Bad Blood

search warrants for all members, would be able to get all the children talking privately with Social Services investigators.
    Huh. Had to find a way to get the chain reaction started.
    He called Coakley, said, “Let’s go someplace—not here—and talk. Bring a couple of deputies that you’re sure about. Who won’t talk. The county attorney—”
    “His wife is the biggest gossip in Warren County,” she said. “Not a good idea.”
    “All right. But let’s meet.”
    “My house,” she said. “Noon. The kids will be at school. I’d like to bring in Dennis Brown, too; he used to be my boss—”
    “I’ve met him,” Virgil said. Brown was the Homestead chief of police. “You’re sure he’s okay? He wouldn’t be under your thumb?”
    “He’s one of the best people in Homestead, and he knows everybody in the county, I swear to God. And I’m thinking Schickel. He’s a tough old boy, and he’d go after these people with a chain saw, if he knew about this.”
    “We can’t talk about the photos,” Virgil said. “Let me handle the briefing. You just arrange the meeting, and I’ll be briefing you, along with the others. Ask questions. We’ve got to get into the Rouses’ place, but we’ve got to forget about the photos.”
    “Got it.”
    “See you in an hour,” he said.
     
     
    HE BRUSHED his teeth, loaded up, and headed into the café, which was in its mid-morning customer slump, no more than eight or ten people scattered around the booths and stools, reading newspapers, talking two by two.
    Virgil took a booth, and Jacoby came right over: “Pie?”
    “Diet Coke, hamburger with no mayonnaise, or any of that other sauce you put on there.”
    “You don’t like Thousand Island?”
    Virgil shuddered: “Not on my hamburgers, no. Also, French fries with no salt, and . . . blueberry.”
    The guy in the next booth asked, “Anything new?”
    “Woman came in this morning and said she was there when Jim Crocker shot himself,” Virgil said.
    Jacoby sat down across from him, Virgil’s order forgotten for the moment. “Would I know her?”
    “Crocker’s ex-wife, Kathleen Spooner. Said he was all morose about Tripp, and he shot himself.”
    “Whoa.” Jacoby scratched his nose, said, “I know her. Dark-haired gal. I think she was one of those religious people out there.”
    “Yeah, she was. Or is,” Virgil said. “Her story’s a little shaky, but I don’t see any way to break it.”
    A couple more people moved in, on stools, and in the booth behind Jacoby. One of them said, “You said you thought Jim Crocker was murdered.”
    “Still possible,” Virgil said. “The same set of facts that say he was murdered can, if they’re turned around just right, say it could be a suicide.”
    “But you don’t believe it,” Jacoby said. “I can tell by your voice.”
    Virgil nodded. “You’re right. I don’t believe it. I think it was murder.”
    “You think you can get her?” Jacoby asked.
    “I don’t know. Haven’t even arrested her, for what she did, unless Coakley did it after I left,” Virgil said.
    Jacoby got up and walked down the café and clipped Virgil’s order to the cook’s order rack, then came back, sat down, and said, “Damnedest thing. She might’ve done it, and she might walk away.”
    “No way to tell, for sure, unless there was a third person there,” Virgil said. “I don’t think that’s likely.”
    The guy behind him said, “But if she murdered him, why did she do it?”
    “Cover something up,” Virgil said. “She told us that Crocker might have been scared because he thought we might take DNA evidence from him, because of the jailhouse suicide when he was on duty. And that he might have had something to do with the death of that Kelly Baker girl last year. Him and Jake Flood. And they might have left some DNA behind.”
    “Holy shit,” the man in the back booth said.
    The one on the other side, behind Jacoby, said, “They’re all those religious people. Spooner, Flood, the Bakers . . .”
    Virgil nodded.
    The guy behind him said, “If you ask me, you need to know more about that church.”
    Virgil said, “They don’t talk much to outsiders. . . .”
     
     
    HIS FOOD CAME, and he sat munching through it, as the panel discussion continued, then confessed, “I’m pretty much stuck if I don’t get more information coming in. But, you know—win a few, lose a few.”
    “That ain’t right, Virg,” somebody said.
    Virgil shrugged and said,