At the age of seventy-six, Pickles has been a member of the Painters Mill PD for over fifty years. He’s my only auxiliary officer and puts in about ten hours a week, usually at the school crosswalk. During the 1980s he worked undercover narcotics and took down one of the largest drug rings in the state. His glory days ended a few years ago when, during a call for a domestic dispute, he was attacked by an aggressive rooster. Pickles shot and killed the chicken, which happened to be a prized animal owned by a woman who dabbled in local politics. The town council got involved and Pickles nearly lost his job. I’m well aware that a police chief must choose his or her battles wisely. But I couldn’t see throwing away fifty years of service over a dead chicken, so I went to bat for him and, by a narrow margin, saved his job. The move cost me politically, and I fell out of favor with some of the town council members, a few of whom are still pressuring me to retire Pickles. So far, I’ve been successful in holding them off and will continue to do so as long as I’m chief or until Pickles voluntarily decides he’s ready to throw in the towel.
He’s slowed down the last couple of years, but he never misses a day of work, he’s never late, and more important, he’s still an effective cop. He’s a fixture in this town—a favorite of many citizens, including me—and stands in testament that age doesn’t define the person or what they can accomplish.
“You were around when the Hochstetler crime happened, weren’t you?” I begin.
He shuffles into my office and lowers himself into the chair adjacent my desk, bringing a wave of English Leather aftershave with him. “First major crime of my career, and let me tell you something, it gave me nightmares.”
I tell him about the Amish peg doll found in Dale Michaels’s mouth. “We’re not making that bit of information pubic, but the doll was inscribed with the Hochstetler name. I’m wondering if you remember any kind of connection between Dale Michaels and the Hochstetlers.”
“Well, my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I sure don’t recall Michaels’s name coming up in the course of the Hochstetler case. Michaels was probably just a kid back then.”
I recap everything I know about the case so far, including the final calls Michaels made before his murder. And the text to Blue Branson. “Do you know Blue?” I ask.
“Thirty-five years ago, I had more run-ins with Branson than my own wife.” Pickles’s brows knit. “He was quite a troublemaker in his youth.”
I tell him about my earlier conversation with Blue. “Blue told me Dale Michaels attended services at his church sometimes. Evidently, he hadn’t yet read the text about Dale Michaels’s mysterious meeting.”
“That’s interesting,” Pickles says. “Because now that you mention it, I remember Blue Branson and Dale Michaels running around together as teenagers. Michaels was a good kid. Kept his nose clean. Blue, not so much.”
“That is interesting.” I wonder why Blue would lie about something so seemingly benign. “What kind of trouble did Blue get into?”
“I arrested him for felony assault back in the early ’80s. He was out of high school by then. Got a conviction for it, too.”
“So our righteous pastor has a checkered past.”
“I’ll say. Night I busted him … it was a bar fight. Saturday-night crowd. Rowdy place called Suzy’s Lounge that burned down a few years back. I was off duty, having a drink, and I saw Blue coldcock a guy with a set of brass knuckles.” Setting his elbows on his knees, Pickles leans closer to my desk, his eyes level on mine. “One punch, and that guy was in a coma for a week, lost his front teeth, and let me tell you, he wasn’t the same when he woke up. All over a ten-dollar game of pool.”
“Sounds like Blue has a temper.”
“Or a mean streak that runs right up his self-righteous back.” His eyes hold mine. “You think he had something to do with Michaels’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
“Well, once upon a time, they ran in the same circles. If they’d had some kind of falling out”—he shrugs—“might be worth looking into.”
We fall silent and for a moment the only sound comes from the rain smacking against the window and the ringing of the switchboard in the reception area.
I turn to my computer and pull up the spreadsheet from the BCI technician. “I’m working through Michaels’s phone records. Right before calling Blue Branson, he made a call to Jerrold McCullough. Another one to The Raspberry Leaf, a gallery owned by Julia Rutledge.”
Pickles sits up straighter. “I think McCullough ran with them, too. He was a big-shot high school football star. I remember him because he got aggressive with a girl once and she called the law. No one pressed charges and everything sort of got swept under the rug. But I always had my doubts about that guy.”
“Chief?” Skid taps on the doorjamb and enters my office. Nodding at Pickles, he passes a sheet of paper to me. “This just came in on Blue Branson.”
Taking the paper, I scan the list and read it aloud. “Arrested in 1978 for possession of a controlled substance. No conviction. Two years later, he was convicted of felony assault and did four months in Mansfield. Nothing after that.”
“He’s kept his nose clean since he found God and turned his life around,” Pickles says dryly. “But thirty-five years ago, he was a scary fuckin’ guy.”
I consider everything I know about Blue Branson and the stark contrasts between the man he is now and the man who chalked up an arrest record—and I can’t quite reconcile the two. “Do you think Blue’s church is some kind of cover for something else?”
