“I know. And I know you’re worried about me. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

The words echo for a beat too long before I say, “I’ll see you tonight.”

He hangs up without responding.

* * *

I’ve just booted up my computer when my most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, peeks his head into my office. “You wanted to see me?” he asks.

At the age of seventy-six, Pickles has been a member of the Painters Mill PD for over fifty years. He’s my only auxiliary officer and puts in about ten hours a week, usually at the school crosswalk. During the 1980s he worked undercover narcotics and took down one of the largest drug rings in the state. His glory days ended a few years ago when, during a call for a domestic dispute, he was attacked by an aggressive rooster. Pickles shot and killed the chicken, which happened to be a prized animal owned by a woman who dabbled in local politics. The town council got involved and Pickles nearly lost his job. I’m well aware that a police chief must choose his or her battles wisely. But I couldn’t see throwing away fifty years of service over a dead chicken, so I went to bat for him and, by a narrow margin, saved his job. The move cost me politically, and I fell out of favor with some of the town council members, a few of whom are still pressuring me to retire Pickles. So far, I’ve been successful in holding them off and will continue to do so as long as I’m chief or until Pickles voluntarily decides he’s ready to throw in the towel.

He’s slowed down the last couple of years, but he never misses a day of work, he’s never late, and more important, he’s still an effective cop. He’s a fixture in this town—a favorite of many citizens, including me—and stands in testament that age doesn’t define the person or what they can accomplish.

“You were around when the Hochstetler crime happened, weren’t you?” I begin.

He shuffles into my office and lowers himself into the chair adjacent my desk, bringing a wave of English Leather aftershave with him. “First major crime of my career, and let me tell you something, it gave me nightmares.”

I tell him about the Amish peg doll found in Dale Michaels’s mouth. “We’re not making that bit of information pubic, but the doll was inscribed with the Hochstetler name. I’m wondering if you remember any kind of connection between Dale Michaels and the Hochstetlers.”

“Well, my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I sure don’t recall Michaels’s name coming up in the course of the Hochstetler case. Michaels was probably just a kid back then.”

I recap everything I know about the case so far, including the final calls Michaels made before his murder. And the text to Blue Branson. “Do you know Blue?” I ask.

“Thirty-five years ago, I had more run-ins with Branson than my own wife.” Pickles’s brows knit. “He was quite a troublemaker in his youth.”