Turner who was found murdered this morning.”
Wails of prepared sobs and anger rose to permeate the expansive hall.
The mayor spoke louder. “Now I assure you, we are doing everything possible to find her killer and get Ivy the justice she deserves. I’m going to have Sheriff Roscoe come up and speak, but, before I do, I want to ask each one of you for your prayers—and your full cooperation.” He gestured to John Roscoe. “Sheriff?”
“Thank you, Mayor Travers. I don’t want to be here anymore than any of you. I’m here because Ivy Turner has been murdered. But know this, we will do right by Ivy. Mayor Travers said it—we need your full cooperation.” He motioned to the front row. “We have Special Agent Vicki Starr and Special Agent Hank Dashel of the FBI with us tonight, seated in the front row.” He looked down at them. “Please stand and let the good folks of this great town—Ivy’s town—see who you are.”
They stood, revealing themselves to the mass of silent onlookers.
“We are extremely blessed to have these two distinguished investigators working with us on this case. This speaks to the commitment that is being afforded to us in this troubled hour. Everyone in this room knows that I serve the will of New Brighton and you, her citizens. I ask that you serve Ivy as you would your town, your families and your friends—serve her as you would yourselves. Ivy was new, but she was one of our own. She deserves nothing but the best each of us can give, and I expect nothing less of each of you. I will be watching.”
The captivated audience revealed a glimpse of how this errant man could hold his official position.
“At this point, we need everyone to remain calm and be careful what falsehoods you’re spreading. We have professionals here, and they will do their job. We need to be patient, honest and open our town to them so they can do right by Ivy.”
A large man stood up and hollered over the crowd. “I for one will not stand by while some sicko kills our women. This town will never be cowed again.” Angry roars of agreement issued from a number of imposing men.
The sheriff countered, “And if you can tell me who did it right now, Paul, I’ll be happy to turn his sorry ass over to you so you can boot him ’til his brains bleed out.”
Impressed, Vicki leaned in and whispered, “I love how Roscoe’s playing him. The guy has no idea who it is. The sheriff’s getting the man to shut himself up.”
Hank shrugged.
Paul stood silent for a moment, showing growing discomfort as all eyes locked on him.
“Paul, do you know who he is? ’Cause I’d love to send these two fine agents home.” He looked down at the uncomfortable man, speaking with kindness. “Paul, I know what you’re feeling—I feel it too. Nothing will stop me from protecting my precious Rose.” He looked from his wife to Paul and then the audience in general. “So believe me when I tell you, our best chance of catching Ivy Turner’s killer is to afford these agents our every courtesy—tell them everything we know.” He raised his voice. “And if you hold anything back, then, in my eyes, you’re as guilty as the sick sonofabitch who killed her, and I’d just as soon spit in your lousy faces.” He turned from the stunned audience to face his friend. “You have anything to add, Mr. Mayor?”
Vicki and Hank sat stupefied.
Travers leaped to the microphone. “Um, no, that’s good, Sheriff Roscoe. I agree with you—all except that last part.”
Roscoe nodded, satisfied.
By the crowd’s subdued reaction, this town was accustomed to outbursts from their sheriff, though it remained a sour salt.
They were only ten minutes into the mayor’s question-and-answer period when the germination of anger and fear sent the accusations flying.
A man jumped to his feet. He called out to the audience, “Where were you, Rivera?” He scanned the ocean of heads.
From three rows behind him, another man calmly replied, “I
Wails of prepared sobs and anger rose to permeate the expansive hall.
The mayor spoke louder. “Now I assure you, we are doing everything possible to find her killer and get Ivy the justice she deserves. I’m going to have Sheriff Roscoe come up and speak, but, before I do, I want to ask each one of you for your prayers—and your full cooperation.” He gestured to John Roscoe. “Sheriff?”
“Thank you, Mayor Travers. I don’t want to be here anymore than any of you. I’m here because Ivy Turner has been murdered. But know this, we will do right by Ivy. Mayor Travers said it—we need your full cooperation.” He motioned to the front row. “We have Special Agent Vicki Starr and Special Agent Hank Dashel of the FBI with us tonight, seated in the front row.” He looked down at them. “Please stand and let the good folks of this great town—Ivy’s town—see who you are.”
They stood, revealing themselves to the mass of silent onlookers.
“We are extremely blessed to have these two distinguished investigators working with us on this case. This speaks to the commitment that is being afforded to us in this troubled hour. Everyone in this room knows that I serve the will of New Brighton and you, her citizens. I ask that you serve Ivy as you would your town, your families and your friends—serve her as you would yourselves. Ivy was new, but she was one of our own. She deserves nothing but the best each of us can give, and I expect nothing less of each of you. I will be watching.”
The captivated audience revealed a glimpse of how this errant man could hold his official position.
“At this point, we need everyone to remain calm and be careful what falsehoods you’re spreading. We have professionals here, and they will do their job. We need to be patient, honest and open our town to them so they can do right by Ivy.”
A large man stood up and hollered over the crowd. “I for one will not stand by while some sicko kills our women. This town will never be cowed again.” Angry roars of agreement issued from a number of imposing men.
The sheriff countered, “And if you can tell me who did it right now, Paul, I’ll be happy to turn his sorry ass over to you so you can boot him ’til his brains bleed out.”
Impressed, Vicki leaned in and whispered, “I love how Roscoe’s playing him. The guy has no idea who it is. The sheriff’s getting the man to shut himself up.”
Hank shrugged.
Paul stood silent for a moment, showing growing discomfort as all eyes locked on him.
“Paul, do you know who he is? ’Cause I’d love to send these two fine agents home.” He looked down at the uncomfortable man, speaking with kindness. “Paul, I know what you’re feeling—I feel it too. Nothing will stop me from protecting my precious Rose.” He looked from his wife to Paul and then the audience in general. “So believe me when I tell you, our best chance of catching Ivy Turner’s killer is to afford these agents our every courtesy—tell them everything we know.” He raised his voice. “And if you hold anything back, then, in my eyes, you’re as guilty as the sick sonofabitch who killed her, and I’d just as soon spit in your lousy faces.” He turned from the stunned audience to face his friend. “You have anything to add, Mr. Mayor?”
Vicki and Hank sat stupefied.
Travers leaped to the microphone. “Um, no, that’s good, Sheriff Roscoe. I agree with you—all except that last part.”
Roscoe nodded, satisfied.
By the crowd’s subdued reaction, this town was accustomed to outbursts from their sheriff, though it remained a sour salt.
They were only ten minutes into the mayor’s question-and-answer period when the germination of anger and fear sent the accusations flying.
A man jumped to his feet. He called out to the audience, “Where were you, Rivera?” He scanned the ocean of heads.
From three rows behind him, another man calmly replied, “I
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