Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Why didn’t you retire with a clear conscience?” I ask.

He looks down at the can in his hand. When he raises his eyes to mine, his kind grandfather demeanor has darkened. “I don’t think he did it.”

After everything I’ve heard about Joseph King—from the cops as well as the people who’d known him—I almost can’t believe my ears. “You don’t believe he murdered his wife?”

He looks at me, saying nothing.

“But it was your investigation,” I say.

“Was it?”

I feel myself blink. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying shit runs downhill and unless you’ve got some kind of fecal fetish you’d better get out of the fuckin’ way.”

“Mr. Tucker, are you telling me someone somehow influenced your investigation? Did someone try to intimidate you in some way?” I press. “Someone in the sheriff’s department?”

He hefts a bitter laugh. “Look, I’ve got two daughters left. Six grandkids. I’m retired now. I’m old and tired. I drink too much beer. Talk to myself.” He looks down at the can in his hand as if he’s lost his taste for it. He upends it and swigs again anyway.

“Look, Chief, I suspect you’re a good cop since you’ve driven all the way up here to ask me about Joseph King. But listen, it ain’t your deal and it ain’t your fuckin’ case. If you’re smart, you’ll let this go. Joseph King is dead. His wife is dead. Nobody gives a shit about either of them now.”

“I do,” I say fractiously.

“Excuse me if I don’t get out my violin.”

“Mr. Tucker, I know Joseph King wasn’t perfect, but he deserved to live his life.”

He sighs tiredly. “Do yourself a favor and walk away while you still can.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “What do you mean, while I still can?”

He dumps the rest of the beer onto the ground and crushes the can. Bending, he tucks it into the cooler; then he picks the cooler up and grabs his pole. “It was nice talking to you.” He starts toward the house.

“But … wait.” I fall into step beside him, having to walk at a fast clip to keep up. “If Joseph King didn’t murder his wife—”

“No one said that—”

“Who did?”

“I wouldn’t fuckin’ know.”

“But you said—”

“What I said was this and it’s the only thing you need to hear: If you’re smart you’ll leave this alone. Go back to your loose cows and jaywalkers and Saturday-night drunks and have yourself a nice, long, peaceful life.”

“Mr. Tucker, you can’t drop a bomb like that and then walk away.”

“Really?” Stopping, he swings around to face me, giving me a red-eyed glare. “Try this on for size then: Take your badge and your attitude and get the fuck off my property. Don’t come back. Is that clear enough for you?”

*

It takes me forty-five minutes to make the drive to Chardon. All the while, my conversation with Sidney Tucker churns in my brain like shards of glass, cutting and grinding.

I don’t think he did it.

I can still feel the low-grade thrill the words induced. He’s the first cop I’ve talked to who believes Joseph King didn’t murder his wife. But how could he make a statement like that when he was the lead detective? And why wouldn’t he talk to me about it? It doesn’t make sense.

Walk away while you still can.

What the hell did that mean? Were the words some kind of threat? From who? And why?

The Geauga County Safety Center is located on Merritt Road south of Chardon. The low-slung white building is a large complex that houses the sheriff’s department, the county jail, dispatch, and Records. The coroner’s office is located within the complex as well. One-stop shopping for a small-town cop who’s light-years out of her jurisdiction.

“Not to mention her mind,” I mutter as I park in the lot and leave the Explorer.

I use the crosswalk and pass the flagpoles where the wind whips the flags into a frenzy, the halyards clanging against the mast. I go through a set of glass doors to a sleek reception area and approach the information window.

A young woman in a Geauga County Sheriff’s Department uniform snaps open the sliding glass. “Help you?”

Since I’m on restricted duty, I’m wearing civilian clothes. Hoping my being a cop will garner a bit more in terms of cooperation, I set my badge on the counter and identify myself. “I’d requested some records a few days back. I was in the area for a funeral so I thought I’d stop in and pick them up in person, save you guys the trouble.”

She looks at my badge. “Painters Mill. You talking about the Joe King stuff?”

“Yes.”

She glances at the clock on the wall. “Let me call Records.” She motions to a sofa set against the wall, just below a framed color photo of Sheriff Jeff Crowder. “Have a seat.”

Fifteen minutes later, I hear the lock on the door click. I look up from my phone to see a young African American man wearing creased khakis, a crisp white shirt, and a coordinating tie standing in the doorway, his eyes on me. “Chief Burkholder?”

I rise and cross to him, stick out my hand. “Kate.”

He grins. “Dylan.”

He’s attractive, with a quick smile and intelligent eyes tinged with good humor. Too young to be a cop. College student, maybe. The wire-rimmed glasses give him a studious appearance.

“I’m closing a case down in Painters Mill,” I say easily, “and wondering if I can pick up some records.”

“Usually we need some time to pull files, but since you’re law enforcement and you’re here…” He ushers me into a hallway. “You need copies? Or just a look-see?”

“Both if possible.”

“I’m not that busy this afternoon, so I’ll see what I can do.”

He takes me down a series of well-lit halls, past a couple of glassed-in offices. Two uniformed deputies approach, giving us cop’s nods as they pass. Though the Safety Center is a good-size building, home to multiple county agencies, I find myself hoping I don’t cross paths with Jeff Crowder.

“You civil or law enforcement?” I ask as he punches a code into a door and ushers me through.

He grins, pleased by the question. “Civil. For now,” he adds quickly. “I’m hoping to get into law enforcement one of these days. Preferably federal. You know, Homeland or the bureau. I’m a full-time student over at Kent State. I work here part-time two afternoons a week.”

“Good place to get some experience under your belt.” I’m trying to charm him in case I need help with something; so far I think it’s working.

“Hope so.”

“When do you graduate?”

“Spring.”

I dig into my pocket, hand him my card. It earns me another grin.

We go through another door and enter a large, slightly shabby office with four open cubicles loaded up with desktop computers and landline phones. An old-fashioned microfiche squats atop a steel desk in the corner. Two glassed-in interview rooms along the wall look out over the parking lot. The opposite wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling file cabinets.

“Which case you looking for?” Dylan asks as he takes me to his cubicle.