really,” Cal said. “She’s just been listening. At least I hope she has. And I’m sorry I called you fat.”
Robertson shrugged it off, saying, “I know what I am, Cal.”
“Sorry,” Cal muttered.
“OK,” Robertson returned. “What’s going on inside the house?”
“They’re praying for the man who killed Ruth.”
“You’re kidding,” Robertson said.
“No. They’ve agreed to forgive him.”
“Just like that?”
“No, Sheriff, not
just like that
. But yes, they’re praying for him, and for Ruth.”
Robertson said, “It sounds to me like somebody needs to be praying for Emma Wengerd.”
8
Monday, April 4
4:00 P.M .
ON THE second floor of the Millersburg jail, Captain Newell led Ricky Niell and Pat Lance into his corner office. He took a seat at a black metal desk, with his back to a tall window with white venetian blinds. During recent expansions in the sheriff’s department, new offices had been created on the second floor of the jail for the captains and for Chief Deputy Wilsher. With seniority, Newell and Wilsher had been given corner offices. The chief’s windows faced the courthouse square, like the sheriff’s on the first floor. Newell’s, when his blinds were open, gave a view of the parking lot for the bank next door. Most of the time, Newell’s blinds were closed.
As Ricky pulled a second memory card out of his camera, Captain Newell switched on his monitor. Sheriff Robertson came into the small office, and Niell and Lance shuffled forward to make room for him. Then the captain took the memory card from Niell and put it into his desktop computer.
Once the captain had his photo program running, he reached over to switch on the wall monitor, and when he opened the proper folder on the memory card, the murder scene photos appeared as small thumbnails in a grid display. Newell focused his attention on his desktop monitor. To watch the wall display,Ricky and Pat stood together at the left front corner of the captain’s desk, facing the wall to Newell’s right. Robertson watched from a position just inside the doorway, leaning back against the frame.
As a preliminary screening, Newell worked through full-screen displays of the first dozen photos and then started again at the beginning. First was a wide-angle photo of the entire glade where the body had been found, and Newell asked, “Is this your establishing shot? The overall scene?”
“Yes,” Ricky answered, “but we also have those wide-angle views from positions all around the clearing.”
As Newell advanced through the photos, Ricky narrated for the captain and the sheriff. There was the clearing where the dirt had been trampled in the middle of the small glen. There were the brushes and dead grasses at the south edge of the clearing, and the hillock on the north boundary. The rocky cut lined by barren trees to the west. The gravel of narrow TR 165, lining the eastern edge.
Newell paused on a photo of the knoll and asked, “Is this just a big pile of dirt?”
Lance answered. “Captain, it looks as if someone had piled dirt there twenty years ago and forgot about it.”
“Excavating for the well?” Newell asked.
“Probably,” Lance answered. “I’ll check, but it’s not really part of the natural terrain.”
Next, Newell paused on a photo of the trampled earth and asked, “This where she was lying?”
Again Lance answered. “Yes. And it’s where Dr. Taggert found her finger, once they had moved her body.”
On a photo of the bullet hole in the buggy seat, Newell paused and said, “Black Talon, right? Spread out wide?”
Ricky said, “Yes. We figure it was mostly spent when it exited the back of her skull.”
Newell nodded and stared grimly at the ragged hole in the leather. Then he moved backward and forward to review other photos.
There were shots of the wrecked buggy parts and of the lathered and injured horse. There were shots of Ruth Zook lying bent and broken in the dirt. Photos of the tire
Robertson shrugged it off, saying, “I know what I am, Cal.”
“Sorry,” Cal muttered.
“OK,” Robertson returned. “What’s going on inside the house?”
“They’re praying for the man who killed Ruth.”
“You’re kidding,” Robertson said.
“No. They’ve agreed to forgive him.”
“Just like that?”
“No, Sheriff, not
just like that
. But yes, they’re praying for him, and for Ruth.”
Robertson said, “It sounds to me like somebody needs to be praying for Emma Wengerd.”
8
Monday, April 4
4:00 P.M .
ON THE second floor of the Millersburg jail, Captain Newell led Ricky Niell and Pat Lance into his corner office. He took a seat at a black metal desk, with his back to a tall window with white venetian blinds. During recent expansions in the sheriff’s department, new offices had been created on the second floor of the jail for the captains and for Chief Deputy Wilsher. With seniority, Newell and Wilsher had been given corner offices. The chief’s windows faced the courthouse square, like the sheriff’s on the first floor. Newell’s, when his blinds were open, gave a view of the parking lot for the bank next door. Most of the time, Newell’s blinds were closed.
As Ricky pulled a second memory card out of his camera, Captain Newell switched on his monitor. Sheriff Robertson came into the small office, and Niell and Lance shuffled forward to make room for him. Then the captain took the memory card from Niell and put it into his desktop computer.
Once the captain had his photo program running, he reached over to switch on the wall monitor, and when he opened the proper folder on the memory card, the murder scene photos appeared as small thumbnails in a grid display. Newell focused his attention on his desktop monitor. To watch the wall display,Ricky and Pat stood together at the left front corner of the captain’s desk, facing the wall to Newell’s right. Robertson watched from a position just inside the doorway, leaning back against the frame.
As a preliminary screening, Newell worked through full-screen displays of the first dozen photos and then started again at the beginning. First was a wide-angle photo of the entire glade where the body had been found, and Newell asked, “Is this your establishing shot? The overall scene?”
“Yes,” Ricky answered, “but we also have those wide-angle views from positions all around the clearing.”
As Newell advanced through the photos, Ricky narrated for the captain and the sheriff. There was the clearing where the dirt had been trampled in the middle of the small glen. There were the brushes and dead grasses at the south edge of the clearing, and the hillock on the north boundary. The rocky cut lined by barren trees to the west. The gravel of narrow TR 165, lining the eastern edge.
Newell paused on a photo of the knoll and asked, “Is this just a big pile of dirt?”
Lance answered. “Captain, it looks as if someone had piled dirt there twenty years ago and forgot about it.”
“Excavating for the well?” Newell asked.
“Probably,” Lance answered. “I’ll check, but it’s not really part of the natural terrain.”
Next, Newell paused on a photo of the trampled earth and asked, “This where she was lying?”
Again Lance answered. “Yes. And it’s where Dr. Taggert found her finger, once they had moved her body.”
On a photo of the bullet hole in the buggy seat, Newell paused and said, “Black Talon, right? Spread out wide?”
Ricky said, “Yes. We figure it was mostly spent when it exited the back of her skull.”
Newell nodded and stared grimly at the ragged hole in the leather. Then he moved backward and forward to review other photos.
There were shots of the wrecked buggy parts and of the lathered and injured horse. There were shots of Ruth Zook lying bent and broken in the dirt. Photos of the tire
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