Giving her half of my attention, I pluck a dozen or more message slips from my slot on Mona’s desk. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Bridge Howard with Channel Sixteen out of Columbus?” She ends the statement on an up note, as if she’s asking a question.
She’s about six feet tall with the requisite blue eyes and blond hair and enough lip gloss to wax an SUV. Her cameraman passes her a mike, which she promptly shoves in my face. “Chief Burkholder, what can you tell us about the bones found here in Painters Mill? Have you identified them yet?”
I glance past her to see that the cameraman is already filming, and I tamp down a flare of annoyance. But while I’m no fan of the media, I’ve been around long enough to know I might need them at some point and a contentious relationship is about as helpful as a migraine.
“We have not identified the remains,” I say simply. “We’re looking at all missing persons cases now. DNA testing will be done, but as you know, that could take a while.”
“How long have the bones been there?”
“We don’t know.”
“Have you been approached by any family members looking for loved ones?”
“No,” I tell her, but I know the calls will come. People never give up hope when a loved one goes missing. “I’ll be sending out a press release later this afternoon. If you leave your contact information, I’ll make sure you get a copy. Excuse me.”
I start toward my office, when I hear the front door slam open with a little too much force. I turn to see a thirty-something man walk in, not bothering to close the door behind him. I take his measure, not liking what I see. Six feet tall. About 160. Dark, receding hair. Brown eyes. He’s wearing grungy blue jeans and a worn golf shirt, untucked. The tattoo of a horned devil peeks out from beneath the left sleeve. I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a firearm or knife tucked into his waistband or boot.
I’m in uniform, my firearm strapped to my hip. I make eye contact with him and approach. “Can I help you?”
“You Burkholder?”
“I’m Chief Burkholder.”
He’s got a mean look in his eyes. The kind a man gets when he’s spoiling for a fight. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can keep your goddamn motherfucking wallet handy is what you can do because I’m going to sue your fucking ass off. How’s that for starters?”
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to watch your language.” I glance to my left toward T.J. who’s started toward us. “Do you understand me?”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“You want to know who I am?” He huffs a belligerent laugh. “I’m the man whose baby you killed. The man whose wife you put in jail when she complained. That’s who the fuck I am.”
He moves closer to me so he’s standing about three feet away. Too close; if he decided to make a move I wouldn’t have time to defend myself, so I step back, keep my right hand loose over my sidearm. He smells like dirty hair and fast food. When he speaks I see stained yellow teeth and a canine tooth that’s black with rot, and I think: meth mouth.
“What’s your name?” I repeat.
“My name’s Nick Kester, but you can call me ‘sir.’” Spittle flies from between his lips with the last word. “That’s who you’re going to be making the fucking check out to.”
“If you want to talk, I’ll talk to you, but you need to calm down. You need to watch your language. I’m not going to ask you again. Do you understand?”
“Do I understand?” He looks around at all the people staring at us and laughs. “Hell, yeah, people! I understand! I got it! Your chief here? She killed my baby.” He jabs two fingers at me, not touching, but close. “A little fuckin’ girl, four months old. The only good thing I ever done in my whole life.” He turns his attention back to me, and I swear I see raw hatred in his eyes. “And you took her away.”
I stare at him, my vision narrowing into tunnel vision. Around me, the station has gone silent. Everyone is staring at us.
“If you’re not going to calm down, you need to leave,” I hear myself say.
“Don’t tell me to calm the fuck down.”
T.J. steps forward. “Mr. Kester, you need to leave. Now. Or I’m going to handcuff you and put you in a cell.”
Kester turns his attention to T.J. and lets out a laugh. “All right. I get it. I’ll leave.” To the journalist standing next to me: “You want to ask her a hard question, blondie? Impress the hell out of your boss? Ask her what she did to Lucy Kester.” His eyes slide back to me. His lips part, giving me a peek at teeth that look sharp enough to tear skin. “You’d better get used to calling me ‘sir,’ because once my lawyer gets finished with you and this Podunk town, you’re going to be waiting tables—if anyone will hire you. Fuckin’ baby killer.”