, his body rigid with tension. Then it seemed to slip away from him, all at once; she watched as he cast his eyes to the ceiling and began rocking on the balls of his feet, his expression cool and contemplative. As though he were half awake, the rest of him in a dream.
“Henry?” she asked.
Because he had that look she remembered, back when they’d been inseparable: late-night sneak-outs at nine years old and ding-dong-ditch at eleven, that wicked smile when they turned fourteen. Broken rules and no regret and let’s-do-it-why-not-don’t-you-trust-me and she’d never been able to give him an answer, so instead she went. Every time.
“I have a suspect too,” he said.
They sat in Henry’s car in the police station parking lot, heat streaming from the vents and turning their cheeks pink. Henry and Catherine were in the front, Andrew in the back, leaning forward, looking curiously between the two of them as they argued.
“You’re insane,” Catherine told him. “Insane.”
“Oh, come on,” Henry retorted. “Just hear me out. All I said was the name and you’re freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out. It just makes no sense.”
“Why not?”
Catherine let out an irritated breath and sat back in the passenger seat. “Because John Pechman is hardly an ax murderer. He’s a pastor.”
“Yeah, and religious leaders never do anything bad. Also, she was strangled, not ax-murdered.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because strangulation is, like, intimate. Though admittedly ax-murdering probably is too. But—and, Catherine, stop me if I’m upsetting you—it’s a crime of passion, or whatever they call it. The person had to know her. And Pechman knew Amy.”
“Yes, but not well.”
“Actually, he did,” Henry countered. “She was around more and more lately, baking and even advertising. She had these little business cards and everything. I know it was working out for her too, because she was always super happy when she was at the church. People just complimenting her all the time. She’d do the food for free and then if anyone wanted extra, she sold it at a discount. Luring them in. Jesus, sorry.”
Catherine had taken her hand from one of the vents to wipe her eyes. “Fine,” she said, a little fiercely. “I know about the church baking stuff. But still. Why would he kill her? Do you think he was…?” She trailed off, unable to finish, remembering her mother’s disapproving look at Pechman’s back, her father’s words.
Let’s just say your mother was happy when you finished Sunday school.
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “If anything was happening…I mean, I never saw. But I did notice that he…well, he paid attention to her. I know that sounds stupid. I mean, she was there, right? But I did see him hanging around her a lot. Thanking her for everything. He even was trying to talk her into doing the Easter play next year.”
“Amy wouldn’t have done it,” Catherine said immediately. Amy had once told her about her first and only drama production, back in elementary school: Alice in Wonderland. She’d thrown up all over this kid—Billy or Bobby or Brett—dressed as the White Rabbit and all that came up was this red Kool-Aid she’d had beforehand. “I looked like I’d murdered a bunny,” she’d told Catherine. “Never again.”
“Yeah, but he wanted her to,” Henry continued. “Kept talking about how she’d get over her stage fright, he’d help her…” His voice trailed off. “And then Ken Itoh left.”
Catherine sat up a little straighter. If anyone would know the details, it would be Henry. His family had always been more involved in First Faith than her own. If she remembered correctly, a good portion of their money—Henry’s mother’s inheritance from a long-dead relative in France—went to the church.
“My mom is crazy religious,” Henry had confided in her years ago. “Or just crazy. I can’t decide. But she gives so much money to the church it’s like she personally killed Jesus herself and is trying to make up for it.”
“So what did happen with Ken Itoh?” Catherine asked Henry now. “My parents were talking about it and then they wouldn’t say any more. Said it was gossip.”
“It is gossip,” Henry said. “But it’s also true.”
Catherine turned to Andrew, who she realized had not said a word since they’d gotten into the car. “Your neighborhood this interesting?” she asked, chancing a smile, not wanting him to be left out.
Andrew gave her a thin smile in return, as though he knew exactly what she was trying to do. “There’s this girl who lives next to us who plays her piano at night. It’s super loud. My mom says she’s going to complain, but she never will.”
