moment I had been dreading. There was no way to postpone it further.
“I believe we’ve found your daughter,” I said gently.
“Where is she? Is something the matter?”
“A little girl was found in Discovery Park earlier this morning. I’m afraid it may be Angel. We have to be certain. We need you to identify her.”
“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 little louder, Jeremiah.”
“Yes,” he said again.
“When is the last time you saw her?”
“Last night at church. We were playing tag.”
“Was there anything unusual about her last night?”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said, remembering the recorder.
“How long have you known Angel?”
“Long time,” he replied.
“Were you friends?”
He made a face. “Angel’s a girl,” he said. Obviously being a girl precluded her being a friend. “Besides,” he added, “she’s just a little kid.”
“Do you know why we’re here asking questions?”
“Somebody said it’s because Angel’s dead.”
“That’s true. And we’re trying to find out who did it. That’s my job.”
“Pastor Michael says God did it because Angel wouldn’t obey the rules.”
“What rules?”
“She was all the time talking to people. Even when Pastor Michael got after her, she still did it.”
“He got after her?”
“He gave her a licking in church. That’s what he always does, but Angel never cried no matter what he did. The other kids knew that if they’d cry he’d stop. Angel wouldn’t cry. That made him real mad.”
“I’ll just bet it did,” I said. “And what about you? Did you ever get a licking in church?”
He nodded. “Once for stealing some food from the kitchen after dinner and once for running away.”
“Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”
He nodded again. “Pastor’s mad that we’re all talking to you.”
“How old are you, Jeremiah?”
“Eight.” As we spoke, I had noticed a bruise on top of his wrist. A small part of it was visible at the bottom of his sleeve. I pushed the shirt sleeve up, revealing five distinct marks on his arm, a thumb and four fingers.
“How did that happen?”
He shrugged and looked sheepish. “I fell down,” he said.
“Where do you live?”
“In Ballard, not far from the church.”
“With your parents?”
“With my mom and my stepfather.”
“And how does he treat you, your stepfather?”
“All right, I guess.”
I could see I had gone beyond what he would tell me. It was one thing to talk about Angela Barstogi. It was
