“Be careful what you say,” Thornsberry warns.

Some of the tension leaches from the councilman’s body. His shoulders sag. “I worked part-time at their furniture shop for a few weeks. Sweeping floors or whatever Mr. Hochstetler needed me to do. I was sixteen, a couple of years older than Billy. Anyway, one day Billy starts bragging about how much money they made. He said his dad didn’t like using banks and kept thousands of dollars in cash at the house.” He looks away. “I told Blue Branson.…” His voice trails.

“When did this happen?”

“A week or so before … that night.” He heaves a sigh. “I think Blue and his friends went in to rob them.”

“Who was involved?”

“I think they were all involved to some degree. Blue Branson. Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough.”

“What about Julia Rutledge?”

“She wasn’t in on the planning, but I think she was there.”

“What role did you play?”

“Chief Burkholder, I may be guilty of exercising poor judgment as a sixteen-year-old kid, but I was not at the Hochstetler farm that night. I didn’t know about any of it until Blue asked me to meet them at the turnaround a half mile from the Hochstetler place at four A.M. He said they needed someone with a fast car. I had this jacked-up GTO that could outrun every cop in the county. At that point, I knew there was something going down. I knew it was big. That it was daring and probably illegal. But they didn’t trust me enough to tell me what it was.”

“Did you meet them?”

“I got scared and didn’t show.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he tells me. “But when I heard about that family on the news, I fucking threw up. I couldn’t believe they could do something like that. It was the most horrible moment of my life.”

“Do you think they went in with plans to murder that family?”

“I can’t imagine that. I mean, they weren’t … criminals. They certainly weren’t … killers. They were good kids from decent families. The good crowd. Football players. Jules was a cheerleader. Pudge had already earned a scholarship to the University of Michigan.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I think they went in and … I don’t know … someone must have panicked. Whatever happened was probably an accident.”

Anger rushes hotly into my gut. I can understand how a teenager could be frightened or intimidated. What I don’t understand is how this man who has worked and lived in Painters Mill his entire life could remain silent about a heinous crime for thirty-five years.

“Do you know who shot Willis Hochstetler?”

“No.”

“What happened to Wanetta Hochstetler?”

He shakes his head. “I swear I don’t know.”

“The things that you do know,” I say slowly, “would you be willing to testify in a court of law?”