J. Jance: Until Proven Guilty

At the sound of the cars a band of barefoot, ragtag kids came racing around the house. One pressed a runny nose against Peters’ window and stared in at us as though we were gorillas in a zoo. Peters turned to me. “Well?” he asked. “Are we getting out, or are we going to sit here all day?”

I’d rather take a beating than knock on a door and tell some poor unsuspecting soul his kid is dead. I always think about how I’d feel if someone were telling me about Scott or Kelly. There’s no way to soften a blow like that. “Don’t rush me,” I growled. “It’s the worst part of this job.” I got out and slammed the door.

Sanders came up just then. “What’s the name?” I asked him.

“Barstogi. Mother’s name is Suzanne. Kid’s name is Angela, but they call her Angel.”

“Father?”

“I didn’t see one. There’s some kind of meeting going on in there. Probably ten or twelve people.”

Peters ambled up. He glanced at his watch. “What time did you say the call came in?”

“About two forty-five,” Sanders answered.

“Five hours after she’s dead, somebody finally notices she’s missing.” Peters’ voice was grim.

I pushed open a gate that dangled precariously on one rusty hinge. Gingerly I threaded my way through the debris and climbed some rickety wooden steps. The bottom one was gone altogether. Most of the others were on borrowed time. We stood on a tiny porch with those kids silently staring up at us. None of them said a word. It struck me as odd. I would have expected a barrage of questions from a group like that.

“Don’t these kids talk?” I asked Sanders.

He stopped with his hand poised, ready to knock. “Not to me and probably not to you either. I meant to tell you. It seems to be some kind of religious cult. The kids aren’t allowed to talk to anyone without permission. Same thing goes for the adults.”

He knocked then. Through a broken windowpane in the door we could hear the low murmur of voices inside, but it was a long time before anyone answered.

The woman who opened the door was in her mid to late twenties. She was about five-six or so, solidly built. She had long dishwater-blonde hair that was parted in the middle and pulled back into a long, thick braid that hung halfway to her hips. With a little makeup, a haircut, and some decent clothes she might have been reasonably attractive. As it was, she was a very plain Jane. She looked very worried.

“Did you find her?” she asked.

Sanders didn’t answer. Instead he motioned to me. “This is Detective Beaumont, ma’am, and Detective Peters. They’ll be the ones helping you now.” He backed away from the door as though from the entrance of a cave full of rattlers. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Peters hovered in the background as well, leaving the ball in my court.

“May we come in, Mrs. Barstogi?” I asked.

She glanced uneasily over her shoulder. She looked as happy to have us on her doorstep as we were to be there. “Well, I don’t know…,” she began hesitantly, stopping abruptly as someone came up behind the partially opened door.

“I thought I told you to get rid of them, Sister Suzanne.” The unseen speaker was a man. His words and tone held the promise of threat.

“I did,” she said meekly. “I sent the first one away like you said. There are two more.” Before she had looked worried. Now she seemed genuinely frightened.

“Your faith is being tested,” he continued severely. “You are failing. Jesus is watching over Angel. You have no need to call on anyone else. Jesus wants you to trust in Him completely. Haven’t you learned that yet? Are you still leaning on your own understanding?”

She shrank from the door at his words. I think she would have slammed it in our faces if I hadn’t used my old Fuller Brush training and stuck my foot in the way. “We need to talk to you, Mrs. Barstogi. Is there someplace where we can be alone?”

I moved inside and Peters followed. The man who had been standing just out of our line of vision was a heavy-faced, once-muscular man in his late forties who was well on his way to going to seed. He was a little shorter than I am, maybe six-one or so. He was wearing one of those Kmart special leisure suits that went out of style years ago. On his chest hung a gold chain with a heavy gold cross dangling from it. The suit was electric blue. So were his eyes, glinting with the dangerous glitter of someone just barely under control.

He placed himself belligerently between Suzanne and me.

“We’re all family here,” he said. “No one has anything to hide from anyone else. Privacy and pride are Satan’s own tools.”

“Are you Angela’s father?” I asked him.

“Of course not!” he blustered.

“Then I have nothing to say to you.” I looked around. The living room was furnished with several period pieces in the Goodwill-reject style. There was an assortment of degenerate chairs and worn couches. The gray carpet was mottled with stains and soil. Seated around the room was a group of women. They could have been sardines from the same can for all you could tell them apart. None of them spoke. All eyes were riveted on the man who stood between Suzanne Barstogi and me.

“Is your husband here. Mrs. Barstogi? Where can we reach him?”

She glanced surreptitiously at the man’s face before answering, as if expecting him to tell her what to say or whether or not she should answer at all. “I don’t have a husband,” she said finally, looking at the floor.

The four of us had been standing in a muddy vestibule, just inside the door. Now Peters moved swiftly around me. He took Suzanne Barstogi’s elbow. Before anyone could object, he led her out onto the porch. The man made as if to follow, but I barred his way.

“We are going to talk to her alone,” I told him. “If you don’t want to end up in jail, you’ll stay right here while we do it.” I turned and left him there, closing the door behind me.

The children, standing in an ominously quiet group, were still watching. Peters was attempting to shoo them away as I came out the door. He maintained a firm grip on Suzanne’s arm. I think he figured she might try to dash back into the house if he let her go.

“Mrs. Barstogi,” I said. “When is the last time you saw your daughter?”

“When I put her to bed.” Her eyes were wide with fear as she answered. I couldn’t tell if it was fear for her daughter or fear of the consequences that would greet her when she returned to the house.

“What time was that?” This, unsurprisingly, was from Peters. I never met anyone so concerned about time.

Suzanne paused uncertainly. “It must have been between three and four.”

“In the morning?” Peters asked incredulously.

She nodded. “She fell asleep at church. I carried her in from the car and put her to bed.” She spoke as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in the hour.

“What was she wearing?”

“I told the other man all this. Do we have to go over it again?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’m afraid we do.”

“She was wearing a pink nightgown, one she got for Christmas last year.”

“We’ll need you to come downtown,” Peters said.

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes, now,” I told her. Peters propelled her off the porch. He opened the door and helped her into the car, motioning for me to follow. “I’ll drive,” he said.

It figured. If he drove, I would have to tell her. I’m not the kind to keep score or hold grudges, but about then I figured Peters owed me one.

I followed her into the backseat. She scrambled as far as she could to the opposite side of the car. She looked like a cornered animal. “Who is that man in the house?” I asked as Peters turned on the ignition. “Is he a relative of yours?”