What seemed like an eternity later, a cream-and-black Sheriff?s Department vehicle pulled up in the lot. First one, then a second and third official car skidded on patches of ice. Their tires spun and spewed small saves of gravel before coming to a rest on the other side of the columbarium construction. Uniformed officers emerged My breath fogged the window as I waited anxiously for Tom Schulz to appear. I folded my chilled hands and debated about rushing out. I should have told Tom I would be in the office.
I tapped on the glass when two grim-faced policemen I knew, partners named Boyd and Armstrong, climbed out of their cars and strode to the church entrance. After a few moments, both officers emerged form the church?s side door. They walked up the muddy flagstones to the office building. I knew they were on duty that day as they had been unable to come to our wedding. Pacing behind them somewhat stiffly was a woman with long brown hair. She carried a bulging Hefty bag. She was familiar looking. A policewoman, perhaps.
Boyd and Armstrong pushed into the office first. Like most policemen, they had a brusque, businesslike air about them. Boyd, short and barrel-shaped, stopped abruptly at the sight of me. He stood, feet apart, and rubbed one hand over black hair that had been shorn close in a Marine-style crewcut. Underneath his unzipped Sheriff?s Department leather jacket, his shirt was too snug around his bulky mid-section, a pot belly that had increased in size since he?d stopped smoking several months ago. He was gnawing one of the wooden matches he had taken to chewing to keep from overeating. Behind him, tall, acne-scarred Armstrong, whose few wisps of light-brown hair had strayed off the bald spot they were supposed to conceal, surveyed the room bitterly. The woman, whom I judged to be about fifty, unbuttoned her oversized black coat. That task concluded, she held back, clutching her bag to her chest, mutely watching me.
?Where?s Tom?? I demanded.
Body and Armstrong exchanged a glance. Boyd bit down hard on the match. The woman gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, sending her lanky hair swinging.
Body said, ?Sit down, Miss Bear.? ?Why?? I remained standing. ?Don?t patronize me, please. And you know my name is Goldy, Officer Boyd. Where?s Tom? He called me about Father Olson. Does Tom know I?m still here??
Boyd stopped chewing the match. His eyes flicked away from me before he said, ?Bad news, I?m afraid.?
?What?? Panic creaked in my voice. What else could go wrong on this day that was supposed to be so wondrous? ?Is Tom all right? Where is he??
Armstrong held up one hand. He looked seriously down his pockmarked nose at me before replying. ?Somebody must have been out there. Still there,? he announced with agonizing logic. ?We think. Out at the priest?s place. Schulz called us, then you. Looks like he went back out to be by the body. Maybe he wanted to look around.?
?Where is Tom?? I repeated. ?Why are you all here?? I demanded, too loudly.
Boyd stopped rubbing his head and looked me squarely in the eyes. He gestured at the woman. ?Helen Keene here is our victim advocate.?
I said, ?Victim advocate? But Olson wasn?t married, he lived alone. Who?s the vic ? ?
?I?m sorry, Goldy.? Body shifted the match from one side of his mouth to the other, inhaled raggedly, and looked at a small notebook he?d pulled out of his pocket. ?We got to Olson?s at 11:46. Didn?t see Schulz, but his vehicle was there. Signs of a struggle near Olson?s body, which was near the bank of Cottonwood Creek.? He studied a grimy page of his notebook, then added, ?Looks like Schulz might have fallen or been pushed down the bank. He dropped some articles, then dragged himself up the creek bank.?
?Where is he? I
Boyd took another deep breath. ?It appears somebody go the drop on Schulz.? He glanced at Armstrong, avoiding my eyes. ?Looks like the perp was still there. Something happened, there was a struggle ? ?
?Tell me.?
?Schulz is missing,? Boyd said tonelessly.
3
?No.? My legs felt as if they were disintegrating. ?No, no.? The walls seemed to sway. Get a grip, I ordered myself. Boyd?s face was a study in misery I could not bear to contemplate. Armstrong shrugged and looked away. Helen Keene eased between the two men. She grasped my elbow firmly, then guided me toward the small striped couch in the secretary?s office.
