Baby Be Mine Read Free Page A

congregation would join him in the celebration of the birth of Christ was near at hand. Soon voices would rise in jubilation as they sang out the words to “Silent Night,” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Joy to the World.” Together they would pay homage to God for his wondrous gift to man—his son, Jesus Christ, the savior.
    He had no idea that before the day was over, his thoughts would turn to contemplation of the power of darkness and evil that stalked the world. Had anyone suggested it, he would rebuke their negativity as the next thing to blasphemy. Then his phone rang. A member of his congregation called to report that he’d heard a siren and was concerned. Engrossed in his thoughts and the task at hand, Reverend Hamon hadnot heard a thing. His parishioner asked, “Was anyone near the church hurt?”
    Hamon looked out of his front window and peered across the neighborhood. From his vantage point, he could see the flashing lights just a short distance away. It looked as if the police cars were parked in front of the home of two members of his church, Bobbie Jo and Zeb Stinnett. He was concerned that something went wrong with Bobbie Jo’s pregnancy. But there was no way he could have imagined the actual nature of the nightmare that came calling on Elm Street.
    Sheriff Espey surveyed the scene in the small bedroom of the Stinnett house. He saw clear signs of a struggle. The bloodstained soles of Bobbie Jo’s feet told him that she managed to get to her feet after the attack began. The strands of darkish blond hair clutched in her hands informed him that she did not give up easily. She fought hard with her attacker to jerk those strands out by the roots. The blood clots scattered across the floor indicated that her death was not swift. It had to have passed through at least three distinct phases—the initial assault, Bobbie Jo’s collapse and revival, then the fatal attack. The smeared bloody footprints on the floor choreographed a mute testimony to Bobbie Jo’s valiant fight for life.
    Espey was a proud man—but not too proud to ask for help. The Nodaway County Sheriff’s Department was a small outfit They did not have a team of crime-scene investigators and they did not have sufficient manpower to blanket the countryside. On top of that, in this low-crime county, homicide was a rare event, and their department’s experience was limited. Espey placed a call to the Missouri Highway Patrol.
    Another priority for the sheriff was Bobbie Jo’s husband. As a rule, in his jurisdiction, murder happened one of two ways—either it was a drunken brawl or a domestic violence incident. Was Zeb Stinnett a widowed victim?Or was he the perpetrator? Before the first hour of the investigation passed, Espey had confirmation that Zeb Stinnett was not responsible for his wife’s death. He had never left his job at Kawasaki Motors in Maryville that afternoon. An awareness of his brief moment as a suspect probably didn’t cross Zeb’s mind that day. His wife was dead. His baby was missing. There was no room for any other concerns.
    Soon, people began to talk. The Nodaway County grapevine bore putrid fruit—a truth no one could keep to themselves and yet could hardly speak: Bobbie Jo Stinnett was dead. She was murdered. Her baby could not be found. In Skidmore, speculation fueled rumors and suspicion. They prayed that the killer was not one of their own. They prayed that the newborn baby survived its ordeals. Their voices rose and crowded the pathway to heaven.
    Cheryl Huston, Becky Harper’s close friend from high school, left her job at Wal-Mart at the end of her shift. On her way out, one of the door greeters stopped her to tell her about the horrible news coming from Skidmore that day. The greeter, however, did not know the victim’s name.
    As Cheryl drove home, she ran a mental list of all of the pregnant women she knew in town. Only