I forward the PDF to Jodie with instructions to run all the names through LEADS to see if any of the callers or recipients have a criminal record or warrants.
On the third page, incoming and outgoing texts are listed in order by date. The BCI technician transferred the actual text into a separate cell, so I’m able to read them. Again, there are several to his daughter. Dinner @ 7:00 PM Sun. Damn good game! Thanks for all the help. Will call U when I get home. Meet for lunch noonish? At the bottom of the page, the final text Dale Michaels sent snags my attention. Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome. I look at the date column and see that it was sent on March 8 at 12:45 A.M. to Blue Branson.
Who did Dale Michaels meet with that night and why? What does Blue Branson know about it? And why, if he’d received news of Dale’s murder, didn’t he come forward?
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter.
Grabbing my keys off the desk, I start toward the door.
*
The Crossroads Church is located on an acre or so of what had once been farmland, four miles outside of Painters Mill. Bounded on three sides by plowed fields, the clapboard structure reminds me of the Amish school where I received my early education. I’ve heard that Blue Branson built the place with his own hands and paid for the materials out of his own pocket. Rumor has it, he worked like a man possessed—going without sleep for days at a time—until the church was complete. Word around town is he’s a good public speaker and gives a rousing sermon twice on Sunday and once every Wednesday evening.
I’ve met Blue a handful of times over the years, mostly at LaDonna’s Diner, where I stop in for coffee some mornings or dinner if I’m working nights. Usually we exchange a nod or smile, or maybe we comment on the weather as we pass. Until now, that’s been the extent of my contact with the self-made preacher. I have a feeling I’m about to get to know him a lot better.
I park in a gravel lot that’s demarked with railroad ties. There are two other vehicles in the lot: a pickup truck that looks as if it won’t be running much longer and a vintage Mustang, which I recognize as Blue’s. I get out and start toward the front door. A huge cross constructed of railroad ties stands sentinel in the front yard. In the flower bed at the base, I see the pointy green tips of irises peeking out through a layer of mulch.
Double wooden doors open to a large room with a cathedral ceiling and exposed beams that have been painted white. Mullioned windows usher in a meager amount of natural light. Pews line either side of a wide aisle. Ahead is a raised stage with a podium at its center bearing an inscription: WE DON’T CARE WHERE YOU’VE BEEN; WE JUST CARE ABOUT WHERE YOU’RE GOING. There’s no mike, but then I’ve heard Blue doesn’t need one. To the right of the stage, a door stands open. I hear voices from inside and head that way.
I find Blue and another man seated at a rectangular table. Blue’s looking down at some type of register that’s open in front of him. Dozens of corrugated boxes line the wall to my left, and I see that each is packed with foodstuffs: canned goods, cereal, sugar, flour, packaged pasta, Sam’s Club–size jars of peanut butter and coffee.
I tap on the jamb. “Looks like you two are conspiring to feed everyone in the county.”
The men look up. I see surprise on their faces when they notice my uniform.
“A lot of hungry families out there, Chief Burkholder.” Taking his time, Blue hefts his substantial frame from the chair. He’s got a commanding presence and seems to fill up all the space in a room. He stands somewhere around six-four and probably weighs in at about 250. His thick gray hair is combed straight back from an interesting face with a broad forehead and high cheekbones. Deep grooves on either side of his mouth add yet another layer of character to an already compelling persona. His goatee is black and trimmed with razor precision. He’s wearing his trademark clothes: Black sport jacket. Crisp white shirt that’s open at the collar to reveal a large silver cross on a chain. Dark slacks and oxfords polished to a high sheen.
“It’s our aim to feed them until they can feed themselves.” He extends his hand to me and we shake. “Welcome to Crossroads.”
His grip is firm, but not excessively so, and his eyes are level on mine. “I hear you do good work here at the church,” I tell him.
“We do our best.”
I nod at the man sitting at the table and then address Blue. “Can I speak with you in private?”
“There are a dozen or so pews out there could use some more breaking in.” He looks at the man he’s with. “Box up the rest of the canned goods, and I’ll help you load them.”
Blue ushers me through the door, and we walk into the main room of the church, our shoes echoing against the high ceilings and unadorned walls.