He was keenly aware of her hand in his. The marijuana buzz mellow in his head. His erection pressing against his fly. Squeezing her hand, he shoved open the door.
Jess’s scream rattled his brain. She scrambled back. “Ohmigod!” Her beer clattered to the floor, spewing foam. Turning, she clawed past him like a cat fighting its way out of a bag.
Ronnie looked in. Something vaguely human hung suspended from the ceiling. He saw greenish-brown skin. A horribly bloated abdomen. Blonde hair hanging down. An ocean of black blood. In the back of his mind he remembered his dad talking about a murder. Ronnie hadn’t paid attention. Now, he wished he had.
“Oh God!” Jess gripped his arm, her fingers digging into his skin right through his coat. “Let’s get out of here!”
Ronnie stumbled back. The beer he’d drunk rushed into his mouth and he vomited. Wiping his mouth, he tugged his cell phone from its case.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Jess whimpered.
“Calling the cops,” he said. “Something really bad happened here.”
The Painters Mill City Building is located on South Street just off the traffic circle. The two-story brick structure was built in 1901 and has been renovated a dozen times since. It housed the post office back in the 1950s. The elementary school in the 1960s. The town council moved in after the fire in 1985. You can get city permits here, attend council meetings and pay for traffic tickets. One-stop shopping.
I’m hopelessly disheveled from my tussle with Scott Brower, and ten minutes late because of the paperwork involved with his arrest. I brush at the bloodstains on my uniform as I go through the double doors. The bridge of my nose aches as I take the elevator to the second level and make my way to the town council meeting room. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.
Seven people sit at a cherry wood conference table. All eyes sweep to me when I enter. The elder councilman, Norm Johnston, sits at the head of the table like a king feeding biscuits to his group of lapdogs. Beside him, Mayor Auggie Brock loads cream cheese onto a bagel. The other faces are familiar, too. Dick Blankenship farms soybeans and corn. Bruce Jackson owns a tree nursery on the edge of town. Ron Zelinski is a retired factory worker. Neil Stubblefield teaches high school algebra and coaches the football team. Janine Fourman is the only woman, but from my perspective she’s more dangerous to me than all the men combined. The owner of several tourist shops, she’s persuasive, pushy, and has a mouth as big as her hair. In Janine’s world, it’s all about Janine and everyone else be damned.
Sighing, I glance out the frosted window where the bare branches of the sycamore tree shiver in the cold. I find myself wishing I were outside where it’s warmer.
“Chief Burkholder.” Norm Johnston stands.
Everyone in the room is staring at me. Probably more interested in how I got a black eye and bloodstains on my coat than the business at hand.
Auggie Brock pulls out the only empty chair. “Are you all right, Kate?”
“I’m fine.” My eyes find Norm. “I don’t have much time so you might want to get things rolling.”
The senior councilman looks around as if to say, See? I told you she’s not very cooperative. “First of all, we’d like a report on how the murder investigation is progressing.”
I hold his gaze. “All departmental resources are focused on this case. My officers are on mandatory overtime. We’re working around the clock. We’re also utilizing the BCI lab and several law enforcement databases.”
Janine interjects. “Do you have a suspect?”
“No.” I give her my full attention. “We’re only thirty-two hours into the case.”
“I heard you arrested Scott Brower,” Norm says.
Once again I’m amazed at the speed of the grapevine in this town. “He’s a person of interest.”
Norm Johnson rolls his eyes. “Does that mean he’s a suspect?”
With as little fanfare as possible, I relay the details of Brower’s arrest.
Janine Fourman stands. “Chief Burkholder. This town can’t afford to lose its tourists. If people don’t shop here, they’ll go to Lancaster County. Do you realize how long and hard we’ve worked to get Painters Mill on the tourism map?” She looks around for the support of her counterparts, all of whom are nodding like mindless bobbleheads. “Protecting the citizens of Painters Mill also extends to providing them with a stable economy.”
Norm Johnston raises both hands, a symphony conductor quieting his orchestra. “Kate, we know your resources are limited due to budget and manpower constraints. Frankly, we’re not convinced you have the . . . experience to deal with such a difficult case.”
The words vibrate inside me like a tuning fork against a broken bone. I’d known this moment was coming. Still, the punch of shock is powerful enough to tie my stomach into knots.