Until Proven Guilty Read Free

Wherever two or more are gathered together—”
    “What time was that?” Peters interrupted. He was beginning to sound like a broken record.
    “I got up about eleven and they got here a little before noon,” she said. Peters made a sound under his breath. I couldn’t hear, but I don’t think it was too nice.
    “Angel does that,” Suzanne continued. “She wakes up before I do. She’ll have breakfast and watch TV.” She stopped suddenly as though something was just beginning to penetrate. “Why are we going downtown?” It was the 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

    W hen 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