to post 10 percent of the twenty-five-thousand-dollar bail. (It never ceases to amaze me how many people are out on bail and shouldn’t be. Presume this guy was innocent? Yeah, right. I could have filled a dinner party with witnesses. I was also convinced that he was the person who’d been burglarizing vehicles for weeks in a city parking lot and robbed an older couple one night as they unlocked their minivan using-surprise!-a steel pipe as a weapon. And yes, later we would charge him with those crimes, too.) We saw each other at the car dealer just after I’d arrived at the service counter, while I was waiting for them to sign me out a loaner for the day, and our eyes met. He looked seriously pissed at me: His bangs were plastered to his forehead, and he glowered like a petulant schoolboy. Then he motioned with his head out toward my car, which was in the lot just outside the service-garage window.
“That yours?” he asked.
“It is.”
He studied it for a moment as if he were checking out a girl in a bar and then wrinkled his nose dismissively as if it didn’t measure up in some way. Finally he turned back to me and smirked. “We’re gonna get some ice tonight, I hear,” he said. “A lotta ice.” Then he disappeared back into the shop. That night, after I had picked up the car, I was sure my brakes weren’t going to work when I needed them most. For almost a week, I found myself braking long before I normally would have-just in case.
The other suspect who unnerved me when I ran into him outside the safe confines of court was none other than the Reverend Stephen Drew. I knew he was living in Bennington, and I knew he was renting an apartment not far from the courthouse. Nevertheless, it took me a moment to put a name to his face when I came across him on the sidewalk about fifty yards from the courthouse entrance. It was almost six o’clock in the evening, and there was a chill wind blowing in from the west. There were still another two weeks of daylight saving time, but it was overcast, damp, and dusky outside-and there was almost no one on the street. I was racing to the bookstore, which I knew was about to close, because I wanted to pick up a couple of picture books for a pal of Lionel’s who was having a birthday party that coming Saturday. And there the minister was. He was leaning against the brick side of a recessed doorway, and he had the collar turned up on a gray jacket that fell to midthigh. He pushed himself off the wall and blocked my path.
“You’re Catherine Benincasa,” he said. “We met the last Monday in July. I’d recognize you anywhere.” It is always a tad alarming when a suspect in a murder investigation calls you by name on a deserted street at twilight, and his tone was somewhere between menacing and weary. The nearest people were either the security guards back inside the double doors at the metal detectors of the courthouse or the patrons at a bar shut tight against the cold nearly a block away.
“I am,” I said warily. “Hello, Reverend Drew.”
“Stephen. Please. I was just about to give up.”
For a split second, I misconstrued what he’d said, misinterpreting “give up” for “give myself up,” and I thought he wanted to turn himself in. But his demeanor was too chilly, too confrontational for that. I realized then what he had actually meant. “You’ve been waiting for me?”
He nodded. It was just cold enough that I could see his breath. “I waited yesterday, too, but I never saw you leave the building.”
I had to restrain myself from saying something catty about how I’d never before met a pastor who was also a stalker, because I honestly didn’t know yet whether I was in danger. Instead I said simply, “I wasn’t in court yesterday afternoon.”
“Ah.”
“You know I can’t talk to you.”
“Why?”
“And your lawyer would be furious if he knew you were trying to talk to me.”
“My lawyer does not tell me what to do. I think we should chat.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I am not going to speak to you without your lawyer present.”
“But you will if Aaron joins us?”
“Aaron Lamb won’t let you talk to me. I promise.”
His hands were burrowed deep inside his jacket pockets, and when he removed them suddenly, I must have flinched. He shook his head and said, smiling, “You really believe I killed both of them, don’t you?”
“We’re not having this conversation,” I reiterated simply.
And it was then that he started to tell me about crucifixion. The connection, in his mind, was injustice. At least that’s what he said. But he started talking about injustice and execution and the barbarity that always marks the human condition. It was erudite and hypnotic and deeply disturbing. If I lived alone, that night I would have pushed furniture against the front and back doors of my house. I was able to extricate myself only when another lawyer, one of the public defenders who had spent that afternoon at court coping with calendar calls before a judge, came up beside us. It was a friend of mine named Rosemary, and I immediately introduced her to Drew and then allowed myself to be led by her down the block until we had reached the bookstore and the reverend was behind us in the distance. Still, that evening I would insist that she walk with me to my car, and the following night I was careful to leave my office with another lawyer in the state’s attorney’s office.
When Aaron called me the next day, he tried to feign fury that I had spoken with his client, but it was clear Drew had told him that he had initiated the conversation. I could also tell that Aaron wished that his client hadn’t decided to share with me in visceral detail what it must have been like to die on the cross.
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Jim Haas, Emmet Walker, and I spent nearly four hours in Waterbury with BCI-the Bureau of Criminal Investigations. David Dennison joined us from Burlington. We examined all of the evidence we had amassed and we analyzed all of the interviews we had conducted. And when Jim and Emmet and I sped back to Bennington in Emmet’s freakishly clean unmarked detective sedan, we were no closer to indicting Stephen Drew than we had been the day before. At the same time, we were no closer to finding a new direction-a new suspect- worth pursuing.
We were on Route 7 in Wallingford when Emmet abruptly chuckled from behind the wheel. I was sitting in the backseat behind Jim and Emmet, and so I caught Emmet’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“You know, maybe this Stephen Drew did us all a favor,” he said. He was driving with one hand, and he shrugged. “Maybe we should just stop spending the taxpayers’ money.”
“Yeah, it’s crossed my mind, too,” I admitted, and I didn’t have to glance at Jim to know he was glaring at us both from the corner of his eye.
“I mean, think about it. If Drew hadn’t shot George Hayward, we really would have to try the bastard and jail him-and jail him for at least twenty years. Maybe longer. And a trial and two decades of incarceration doesn’t come cheap.”
Jim wasn’t completely sure how serious the state trooper was. “There is a principle here, Emmet,” he said, his tone his professorial best. It was the voice he used when he was making his opening statement or closing remarks to a jury: patient and avuncular and wise.
“Oh, I know, I know. George Hayward may have been the O. J. Simpson of Green Mountain batterers, but that still doesn’t mean someone had the right to shoot him in the head. But think about it: not a bad death, especially given what he did. He passes out drunk and never wakes up. And justice is done. Frankly, I think we should send the reverend a thank-you card and move on.”
We wouldn’t move on, of course. At least not completely. For me it was always going to be a bit like the gnawing frustration we all experience when we misplace something and know it’s somewhere in the house-but where, we haven’t a clue. The cell-phone charger, the car keys, the cap to the felt-tip marker that will dry up if we don’t find it soon. It’s annoying as hell. But I think I knew at that moment in Emmet’s car, as he flipped on the directional and accelerated into the passing lane to get ahead of a lumbering milk tanker, that if we solved either of the homicides in Haverill-found something to link Stephen Drew definitively to the murder of George Hayward-it would be more the result of very good luck than very good work. We had done our best, and, it seemed, we’d been outdone by a country pastor.