“Oh, no.” Pickles gives a short laugh. “I think that son of a bitch got saved, all right. But all the praying in the world can’t change who you are, and it doesn’t erase the things you did in your past. I think Old Blue’s trying hard to save his own soul. And I think he’s probably got a ways to go before he gets the job done.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Skid and I are in my Explorer heading south on a gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek. The ditches on both sides of the road are filled to the brim with runoff from the rain. The gravel beneath the tires feels spongy and I can hear the mud and stones pinging against the wheel wells. We cross a small bridge and even in the darkness, I can see that the creek is swollen to twice its normal size. If the rain doesn’t let up soon, we’re going to be dealing with serious flooding issues.
I park next to a brown Riviera, circa 1975, and shut down the engine. Through the trees, I see the yellow glow of lights and the silhouette of a modest frame house.
“So Michaels called McCullough a few hours before he was murdered?” Skid asks.
I’d briefed him on the case on the drive over. “Pickles says they knew each other when they were young. I thought it was worth a visit.”
We get out of the Explorer. The woods around us are extremely dark, so I grab my Maglite and aim it toward the house. The cone of light illuminates a crude path through the trees. Gravel, clumps of concrete, and pieces of plywood are tossed about haphazardly, forming just enough of a walkway to keep our shoes from being swallowed by mud.
The drizzle is cold against my face and hands as I start down the path. It winds through mature trees and eventually takes us to the front porch, which is lighted with a bare yellow bulb. I open a storm door and knock. While we wait, I discern the roar of rushing water from Painters Creek behind the house. I wonder how far the house is from the water.
The door swings open and I find myself looking at a short gray-haired man with a snarlish mouth and wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which are smeared with fingerprints.
“Jerrold McCullough?” I ask.
“You’re looking at him.” I hear a hint of the Kentucky hills in his voice. He looks past me at Skid, but he doesn’t smile and makes no move to let us in. “If you’re here to evacuate me, I’m not leaving, so you might as well just turn around and go.” He jabs his thumb in the general direction of the road. “That creek back there hasn’t flooded in thirty yea
rs, and it’s not going to flood now.”
“We’re not here about the flooding, Mr. McCullough,” I assure him. “We’d like to come in and ask you a few questions about Dale Michaels.”
“Dale, huh?” He grimaces. “I heard about the murder. Hell of a thing.” But he makes no move to invite us inside and I find myself hoping it doesn’t start raining harder. Talking to McCullough is going to be unpleasant enough without doing it with wet hair and cold rain pouring down my neck.
“Do you mind if we come inside, sir?” I ask.
He’s staring at me as if he’s afraid we’re going to force our way in and cart him off against his will. But after a moment he steps back and opens the door. “Might as well. Come on.”
We enter a living room that’s lit by a single lamp and the glowing screen of an old-fashioned tube television set. I get the sense of a cramped, claustrophobic room. It doesn’t take me long to realize McCullough is a hoarder. The room is jam-packed with every type of household item you can think of. Piles of clothing, shoes, and newspapers are scattered everywhere. A small plastic doghouse is shoved against the wall. Magazines spill from cardboard boxes with busted sides. The smell is worse than the mess, an unpleasant combination of a recently microwaved TV dinner, moldy towels, and a bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time.
I glance over at Skid. He’s not exactly a neatnik, but he’s looking around the place as if he’s afraid of picking up some contagion. We’re standing in the entryway and there’s barely enough room for the three of us to face each other and speak from a comfortable distance. McCullough doesn’t seem to notice.
“You get the person who did it?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I tell him. “But we are following up on some pretty solid leads.”
He licks his lips, his eyes flicking to Skid and then back to me. “What kind of leads?”
I give him a pointed look. “Were you and Dale friends?”
“I knew him. A long time ago. You know, high school.” He gestures with the final word and I notice his right hand is missing at the wrist. The flesh is puckered with layers of scar tissue. He doesn’t appear to be self-conscious about it and makes no effort to conceal it.
“When’s the last time you talked to him?” I ask.
Same as Blue Branson, McCullough walks right into the trap. “It’s been a while.” He shrugs. “Seen him around town a few times.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I saw him at the grocery store. Gas station a couple weeks ago.”
“Mr. McCullough, Dale Michaels’s cell phone records show that the two of you had a conversation the day before he was murdered.”
His eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses. For a moment he looks flustered. “Oh. That.” His laugh is forced. “Nearly forgot.”
“Why did he call you?” I ask.
He blinks at me, his eyes darting, and it strikes me that Jerrold McCullough isn’t nearly as good a liar as Blue Branson. But why would he lie about his relationship with Dale Michaels? “Mr. McCullough, if you could just answer the question, I’d appreciate it.”
“He called me just to see how I was doing. That’s all. Just to say hello. You know.”
“Is that all?”
“Yep. That’s it.”
“Did he happen to mention a meeting or say he was meeting someone later?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about a meeting.”
I spend fifteen minutes going through the same questions I posed to Blue Branson. McCullough seems to have settled into the idea of the police showing up at his door. He keeps his cool and his answers are consistent. Still, in those first few minutes, he’d seemed shaken and uncertain.
“Did Dale have any enemies that you know of?” I ask. “Anyone who didn’t like him or might’ve been holding a grudge?”
