Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Skid is standing outside his cubicle checking out her legs. Despite my mood, I smile as I pluck messages from my slot.

“Chief!” Lois gets to her feet. The headset she’s wearing is askew. Her hair is sticking out on one side as if she’s run her hands through it and never bothered to smooth it back down. She’s holding a fistful of pink message slips.

“Thanks.” I take the slips from her.

“Oh, almost forgot.” She shoves two purple folders at me. “Mona left these for you.”

Taking the folders, I motion toward the reporters. “How long have they been here?”

“Forty-five minutes or so.”

Behind me, I hear the shuffle of shoes, the clanging of equipment. I turn to see four reporters and two cameramen standing inside the door. Two are on the phone. The other three shove microphones at me, shouting out questions.

“Chief Burkholder, can you tell us what happened in that farmhouse?”

“Is it true that you and King were once lovers?”

“Were you romantically involved with Joseph King?”

“Did he sexually assault you while you were being held hostage?”

“Was it consensual?”

Dear God.

I bring my hands together sharply several times. The room goes silent. Even the phone quiets. “The good news is,” I tell them, “I’ll be sending out a press release. The bad news is you have five minutes to leave the premises.”

A hipster guy in skinny jeans and a neat little goatee shakes the press ID hanging around his neck. “Um, hello? We have a right to be here, Chief Burkholder.”

“This is a non-public-forum public property.” I send a pointed look at the clock on the wall, aware that there’s at least one camera rolling, so I keep my tone cool and professional. “You now have four minutes to vacate the premises or I will begin writing trespassing citations. Do you understand?”

“That’s a violation of our First Amendment rights,” hipster dude tells me.

“You are free to pursue that avenue if you wish.” I motion toward the wall clock. “Less than four minutes now.”

I hear the rattle of paper and glance over to see Lois brandishing the old citation book. It’s old as the hills; we haven’t used it for years. But it’s an effective prop.

I open the book and snag a pen off Lois’s desk. “You can call me anytime to set up an appointment.”

“That’s a crock of shit,” a heavyset cameraman in a Hawaiian shirt mutters.

“You’ll be hearing from legal by the end of the day,” a serious-looking young man calls out.

“Our main number will be included in the press release,” I tell him. “You now have three minutes to vacate the premises. Let’s pick up the pace, people.”

The woman in the pink skirt is already on her phone, her eyes shooting daggers in my direction. I hear her hiss the word “bitch” but I let it go.

Skid moves toward them, his arms spread as if he’s herding sheep. “Watch your step,” he says to no one in particular.

When the last journalist goes through the door, Lois chuckles. “Well played, Chief.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you do that?”

“I hope so,” I tell her.

Now that it’s quiet, I realize she’s looking at me as if seeing me in a whole new light. “I take it you’ve seen the photo.”

“I’m sorry, Chief, but I think everyone has. Made the front page of The Weekly Advocate, and folks have been calling all morning.”

Skid comes back inside. He’s trying not to stare at me, but he’s not doing a very good job.

I motion him over. “You saw it, too?”

He nods. “It’s all over the Internet. I guess people are into the whole Amish-police-misconduct thing.”

“Just so you know, there was no misconduct,” I tell them.

“Never doubted it,” Lois says.

Skid grins. “Next time I catch Steve Ressler speeding?” Ressler being the publisher of The Weekly Advocate. “I’m going to ticket the fucker.”

*

I spend twenty minutes fielding calls, most from curious citizens, wanting to know about the photo. Some call to complain. A few call fishing for juicy details that don’t exist. I return every message, assure all of them it’s a nonissue, that there was no misconduct, but if they wish to lodge a complaint they’re free to contact the mayor or town council. Judging from the tone of a few of the local merchants, I suspect they’ll take me up on the offer.

As I wrap up the final call, I find myself eyeing the folders Mona left for me. Since the start, I’ve assured myself I wasn’t going to get involved in a cold case that’s already been investigated, gone to trial, and closed. A case in which the perpetrator was convicted and is now dead.

I open the top folder anyway.

This one contains all the information she could dig up on Joseph King before the murder of his wife. As usual, Mona’s work is thorough, but the file is sparse in terms of documentation. I’d been hoping for a comprehensive criminal case history, arrest or Spillman reports, offense reports, citations, complainant and witness statements. Instead I have a summary report containing a list of charges along with dates and locations, a single summons to appear, four incident reports, a copy of a citation, and a mug shot. Considering King’s lengthy list of infractions, it’s far from complete.

I put the incident reports in date order and hunker down to read. His troubles began nearly four years ago when he received a DUI. According to the deputy’s report, a vehicle clipped the rear quarter panel of his buggy while passing. Evidently, King veered left of center and made contact with the other vehicle. The driver overcorrected, lost control, and hit a tree. He was transported to the hospital via ambulance with minor injuries. The deputy who made the stop smelled alcohol on King. When he searched the buggy, he found an open container of alcohol. The deputy administered a sobriety test, which King failed. He was arrested on a DUI charge. A Breathalyzer test indicated that his BAC (blood alcohol level) was .108 percent, well over the legal limit. King paid a $250 fine and spent six days in jail.

Six months later, a Geauga County sheriff’s deputy stopped him for operating a buggy after dark without lights. According to the report, King was trying to conserve his battery. Again, the deputy smelled liquor on his breath and arrested him on the spot. King’s BAC was .110 percent. King was convicted, spent twenty-two days in jail, and paid a $500 fine.