“If Johnston is telling the truth, that means Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, Jerrold McCullough, and Blue Branson murdered her husband and caused the deaths of her children.”

“I agree that’s a powerful motive, but Wanetta Hochstetler would be almost seventy years old now.”

“Stranger things have happened. If she had some way to subdue them. A stun gun. Something like that.”

“Or help.” But I’m not sold on the theory. “I’m going to talk to Blue, see if I can get him to admit to being there. Even if he doesn’t, we’ve got enough for an arrest.”

Glock nods. “Let me know if you need me to beat his ass for you.”

I rise from my desk. “You always know just the right thing to say.”

“That’s what everyone tells me.”

*   *   *

I find Blue Branson sitting at the same table where I spoke to Norm Johnston and his attorney just an hour ago. Thornsberry’s Polo aftershave still lingers in the air.

Blue’s wearing his trademark black suit jacket, white shirt open at the collar. The big silver cross glints at his throat. Creased black trousers brush the tops of his wingtip shoes. Before coming in, I turned the heat up and changed out the cushioned chairs with the old wooden ones from the storage room. Comfort never makes for a productive interrogation. That said, I’m not sure those old police tactics will work on Blue Branson.

I hand him the laminated Miranda rights card and recite them to him from memory. “Do you understand your rights?”

“I do.”

I round the table and sit opposite him. “Jerrold McCullough is dead.”

He starts slightly, then looks down and shakes his head. “God bless him,” he whispers, and then looks at me. “How?”

“Murdered.” I pause and then ask, “Where were you between three P.M. yesterday and six A.M. this morning?”

“I was at the church with two volunteers from noon until eleven o’clock last night. Then I went home. Alone.”

I pull my pad from my pocket. “I need the names of the volunteers.”

“Rick Baker and Ralph Sanderson.”

He gives me their contact info, and I write down their numbers.

“If you’re wondering if I killed McCullough,” he says, “the answer is no.”

“Your alibi for the time when Julia Rutledge was murdered checked out.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

For a minute or two, neither of us speaks. I break the silence with, “The last time we spoke, I told you I was going to find out what you were hiding.”

“And I told you I have nothing to hide.”

I stare hard at him. “You’re a good liar for a pastor.”

He stares back, unflinching.