“Yeah, this was way more than that,” Henry said, and to his credit, angled his body a little bit so he wasn’t just facing Catherine. “Ken Itoh was like, second-in-command or whatever. They said he was going to take over First Faith whenever Pechman decided to retire. Ken was doing more sermons and there was this rumor going around that people liked his stuff more than Pechman’s. Ken’s younger, cooler, wears skinny jeans and has an earring. His wife’s like this hot doctor and Pechman’s isn’t. Sorry.”
Catherine waved a hand. “How does Amy come into it?”
“I’m getting to that,” Henry said, and when he resumed the story, his voice was a little lower, confidential, as though he was afraid of being overheard. “A few weeks ago, Ken Itoh said at the end of his sermon that he had an announcement. He played it up a ton, stalling, I think. Like, This has been a hard decision and after much prayer. On and on. Eventually he admitted he was moving to another church. And not just that. He was moving out of town. And there wasn’t a reason. Like, his wife got a new job there or, I don’t know, school systems for their kids or whatever. He just said that it was a hard decision but he thought it was the right one and God was calling him somewhere else.”
Andrew was frowning, looking almost disappointed. “I…still don’t see it. A pastor left a church. This is murder we’re talking about here.”
“Well, give me a second,” said Henry, with a touch of impatience. He seemed a little disappointed at their lack of enthusiasm. “Because I went to Ken Itoh’s office after the service.”
“You followed him?” Andrew asked.
“Stubborn,” Catherine muttered.
“Enduring,” Henry corrected her. “Anyway, he was in his office. His wife was with him. They were—well, not arguing, but they were talking loud enough that I could hear what they were saying through the door. Well, most of it. She was harder to hear, but he was pissed and not, like, yelling, but—”
“What were they saying?” Catherine cut in.
Henry took a deep breath. “She was saying something like, ‘I’m not happy about this, Ken, not happy at all.’ And he said, ‘It’s done, Danielle, I’m not talking about it anymore. I’m out. All of us are. It’s done.’ Then she said something about how she hadn’t wanted him to tell the congregation this Sunday but wait until things had cooled down. And then that’s when it got more heated and I could hear it more clearly. ‘Cooled down, Danielle? Cooled down? You think something like this will just blow over?’ Then she said, ‘Not necessarily, but after some time, he might see’—I think she said, like, ‘the error of his ways.’ And then Ken kind of laughed but not like a funny laugh and said, ‘I can’t believe I even have to tell you this, how serious this is. How it would destroy the church. How many other churches has the same thing destroyed? And all the while John wants me to pretend it never happened.’ ”
/>
“Sex abuse,” Catherine said faintly, and even Andrew looked unnerved. “That whole thing, about the other churches…”
“Yeah,” Henry said, looking much more encouraged now. “I told you I’d get there. Anyway, then Ken started saying something about how he wanted to get out before it got bad and everyone found out. Danielle asked him if he really thought it would get that far—and that’s when he mentioned maybe going to a lawyer.”
Catherine’s heart was beating hard. “If John Pechman was…was abusing kids and Ken talked to a lawyer about it…”
But Andrew was shaking his head. “No way. You don’t go to a lawyer with something like that. You go to the cops.”
“But it doesn’t sound like Ken knew it for a fact,” Catherine said. “From what Henry overheard, it sounds like Ken strongly suspected but didn’t have any way to prove it.”
“Exactly,” Henry said. “People like Ken, but he’s only been here a few years. There’s no way he could make an accusation like that without hard evidence. It would be like accusing, I don’t know, Mr. Rogers of torturing animals. No one would—”
Catherine suddenly sat up, remembering something. “Amy didn’t deliver bread to the church this year!”
The two boys stared at her.
“I heard Pechman say that. Said maybe she’d spread herself too thin or something—but Amy’s dad is a lawyer. What if Ken went to him for, like, general legal advice, and he admitted he thought something shady was going on with Pechman? And that’s why Amy skipped the church this year? Because her dad told her to?”
“But why wouldn’t Mr. Porter go to the cops?” Andrew countered. “Child sex abuse? And his kid was in the church?”
“I don’t think Ken would tell Mr. Porter everything he knew,” Henry said slowly. “Maybe he just went to him to get some contacts, or he asked how to go about protecting himself legally, and Evan realized something was going on in the church. Actually, now you mention it, I haven’t seen the Porters around the church as much the last few weeks.”
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