get the words out fast enough.
I sense an escalation coming. I don’t know if it will come in the form of tears or violence or both, but I brace for an attack. Pickles senses it, too, because he eases his five-foot-two frame between us, daring the younger man to make a move. I stare at Slabaugh, trying to see inside his head, inside his heart, see beyond the theatrics and drama and the hard slap of grief. But when I look into his eyes, all I see are the jagged layers of shock and outrage, interspersed with flashes of sorrow so heavy that his shoulders seem to bow beneath the weight.
None of those emotions exonerates him. Experience has taught me grief doesn’t equal innocence. When I was a homicide detective in Columbus, I worked a case where the killer truly mourned the loss of his victim. When the confession came, he explained how difficult it was to dismember someone you loved. Looking at Slabaugh, I know it would be premature to take him off my suspect list.
“No one accused you of anything,” I say.
Slabaugh takes a step toward me. “You insinuated—”
“She didn’t insinuate shit.” Pickles sets his hand against the other man’s chest and pushes him backward. “Now back off.”
Slabaugh looks down at Pickles as if he wants to strangle him. His eyes are a little wild when they find mine. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s in my heart. I loved my brothers. And I love those children.”
Setting my hand on the baton strapped to my belt, I sidle back a step. The last thing I want to do is get into a confrontation with this man. Guilty or innocent, if he crosses a line, I won’t hesitate to take him to jail. “You need to calm down.”
“I don’t like your questions!” he shouts.
“I’m investigating a triple murder, Mr. Slabaugh. I’m asking questions that need to be answered. If you want us to catch who did it, you’d be wise to cooperate.”
He’s breathing hard. I see spittle on his lower lip. His eyes are wide and slightly out of focus. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do that. They were my brothers.”
I give him a minute to regain his composure. “Did you leave the farm at any time last night or early this morning? Did you go anywhere?”
“I worked here. Feeding livestock. Mucking the pens. I worked on the tractor. I was alone the whole time.”
“Did you speak with anyone on the phone?” I ask.
“No.”
“Do you know of anyone who might’ve had a problem with your brothers or sister-in-law? Any kind of dispute or argument?”
“They were good people. Good neighbors.” He shakes his head. “They were
“No money disputes? Land disputes? Anything like that?”
“Solly and I were once close, but after I was excommunicated…” He lets the words trail off. “He didn’t exactly confide in me. But I don’t believe he had any enemies. He was a decent man. Fair-minded.”
Pickles jumps in with the next question. “What about his personal life? Any infidelity going on? Anything like that?”
“Solly was a good husband, faithful, and a good father. He would never betray his wife or family in that way.”
“What about Rachael?” I ask. “Is it possible she was involved with someone?”
Another vigorous shake of his head. “No,” he says. “She wasn’t that kind of woman.”
“What about drugs?” Pickles asks. “Any drug use?”
“Never.”
I choose my next words carefully. “Do you mind if I ask you how your wife died, Mr. Slabaugh?”
His lips stretch into a snarl, revealing teeth that are tightly clenched. “What? Do you think I killed her, too? My God!”
“This would be a lot easier on all of us if you’d just answer my questions,” I reply evenly.
“Am I a suspect?”
“We haven’t ruled anyone out at this point.”
He sighs heavily, as if resigning himself to some ultimate humiliation. “My wife was killed in an auto accident three years ago.”
I nod, knowing there will be records I can check. “If you think of anything else that might be important, call me, day or night.”
Slabaugh takes the card and stares blindly at it. Only when Pickles and I turn to leave does he raise his head and look at us. “What about the children?” he asks.
I look back at him. “They’re at the farm. Bishop Troyer and his wife are with them.”
“They should be with family,” he says. “With me.”
“That’s going to be up to Children Services.”
Even from twenty feet away, I see the quiver go through his body. His fists clench at his sides. He makes a sound that’s part grief, part outrage. It’s the kind of sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Back in the Explorer, I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Pickles hefts himself into the passenger seat. “For a moment there, I thought he was going to knock your head off.”
“That would have been a mistake on his part.” I toss him a sidelong look as I turn the Explorer around. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s pretty damn squirrelly.” He shakes his head. “We’ve been cops long enough to know family dynamics play into a crime like this more often than not.”
I nod in agreement. “Even if he loved his brothers, if he wanted those kids badly enough, he might’ve done it.”
“That’s some tough love.”
“Let’s keep him at the top of our suspect list for now.” I think about everything we know about Slabaugh. “When we get back to the station, I want you to pull everything you can get on the accident that killed his wife.”
Pickles gives me a look. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
He laughs. “Yeah, and I ain’t fuckin’ old.”
One thing I’ve realized in the last few months is that an insomniac can get a lot done in a twenty-four hour period. While most people are sleeping, we’re still hard at work. But even the sleepless eventually need sleep. At the very least, they need to turn off. I know from experience that I’m not going to sleep tonight. I’ve got that hum coursing like nitro in my head. An edgy, grinding energy pumping through my veins. A motor revving high and running hot.
It’s nearly 11:00 P.M. when I shut down my computer and grab my parka. In the reception area, I find Mona Kurtz, my night dispatcher, at the switchboard/dispatch station, her UGG boots propped on the desk, her nose in a college text titled
She’s an almost pretty twenty-something with wild red hair, a wardrobe that would make Madonna blush, and the attention span of a teenager. But in the two years she’s been my dispatcher, I’ve learned to appreciate her finer points. She’s enthusiastic, with a strong work ethic and an obsessive interest in everything cop. With a little maturity and some experience, she just might make a good police officer.
“I just e-mailed you the press release,” I tell her.
“I’ll get it dispatched pronto.”
“Everything quiet?” I ask, slipping into my parka.
“Just the usual. Skid caught that Hoskins kid speeding out by the Jackson place again, wrote him a ticket.”
“Second ticket in two months.”
“Kid’s an accident waiting to happen.” She taps her fingers on her desktop. “Oh, and Mrs. Cartwright called
