I forward the PDF to Jodie with instructions to run all the names through LEADS to see if any of the callers or recipients have a criminal record or warrants.

On the third page, incoming and outgoing texts are listed in order by date. The BCI technician transferred the actual text into a separate cell, so I’m able to read them. Again, there are several to his daughter. Dinner @ 7:00 PM Sun. Damn good game! Thanks for all the help. Will call U when I get home. Meet for lunch noonish? At the bottom of the page, the final text Dale Michaels sent snags my attention. Meet is on. Will call 2 let you know outcome. I look at the date column and see that it was sent on March 8 at 12:45 A.M. to Blue Branson.

Who did Dale Michaels meet with that night and why? What does Blue Branson know about it? And why, if he’d received news of Dale’s murder, didn’t he come forward?

“Only one way to find out,” I mutter.

Grabbing my keys off the desk, I start toward the door.

* * *

The Crossroads Church is located on an acre or so of what had once been farmland, four miles outside of Painters Mill. Bounded on three sides by plowed fields, the clapboard structure reminds me of the Amish school where I received my early education. I’ve heard that Blue Branson built the place with his own hands and paid for the materials out of his own pocket. Rumor has it, he worked like a man possessed—going without sleep for days at a time—until the church was complete. Word around town is he’s a good public speaker and gives a rousing sermon twice on Sunday and once every Wednesday evening.

I’ve met Blue a handful of times over the years, mostly at LaDonna’s Diner, where I stop in for coffee some mornings or dinner if I’m working nights. Usually we exchange a nod or smile, or maybe we comment on the weather as we pass. Until now, that’s been the extent of my contact with the self-made preacher. I have a feeling I’m about to get to know him a lot better.

I park in a gravel lot that’s demarked with railroad ties. There are two other vehicles in the lot: a pickup truck that looks as if it won’t be running much longer and a vintage Mustang, which I recognize as Blue’s. I get out and start toward the front door. A huge cross constructed of railroad ties stands sentinel in the front yard. In the flower bed at the base, I see the pointy green tips of irises peeking out through a layer of mulch.

Double wooden doors open to a large room with a cathedral ceiling and exposed beams that have been painted white. Mullioned windows usher in a meager amount of natural light. Pews line either side of a wide aisle. Ahead is a raised stage with a podium at its center bearing an inscription: WE DON’T CARE WHERE YOU’VE BEEN; WE JUST CARE ABOUT WHERE YOU’RE GOING. There’s no mike, but then I’ve heard Blue doesn’t need one. To the right of the stage, a door stands open. I hear voices from inside and head that way.