I shook my head in disbelief as I thought about it.
We were quiet a moment, then he started shaking his head. “Religion,” he said. “War. Hate. Judgmentalism. Money. Power. Pride. Theft.”
I nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“How can you be associated with them?” he asked.
“Who?” I asked. “The Caldwells?”
I knew I was about as far from the Caldwells as a person of faith could be, but it bothered me it wasn’t obvious to him. I had broken away from my family years ago. Our relationship now was that of adults, not parents and child. We had little in common, and though I loved them, we weren’t close, yet I still cared what they thought about me-especially Dad-and I didn’t like it. It made me feel immature and insecure.
“All the crazy fanatics and fleecers.”
“I don’t see myself as associated with them in any way,” I said. “I feel about organized religion the way you do. I find it tragically ironic that they do what they do in the name of Jesus, the poor peasant who refused power at every turn.”
“Hell, they hide behind him,” he said.
“I just wonder what exactly they have to hide,” I said, attempting to change the subject. “We need to interview them.”
“That’ll take an act of God,” he said.
“Well, don’t count that out,” I said.
He ambled over to where I was leaning on the metal corral panel and draped his arms over the top so that we were nearly a mirror image of each other.
“You get anywhere with FDLE on the Dexter Freeman case?” I asked.
He looked at me incredulously. “You just called me about it this afternoon,” he said. “I haven’t even called them yet. What’s the rush?”
I shrugged. “His family needs him. Prison’s a dangerous place. He’s innocent.”
“We’ll get it taken care of,” he said. “It’ll just take a while. I’m sheriff, not king.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a difference,” I said.
He smiled. “There’s not in Potter County,” he said. “But that’s as far as my reign extends.”
We fell silent and his smile faded.
“You think they brought that little girl all the way down here and into that institution just to kill her?” he asked.
“God, I hope not,” I said and prayed. “But,” I added, “can you think of a better place to do it?”
“I’m havin’ a hard time thinkin’ about it at all,” he said, looking down at his feet. He was kicking at the dirt with the point of his boot, then covering over the divot with the heel of the other one.
On the other side of the small corral, three cows ate grain out of a trough that hung from one of the panels, two of them with calves sucking milk from them as they did. One of the calves seemed to be getting more than her fill, but the other continually nuzzled the sack with his nose attempting to get the milk to let down.
“Probably going to have to bottle feed him,” Dad said when he looked over at where I had been staring in wonder. “Her milk’s not flowing right.”
A small breeze blew over us, carrying with it the fresh scents of livestock, the sweet smell of hay, and the dusty smell of grain. The stillness and peace of the moment was interrupted as three violent sneezes erupted from me in quick succession.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Bless you,” Dad said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“We haven’t gotten any results back on the condoms yet,” he said, “but the pathologist said that the one found in the visitor’s restroom was definitely covered in feces like we thought. The fluid on the two found in the kitchen was saliva. So I guess we’re talkin’ oral, anal, or something else altogether-like muling, but we don’t know who-or why there’re two with saliva, and DNA’s gonna take a while.”
“One of the inmates says DeAndré Stone was there that night,” I said, “but so far no one else has corroborated it.”
“You believe him?”
“I’m inclined to,” I said.
“Well now, that changes things, doesn’t it?”
“Have you seen the crime scene photos?” I asked.
He nodded slowly and looked down.
“I was only in there a few minutes, but I thought I saw something,” I said.
He wiped at his eyes, then looked up at me and said, “What’s that?”
“Staging,” I said.
“The body or crime scene?” he asked.
I nodded. “I noticed her skirt and top had been pulled up and her panties down,” I said, “but if she wasn’t sexually assaulted, then it was staging-made to look like a sex crime when it wasn’t.”
“As I recall,” he said, “staging is most often done by people who’re close to the victim. They do it to throw us off.”
“Like the ransom note in the JonBenet Ramsey case,” I said. “And the photos show that her skirt and shirt were up and her panties had been pulled down?”
He nodded very slowly and deliberately.
“So if she wasn’t sexually assaulted, which we don’t really know,” I said, “then it probably was staging.”
“It’d have to be,” he said.
Beyond the corral, a handful of cows grazed the short green grass. Bunched together, they lazily moved through the field, bending down, pulling the grass with upward and sideward jerks of their heads, raising to chew, then back down again.
After a few moments of silence, he said, “You’re wasting your talents as a chaplain. How’d you know about staging?”
“Worked with a profiler from the FBI on the Stone Cold Killer case when I was in Atlanta,” I said.
I worked for the Stone Mountain Police Department while in college during the late eighties and early nineties, part of which coincided with the reign of a serial killer who became known as the Stone Cold Killer because of his murder weapon-Stone Mountain itself.
“And on Martin Fisher’s,” I added. “He taught me a lot. Since then, I’ve read his books and others.”
He nodded.
“But,” I added, “if I weren’t a chaplain, I wouldn’t be working this case.”
He shrugged. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “We’ve got to find out for sure if she was assaulted.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The thing is even with her panties down and shirt up, she was facing down, which meant her most private parts were covered up.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his face expressing his confusion.
“That’s just what someone close to her would do,” I said. “Stage it to look like a sexual murder, but then preserve her dignity as much as they possibly could.”
“What the hell is the motive?” he asked. “Is there one, I wonder?”
The smell of the livestock was pungent, and I realized I was breathing through my mouth.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But the means is probably a clue. She was beaten and strangled to death.”
We were both silent for a moment, and I shook my head as I thought about what I had said. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” he asked.
“Unless it was a sex crime,” I said. “Then the anger wouldn’t’ve been personal. Nicole would’ve merely been an object for it.”
He stopped kicking the dirt and looked up at me, our eyes locking for the first time. “When I think of what the sick bastard did to her, I want to kill him, John.”
“Yeah,” I said, “the thought’s occurred to me, too.”
Just then, his cell phone rang and he answered it.
