“You think he did this?” he asks.

“I honestly don’t know. But I want you to pick him up. Sweat him a little. See what oozes out.”

He nods. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to pick up Norm Johnston.”

I leave Skid standing on the muddy bank with his mouth open.

*   *   *

I sit in the Explorer for several minutes, shaking with cold, heat blasting, trying to decide how to handle Johnston. The optimism I felt earlier has been depleted by the things I’ve seen and the knowledge that this killer isn’t going to stop—until someone stops him. If my theory is correct, and these murders are related to the Hochstetler case, Blue Branson and Norm Johnston—perhaps even Hoch Yoder and his wife—are in danger.

Or else one of them is a murderer.

It takes me ten minutes to reach the Painters Mill City Building, a two-story redbrick structure built at the turn of the century. I take the elevator to the second floor, where the town council meeting room and offices are located. I find Norm at his desk, a mug of coffee and a bagel piled high with cream cheese sitting on the leather blotter in front of him.

He looks up when I enter his office. He doesn’t look like he got much sleep last night. And he doesn’t look happy to see me. “What do you want?” he asks.

When I was in the police academy, one of the first concepts I learned was “the force continuum.” The term basically outlines the ten levels of force a police officer uses to gain and maintain control of a person or situation. It begins with a uniformed presence and verbal commands and goes all the way to the use of deadly force. No cop wants to become involved in a scuffle or fight, or God forbid, a shooting, whether justified or not. But while a good cop will do everything in his power to avoid escalation, he can never let himself be intimidated by it.

I don’t bother with a greeting. “I need for you to come to the police station with me.”

“What?” A humorless laugh erupts from his throat. But I don’t miss the way his eyes flash to the hallway behind me, telling me he’s more worried about someone overhearing than he is at the prospect of a trip to the station. “What’s this about?”

“Jerrold McCullough is dead.” I say the words brutally.

“Oh my God.” The color drains from his face. “How?”

“He was murdered,” I tell him. “I need you to come with me to the station.”

“But … why? I had nothing to do with it. For God’s sake, I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“You can either come with me voluntarily or I’ll cuff you and you can ride in the cage. It’s your choice.” I glance over my shoulder at the mail person pushing a cart down the hall. “The latter is guaranteed to get the tongues wagging. I don’t think you want to make a scene.”

Snarling something beneath his breath, he grabs the bagel and hurls it into the trash. “When my lawyer gets finished with you, you won’t even be able to get a security job.”

I motion toward the door. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 22

An hour later, I’m sitting in the interview room across the table from Norm Johnston and his lawyer, a young hotshot by the name of Colin Thornsberry. I’ve met him several times over the years, and each time I like him a little less. He’s an attractive man just shy of thirty, with a weakness for expensive clothes, a cocky attitude, and the manners of a chimpanzee.

I brought several files with me, including the Hochstetler case file, though I don’t need any of them. They’re nice and thick and official-looking. I set them down on the table with a thud.

I turn on the digital recorder, recite the date, and identify all present. I then glance down at the card in my hand and recite the Miranda rights to Norm.

“Do you understand those rights, Mr. Johnston?” I ask as I pass the card to him.

“I don’t need those rights read to me,” Johnston says. “I’m not some criminal off the street. I’m a town councilman. A respected member of this community.”

“We got it,” Thornsberry snaps at me, overruling him.

“I know what you are,” I tell Johnston.

I see both men looking at the file tab, reading the name scrawled in black marker, and for the first time Thornsberry doesn’t look quite so cocky. Taking my time, I open the Rutledge homicide file, giving both men a flash glance at one of the crime scene photos. I pull out the manila folder that I’d tucked inside and set it in front of me without opening it.

“Look, Chief Burkholder, I don’t know what you think you know about my client,” Thornsberry says, “but I’m familiar with your tactics. I’m aware of how you operate, and I won’t tolerate my client being railroaded by your overzealous policing.”

I look at Thornsberry. “Are you finished?”

His mouth tightens. “I think you should get to the point so Mr. Johnston can get back to his duties as councilman.”

I open the folder and remove copies of the notes Johnston gave me and pass them to him. “Do you recognize these notes?” I ask.

The town councilman jerks his head. “Yes. Of course. I gave them to you. Someone’s been stalking me.”

I pull out a copy of the notes I found at Julia Rutledge’s gallery and hand them to Norm. “A few hours after Julia Rutledge was found stabbed to death in her home, a search of her gallery turned up these.”

Thornsberry gestures toward the notes. “The only thing these notes prove is that your department should have provided police protection for my client when he requested it, instead of dragging him in here to the police department for questioning.”

I don’t look away from Johnston. His forehead is shiny with sweat. He can’t seem to stop staring at the notes that had been sent to Julia Rutledge, as if he’s reading them over and over.

“Norm, do you have any idea who sent those notes to you?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” He shakes his head. “It’s got to be related to council business. Someone who disagrees with me on some issue. As chief, I’m sure you know it happens.”

“Do you have any idea why Julia Rutledge was receiving similar notes?”

“Of course not.”

I look down at the copies of the notes in front of me, and I reach each aloud. “‘Dale sends his regards from hell.’ ‘I know you were there.’ ‘You could have stopped them.’ ‘Murderer.’” I turn my attention to Johnston. “‘You knew.’ ‘You looked the other way.’ ‘You’re next.’ Any idea what they mean?” I ask.

I hear the sticky sound of a dry mouth when he licks his lips. “I don’t know.”

“I think these notes tell a story,” I say. “They certainly raise some questions.”

Thornsberry all but rolls his eyes. “Chief Burkholder, you have no proof that these notes are anything but threats sent by a seriously delusional and dangerous individual.”

I ignore him, zero in on Johnston. “I can’t get into specifics because there are certain details about the case that we’re not releasing to the public. But I have evidence that may link the murders of Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, and Jerrold McCullough to the Hochstetler case.” I hold up my copy of the notes and shake it at him. “These notes connect those cases to you.”

“That’s crazy. I had nothing to do with any of those crimes.” Johnston chokes out the words, jerks his attention to his attorney, prompting him to jump to his aid. “Can you stop this?”

I speak before Thornsberry can reply. “You want to know what’s crazy, Norm? I believe you. But I think you know something that, for whatever reason, you feel you can’t tell me.”

Johnston’s eyes slide from Thornsberry to me. “Something about what?”

“Maybe you know something about the Hochstetler case.” I’m casting a long line into deep water, and Thornsberry knows it. But I can tell by Johnston’s response, he hasn’t yet realized it.

“That’s outrageous,” he says. “That happened ages ago. I was a kid, for God’s sake!”