Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

As I pass by one of the windows, my eyes are drawn to the dozens of initials carved into the ancient oak beams and planks. Most of them have been painted over multiple times. A few of the initials are familiar to me. My own, along with those of my one-time best friend, Mattie, are there somewhere, though for the life of me I can’t remember where.

I’m standing at the window with my elbows on the sill when the sound of an approaching vehicle draws me from my reverie. Straightening, I glance over to see the mayor’s Cadillac coupe pull up behind my Explorer. The driver’s-side door opens and the mayor struggles out and slams it behind him.

Leaving thoughts of the past behind, I start toward him. “Morning, Auggie.”

“Hey, Chief.” Mayor Auggie Brock is a corpulent man with hound-dog jowls and eyebrows invariably neglected by his barber. He’s wearing a JCPenney suit with a lavender shirt that’s already wrinkled and a tie I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

“Sorry I’m late.” Holding a tall coffee cup from LaDonna’s Diner, he enters the bridge. “Got caught up in a council meeting already. Would have ended an hour ago if Janine Fourman hadn’t gone on about this graffiti problem. The woman can talk a blue streak.”

Thinking of Councilwoman Turner, I frown. She and I have gone a few rounds over the years and not a single one of them was pleasant. “You have my sympathy.”

He stops next to me. I can smell the coffee in his cup and the Polo aftershave he slapped on after his morning shower. He’s a scant inch shorter than me and looks as harried as a fox surrounded by hounds.

“The director of the historical society was there, too, Kate. Needless to say, she was not a happy camper.” Looking past me, he gestures so abruptly some of the coffee squirts from the opening of his cup. “Did you see all of it?”

“Kind of hard to miss.”

He slants me a look as if trying to decide if I’m messing with him. Which I am. Usually, even when we’re dealing with some unpleasant topic or problem, I can drag a smile out of him. This morning he doesn’t bite.

“For God’s sake, swastikas?” he says. “Who the hell does stuff like that?”

“Young people with too much time on their hands.” I shrug. “Too little responsibility or guidance or both.”

“Don’t kids have jobs anymore?” He strides to the window and gestures at a particularly vulgar carving. “Kate, we just spent eight thousand dollars painting this bridge for the second time in three years. We don’t have the budget to do it again. The folks over at the historical society are shitting bricks.”

“I understand,” I say diplomatically.

“We’ve got to put a stop to the graffiti. I mean, for chrissake, the elementary schools bring little kids here for field trips. Can you imagine a kindergartner seeing some of those four-letter words? I didn’t know what that word meant until I was in the army. Good God, some six-year-old starts talking like that and we’ll probably get sued and then where will we be?”

“Auggie, we might be able to get some volunteers out here to paint over the damage,” I offer. “I know some of my guys would show. We can get this covered up.”

“It’s those little shits out at the Maple Crest subdivision,” he grumbles. “Those high school kids have no respect. I think we need to make some kind of stand here, Kate. Some kind of concerted effort to catch them.”

“I could sic Pickles on them,” I say. My most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, has a reputation for taking a hard line with anyone under thirty. It was a running joke up until a year ago when he handcuffed a twelve-year-old boy for tossing a pop bottle out the window of a moving vehicle. The boy just happened to be the grandson of Councilwoman Fourman, who failed to see the humor.

“You can’t be—” Realizing I’m kidding, he bites off the words and gives up a chuckle. “I’m glad one of us has a sense of humor about this.”

“I can step up patrols. Work with County, persuade Sheriff Rasmussen to do the same.”

“That’s a start, Kate. I want those little bastards caught. I want them arrested. Forty hours of community service ought to show them the error of their ways. Let’s see how they like spending their Saturdays out here painting over swastikas.”

I consider pointing out the fact that the last time I caught someone out here defacing the covered bridge—a senior at Painters Mill High and a football player to boot—the boy’s parents lodged a complaint and eventually the charges were dropped. But I don’t mention it. It’s part of being a small-town cop. It’s my job to arrest people for breaking the law. The rest is up to the courts. I’d just as soon stay out of any back scratching that happens along the way.

Making a sound of irritation, Auggie crosses to one of the ancient oak beams and slaps his hand against the wood. “Could you imagine driving all the way from Columbus for some wholesome sightseeing and instead getting that?”

“There are quite a few teenagers out here just about every weekend,” I tell him. “I’ll park an officer down the road at that little turnaround. If we can catch them in the act and make an example of them, it’ll stop.”

Even as I say the words, we both know it will be me who parks down the road and stays up all night. My small police department consists of only four full-time officers, including me. Pickles is getting on in years and went part-time last summer. That’s not to mention my budget, which leaves me no funds for overtime. And even if we’re lucky enough to catch some numbskull artiste in the act, chances are—if he or she is a juvenile—Judge Siebenthaler will cave when the parents complain.

I make eye contact with Auggie. “I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence as chief if I didn’t remind you that a budget for OT would be helpful.”

He makes a face I can’t quite decipher. “I know you’re operating with a skeleton crew, Kate. You know I’m in your corner. I’ve been trying for years to get the council to increase your budget. Rest assured, I’ve got the bean counters working on it.”

That’s one of the things I like about Auggie Brock. While he is a political animal, I know he cares.

“In the interim,” he says, “let’s get some volunteers out here.”

I nod. “I bet Jim over at the hardware store will donate the paint.”

“Good thinking,” Auggie says. “Jim and I are in Rotary together, so let me get with him on that.”

My phone chooses that moment to erupt. I check the display. Curiosity sparks when ODRC pops up on the screen. The Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections.

“I gotta take this,” I tell Auggie.

He looks at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting, anyway.”

“Don’t forget to talk to Jim.” Giving him a wave, I turn away and answer with, “Burkholder.”

“This is Jerry Murphy, Chief Burkholder. I’m the deputy warden out at Mansfield.”

The Mansfield Correctional Institution is a maximum-security state prison about a hundred miles north of Painters Mill.

“What can I do for you?” I ask.