“Regarding Michaels’s iPhone: We’ve run all the names through LEADS and we’re working our way through the list. So far I’ve interviewed three of the individuals he made his final calls to: Blue Branson, Jerrold McCullough, and Julia Rutledge. As you know, Rutledge was murdered last night, which I’ll touch on in a moment. All three individuals have alibis and claim no knowledge of the victim or the crime.

“Interestingly, Michaels sent a text to Blue Branson shortly before his murder.” I look down at my notes and read: “‘Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome.’” I turn my attention back to my team. “Blue Branson says he doesn’t know anything about the meeting and he doesn’t recall receiving the text.”

“You believe him?” Glock asks.

“He showed me his phone,” I tell him. “He wasn’t lying about having not read the text. But I don’t believe him one hundred percent.”

“Is he a suspect?” Skid asks.

“He’s a person of interest.”

“Emphasis on ‘interest,’” Glock mutters.

A few chuckles ensue, and I resume the briefing. “We were able to tie the two homicides together by way of similar objects found at both scenes.” I hold up a photocopy of the Amish peg doll. “This figurine was found in Dale Michaels’s mouth. A second figurine was found inserted into a knife wound inside Julia Rutledge’s body. Both figurines have been sent to the lab to see if we can come up with latents or other identifying marks. We’re not releasing any of this to the public.” I tap the surface of the podium for emphasis. “The information doesn’t leave this room. Everyone got that?”

Everyone nods. Glock gives me a thumbs-up.

“What are your thoughts on those Amish dolls, Chief?” Pickles asks.

“We believe both dolls were made by a member of the Hochstetler family, back when they had that furniture operation in the 1970s. As most of you know, the Hochstetler family were victims of a crime back in 1979. We don’t know if the dolls left at the scene are in any way related to that incident or if they were left for some other reason.”

“One of the kids survived that night, didn’t they?” Skid asks.

I nod. “Fourteen-year-old William Hochstetler was the only survivor. He was adopted and legally changed his name to Hoch Yoder. He still lives in the area.”

“You talk to him?” Skid asks.

I nod. “He claimed he was home. His wife alibied him. He remains a person of interest.” I let the statement hang and go back to my notes. “Aside from the phone calls and the text, we have nothing concrete that ties Blue Branson or Jerrold McCullough to Dale Michaels, but in the coming days, we’re going to be putting some pressure on them. Hoch Yoder, too.”

I scan the faces of my team, speaking from memory now. “A couple of other interesting developments that are not for public consumption. A search of Julia Rutledge’s gallery netted three threatening notes.” I pull out copies and hand them to Skid to pass around. “Councilman Johnston has also been receiving notes of a similar nature.”

A murmur of surprise goes around the table at the mention of Johnston. Glances are exchanged as I pass a copy of the notes Norm gave me to Skid. “I want patrols stepped up in Norm’s neighborhood. If possible, I’d like for us to keep a presence at his house.”

“Is Councilman Johnston somehow involved in this?” T.J. asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He hasn’t been as forthcoming as I’d like, but I’ll keep some pressure on him and we’ll see what happens.”

When no other questions come, I look at Glock. “I want you to pick up Jerrold McCullough. Bring him in. Let’s sweat him a little.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“T.J., you’ve been on for two shifts. You probably ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Aye.”

“Pickles, you’re on full-time until further notice.”

“No problem.” The old man nods, not quite able to hide his pleasure.

I bring my hands together. “Everyone else, I hope you don’t have any plans for the weekend. Mandatory OT until we get this guy.”

The groans that follow are token. I know my officers want this killer off their streets as vehemently as I do.

*   *   *

I spend an hour putting my notes into a Word doc, writing reports and rereading every detail of both the Michaels and Rutledge cases. I spend another thirty minutes combing through the Hochstetler file. By the time I hand everything off to Lois, it’s nearly 2 P.M. I look at my phone, and I find myself thinking about Tomasetti and how we left things. I desperately want to talk to him. My pride reminds me that I’m angry with him. It’s not enough to keep me from picking up the phone.

He answers on the first ring. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I miss you,” I say without preamble.

Surprise produces a certain echo over a phone line. I hear that echo now, intriguing and painful at once. “Cat got your tongue, Tomasetti?”

“Yup.” A thoughtful pause ensues. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say automatically, and then add, “no. It’s been a tough day.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Just … be there when I get home.”

I can almost hear his thought processes working. He’s trying to peg my frame of mind. My reason for setting my pride aside and calling him when I was otherwise pissed. Why, when it’s so unlike me to show him that I need him, that I’m so willing to admit it. I’m not sure I could explain any of those things even to myself.

My second line lights up. On the display, I see Glock’s name. “I have a call,” I tell him. “Gotta take it.”

He sighs. “You’ll be home later?”

“I’ll try.” I punch the button for my second line. “You pick up McCullough?” I begin.

“I would have. If I could find him.”

The news drags my attention away from Tomasetti and back to the case. “Where are you?”

“His place. He’s not here. Front door was standing wide open. I figured that warranted a welfare check, so I took a look inside. Nothing out of place, but there’s no sign of him.”

“Shit, Glock, that’s not good.” I think about that a moment. “Car there?”

“Yeah.”

“He could be with a friend.” But neither of us is assuaged. “Look, I’m going to go talk to Blue Branson, and then I’ll head your way.”

“You want me to go with you? Meet you there?”

“I want you to find McCullough. Check with his friends and family and neighbors. See if anyone knows where he is or if they’ve seen him. For all we know, he’s down at the VFW playing bingo.”

“I’m on it.”

But we both know that’s a best-case scenario. With two of his friends dead and ties to a deadly cold case creeping steadily into the picture, I’m not sure we’ll find Jerrold McCullough alive.

CHAPTER 17

Blue Branson lives in a modest single-story bungalow with dormer windows, a homey little porch, and crisp white trim. A six-foot privacy fence separates his property from Brewer’s Salvage Yard, which is situated on the lot next door. I turn into the driveway, plow through slightly mushy gravel, and park a few yards from the front door.

I get out and pass by his Mustang as I make my way to the house. Within the glow of the porch light, drizzle floats down. Opening the storm door, I knock.

A moment later, Blue appears; he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”

“I guess you knew I’d be back,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond, and I remind myself he’s no greenhorn when it comes to dealing with the police. Most people talk too much when they get nervous, usually to their detriment. Not Blue. He looks at me coolly, eye contact steady, as if trying to decide if he should invite me inside or send me packing.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“You heard about Julia Rutledge?”

He sighs, looks away for a moment. “I heard.”

“Jerrold McCullough is missing.”

His gaze jerks to mine. I see both shock and concern on his face. He steps back and opens the door wider. “Come in.”