“I don’t know. He was a nice guy. I can’t imagine anyone hating him enough to do him harm.” He shrugs. “Everyone liked Dale. He was a family man. A dad and a grandpa. Worked hard his whole life.” His eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I get the sense his answer isn’t rehearsed. “He shouldn’t have met that kind of end. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
“How well do you know Blue Branson?”
“Pastor Branson?” His hesitation is so subtle, I might have missed it if I hadn’t been anticipating it. He shakes his head and I notice him rubbing the stump of his right wrist. I wonder if it’s a nervous habit. I wonder what he has to be nervous about. “I know who he is, what with the church and all.”
“Are you friends?”
“No, but I knew him back in high school.”
“Were Dale and Blue friends?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen either of them in years.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me that might help us find the person who did this?” I ask.
For an instant, his eyes search mine. Then he looks away. “That’s all I know.”
I hand him my card. “If you think of anything else, call me.” I catch his gaze again and hold it. “Day or night.”
“All right.”
Midway to the Explorer, Skid says, “That son of a bitch is a terrible liar.”
“I got the same impression.” I reach the vehicle and look at him across the hood, pleased I’m not the only one who noticed. “The question is, what is he lying about and why?”
“Gotta be hiding something.”
“Or he’s guilty of something.”
“You think he’s involved in the murder? Hired it out, maybe?”
“If he did, we don’t have a motive. And it sure doesn’t explain the Amish peg doll.” I think about that a moment. “But he’s hiding something.” I unlock the door and slide inside.
Skid does the same and I look at him across the seat. “You have time for one more stop?”
“Sure.”
I put the Explorer in gear. “Maybe Julia Rutledge can shed some light.”
CHAPTER 10
Julia Rutledge lives in a stately home surrounded by mature trees in an established neighborhood of Painters Mill. I pull into the driveway and park behind a green Jaguar XJ6.
“Nice wheels,” Skid says as I shut down the engine.
“A little above your pay grade,” I say. “So is she.”
“A guy can hope.”
“Are you referring to the car or the woman?”
At his grin, I get out and slam the door. We walk in silence to the well-lit front porch, where baskets of pansies and asparagus ferns hang from freshly painted eaves. It’s raining again, but I can hear the television inside. I knock and a moment later a female voice comes at me through the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder,” I say loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, Ms. Rutledge.”
“Would you mind showing me your ID?”
“No problem.” Surprised by her vigilance, I glance at Skid as I reach for my badge. He looks back at me and shrugs. I hold my ID a foot or so from the peephole. A moment later the bolt lock snaps open. I hear the security chain disengage. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a striking woman with wavy blond hair that falls well past her shoulders and perfectly arched brows that frame eyes the color of lake ice. At fifty-three years of age, Julia Rutledge is attractive with a slender, athletic build and cheekbones any runway model would pay a year’s salary to possess. She’s wearing a pale blue linen blouse with black slacks. Bloodred toenails peek out of embroidered espadrilles.
“Julia Rutledge?” I show her my badge again.
Taking her time, she gives it another once-over. “Sorry about that. A single woman can’t be too careful these days.” She has the deep and melodic voice of Lauren Bacall, but with a touch of the South. Her gaze sweeps to Skid and her mouth curves. “Hello.”
Skid touches his hat. “Ma’am.”
“This is Officer Skidmore,” I tell her. “May we come inside? W
e’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Please do. It’s awful out there.” She steps back and opens the door wider. “Weatherman says there’s more on the way.”
Skid and I step into a large, neat living room with gleaming hardwood floors covered with an Amish-made braided rug. An oil painting depicting an Amish woman standing in the middle of a wheat field, a woven basket in hand and a dog at her side is displayed on the wall next to the fireplace. The air smells of cigarette smoke that’s not quite masked by the otherwise-pleasant scent of vanilla.
“You have a beautiful home,” I tell her.
“Thank you.”
I motion at the painting. “Are you the artist?”
She smiles at the painting as if it’s a cherished old friend. “A doctor up in Wooster asked me to paint that one for him.” She chuckles. “When I finished, I couldn’t part with it.”
“I hope he understood.”
“He didn’t.” But she waves it off. “Such is the life of an artist.”
“Mrs. Rutledge—”
“Call me Jules, please.”
“Jules,” I repeat. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but a Painters Mill man by the name of Dale Michaels was murdered a couple of days ago.”
“I heard about it at the gallery today. Just … awful.”
Though she doesn’t actually move, she seems to curl in on herself. Then without a word, she crosses to the nearest end table and snags a pack of cigarettes. I watch as she taps one from the pack and lights up. That’s when I notice the Beretta on the lower shelf of the end table, within easy reach from the sofa.…
I wait, wondering if she’ll mention the call he made to her the night he was killed.
“I’d been talking to him about a painting he wanted to buy,” she tells me. “He told me he’d walked by my gallery one evening after hours and saw it in the window.”
“When was that?”
“I think it was the day before he was killed,” she tells me.
“Were you and Dale friends?”
She shakes her head. “I knew him in high school, but then everyone knew everyone in high school back then. Until that night, I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”