I could not assimilate Boyd?s words. Got the drop on him. Fell . . pushed down the creek bank. Schulz missing.
It was simply not believable.
?I don?t understand. Where did this happen?? My voice came out like a croak.
Wordlessly, Helen Keene, victim advocate, advocate for me, I realized dully, drew a quilt out of the Hefty bag she was carrying. Gently she pulled it around my shoulders. I was shivering uncontrollably. There was a painful buzzing in my ears. Hold it together, girl, I commanded my inner self. Hold it together now. For Tom.
Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Boyd?s carrot-like fingers caressed his worn notebook. ?Sorry. You weren?t even a cop?s wife yet. They get used to this kind of crisis. Or at least used to the idea of this kind of crisis. Well. We?re not sure about the actual events. We believe that?s what happened.? His face was fierce; he held his rotund body in a tight, aggressive stance. ?It looks as if Schulz was hurt. But we?re going to find him. We?ll work around the clock.? This was not the matter-of-fact Officer Boyd I had met the previous spring, the Boyd who had proudly announced n January that he?d given up smoking. This wasn?t business-as-usual. This suddenly ferocious Boyd took Tom Schulz?s disappearance as a personal affront.
?What do you mean about his being hurt?? I demanded. Helen Keene put a hand on the quilt that covered my shoulders She sighed softly, regretfully. I refused to look at her.
?Just from falling down into the creek, we think.? Armstrong tsked.
?Okay, look,? said Boyd, scratching his close-cropped head furiously and chewing the match, ?we?ll tell you what we know. Schulz told Dispatch he was going to call you, because of the wedding. Did he?? I nodded. My heart was racing. ?We need to talk to you about your conversation with him. But first we need you to go out there, to Olson?s place, to have you look at some stuff.?
?What stuff? Stuff at Father Olson?s house?? Sick with confusion, I looked around the church office. Wouldn?t there be something here that would help? I tried and failed to summon Tom?s logical voice, his explanations of the inevitable steps in an investigation.
Boyd interjected, ?Don?t worry, we?re going to come back here. Eventually.?
I said, ?I just don?t understand.?
Armstrong?s tall shape loomed too close to me. ?It goes like this: A cop gets surprised. He?s going to try to distract the perp, especially if the perp has a weapon. So say the guy wants to kidnap the policeman. Our guy?s going to drop stuff at the scene, make clues, anything for us to follow ? ?
I pressed my lips together and Armstrong abruptly fell silent. His words fogged my brain. Too much information, too disorganized, was coming too fast. Helen Keene patted my back. I longed to leave this room. Tom Schulz had disappeared. I wondered where Arch was, then remembered he had gone with Julian and my parents.
?Miss Bear,? said Boyd. ?Goldy. We really need your attention. Time?s important here.?
?I?m sorry. I?m coming with you. I want to go right now.? I did not add this instant, although that was what went through my mind.
Helen Keene helped me to my feet. Armstrong yanked on the office door. As we walked, my eyes caught the high mounds of dirt where Lucille and her committee intended for ashes to be interred. The columbarium was just an ice-filled ditch at this point, like a fresh wound in the earth. The fuss over the memorial project seemed so stupid now.
Boyd flipped a page in his notebook as we crossed the snow-pocked parking lot. ?Schulz was supposed to get married at noon. Call comes in, 11:14. Dispatch takes it, Schulz says he?s got a body, gives us the location of,? he squinted at the page, ?the Reverend Theodore Olson. Out upper Cottonwood Creek, fire number 29648. Dispatch tells him it?s going to take us thirty minutes to get a team up there. He, Schulz, says Olson was the priest. Olson?s been shot and he just bought it ? er, died. Looks like two gunshot wounds in the chest. Schulz tells Dispatch he has to call you. No wedding.? Boyd tapped the notebook. ?he didn?t think there was anybody around, obviously. He didn?t mention another vehicle. Olson was dead. We?re analyzing the Dispatch tape now, trying to pick up background noise ? ?
