Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [4]
“Is she dead?” she asked.
I nodded. I deliberately didn’t tell her about the gown. I didn’t want to dash all hope at once. She needed some time for adjustment. I expected tears, screaming, or wailing. Instead, Suzanne Barstogi heard the words in stunned silence. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.
“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “It’s because I called you. Pastor Michael is right. I’m being punished for my lack of faith.”
We were at a stoplight. Peters turned and looked at her. “She was dead long before you called us,” he said bluntly. “Your lack of faith had nothing to do with it.” The light changed, and we went on.
Suzanne gave no indication that she had heard what Peters said. “I disobeyed, too,” she continued. “I snuck upstairs to use the phone so no one would know.” She lapsed into silence. We left her to her own thoughts. It seemed the decent thing to do.
By the time we led her up to the slab in the morgue, Suzanne Barstogi was a study in absolute composure. When the attendant pulled back the sheet, she nodded. “I killed her, didn’t I?” she said softly to no one in particular. She turned to me. “I’m ready to go home now.”
Chapter 2
When we brought Suzanne back to Gay Avenue, the place was crawling with people. It seemed to me there were even more Faith Tabernacle people than earlier in the day. Evidence technicians had gone over the house thoroughly, searching for trace evidence, dusting for fingerprints, looking for signs of forced entry or struggle. Everything pointed to the conclusion that Angel Barstogi had left the house willingly, wandering off maybe with someone she knew.
So who did she know? I looked around the room. All these folks, certainly, including Pastor Michael Brodie himself, who was holding court in the living room. He was very angry. His parishioners were walking on eggs for fear of annoying him further, abjectly catering to his every need.
Sergeant Watkins brought us up to speed on the situation. Police procedures notwithstanding, Brodie was accustomed to being in charge. He didn’t want anyone talking to his people outside his presence. It was only after Watkins threatened to jail him for obstruction of justice that he finally knuckled under. He sat by the door, still silently intimidating those who filed past him. One by one our detectives took people to separate rooms to record their statements. They were not eager to talk. It was like pulling teeth. We could have used some laughing gas.
Peters and I took our turn in the barrel. The other officers had pretty well finished up with the adults and were going to work on the grungy kids. I took one of the boys, the one who had pressed his nose against the car as Peters and I drove up the first time. We had to walk past Pastor Michael. He shot a withering glance at the kid. The boy seemed to cower under its intensity.
“What’s your name?” I asked as we went up the stairs.
“Jeremiah.”
“You scared of him?”
He nodded. We went into a bedroom and closed the door. The bed was unmade. I straightened a place for us to sit on the bed, then took a small tape recorder from my pocket.
“Do you know what we’re going to do?” He shook his head. “I’m going to ask you some questions and record both the questions and the answers.”
“Are you sure it’s okay? I mean, we’re not supposed to talk to people.”
“Why?”
“Pastor Michael says that people on the outside are tools of the devil and that we can catch it from them. It’s like chicken pox.”
“You won’t catch anything from me, Jeremiah. I promise.” I switched on the recorder. “My name is Detective J. P. Beaumont. It’s five twenty-five p.m. on Thursday, April twenty-eighth. This statement is being taken in reference to Angel Barstogi, deceased. What is your name, please?”
“Jeremiah Mason.”
“And are you giving this statement willingly?”
He nodded his head. “You’ll have to give your answers aloud,” I told him.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Did you know Angel, Angela Barstogi?”
“Yes.” His answer was so muted that I didn’t know whether or not my recorder would pick it up.
“You’ll have to speak a