Diane Davidson - The Last Suppers

“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 – “

I stopped walking. “Do you think Tom chased the killer? Isn’t there a trail or something? Please. Tell me. I have to know.”

Helen Keene picked up the q quilt which had fallen from my shoulders. Shifting from one foot to the other, Armstrong hovered over us. My questions made him uncomfortable. Finally he said, “The trail ends at a vehicle. Two sets of footprints: Schulz and somebody. We just don’t know what happened. But finding an officer is our top priority. Always.”

I whirled to face Armstrong. My voice was shrill. “If you’d killed a priest, wouldn’t you just leave? Why would someone hurt Tom?”

Armstrong made another helpless gesture. “Maybe the perp heard Schulz. Or Schulz spotted him. Recognized him. So the perp panics, hides, and then just loses it. Figures he’ll be caught if he doesn’t take Schulz with him. Or maybe Olson wasn’t dead when Schulz got there, told him something and the shooter went nuts … or maybe Schulz followed him and … “ He didn’t finish that thought.

“For what it’s worth,” Boyd interjected, “we figure this is some kind of amateur. Not that you’re likely to get a professional hit on a priest,” he added uncomfortably.

“You said there was some stuff Tom dropped. May I see it? Now?”

“We couldn’t bring it to you.” These were the first words Helen Keene had spoken since her arrival. Her voice was surprisingly young and musical. “We have to leave it at the scene for photo and video. But we need you to come out and take a look. You may be able to help us identify it.”

Armstrong’s and Boyd’s faces said, Let’s go. Silently, Helen Keene put her arm around me again. We walked quickly, heads down, to the waiting squad car.

Father Theodore Olson’s house was located northwest of Aspen Meadow proper, in the area the locals call Upper Cottonwood Creek. Driving out of town under a darkening sky, we followed the meandering path of the creek, past ancient shuttered summer dwellings, past the entryway to Arch and Julian’s school, Elk Park Prep. After the school, there was a spate of immense custom homes built in the latest real estate boom – this one fueled by people fleeing the high cost of living in California. Farther up, the landscape turned pastoral. WE passed the few ranches that remained from Aspen Meadow’s proud cowboy past. The ranches boasted wide, lush meadows that sprawled along the creek bed. Then Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve loomed suddenly into view, it speaks still covered with winter snow.

While the police car sped along the winding road, Boyd and Armstrong asked me to repeat my brief conversation with Tom. I reconstructed every line of dialogue as best I could. Were there other voices, background noise, cars starting, any sounds like that? I said no. When I faltered, exhausted, Helen Keene began to talk. Her voice was warm and soothing. Quietly, she asked if there was anything I wanted or needed – coffee or water from their Thermoses? Were there family members who needed to be notified of my whereabouts? I glanced at the dashboard clock and remembered my parents’ flight from Stapleton Airport in Denver. Helen used the cellular phone to call our house. She asked Julian to drive them to their flight for me. I’d be home as soon as I could, she promised him.