Page 8 of A Fabulously Unfabulous Summer for Henry Milch

“Big enough.”

“How much money did they get, do you think?”

“I can’t give out that information,” he replied.

“So, none,” I guessed.

He narrowed his eyes at me, inadvertently telling me I was right.

“If they didn’t get any money, why are you so sure it was a—” I stopped. There was a reason he thought it was a robbery. And that a meth head had done it. Something must have been left at the scene. Paraphernalia? A glassine envelope? A pipe of some kind? But why? Why would you try to burgle a church and when you didn’t get any money leave some of your gear behind. That didn’t make sense.

“It was someone physically strong, wasn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Reverend Hessel was beaten to a pulp.”

“He wasn’t… He was struck in the head with a blunt object. Three times.”

Now we were getting somewhere. Unfortunately, he added, “That was in the newspaper.”

“Oh,” I said, a blush jumping into my cheeks. “I guess I missed that. What kind of blunt object?”

“A blunt one.”

“Something that the killer brought? Or was it something that was there in the office?”

“We don’t know what it is, so we can’t figure that out.”

I chewed on my lip as I concentrated. If this wereCSIthe shape of the wound would tell us it was ballpeen hammer, possibly a particular brand. So, if the wound wasn’t telling them anything, it was just, well… flat?

“What about physical evidence? Fingerprints? DNA?”

“Of course we found fingerprints. Lots of fingerprints. Problem is, the list of people who’d been in and out of that office is about two pages long. We could spend a couple of weeks eliminating prints to see what we’re left with, but the remaining prints wouldn’t be useful if that person isn’t in the state police database. Generally, you need to be a criminal in order to be in there.”

“What about DNA?” I asked.

“DNA requires bodily fluids, fingernail scrapings, hair… and, once again, if the DNA isn’t in the FBI database it’s not going to do us any good. Until we have a suspect.”

That was not helpful.

“So, do you have a suspect?”

“Look, just because you got lucky with the Sammy Hart murder doesn’t mean you know anything about investigating crimes. Tell your grandmother we’re working on this and expect to have more information in a couple of days.”

“And you’ll call her to let her know?”

“It will be in the newspaper.”

Technically,I was not supposed to leave Nana Cole alone—something her doctor had insisted Imust notdo—really, did he think I’m completely irresponsible? I’d been able to go to the sheriff’s office because her physical therapist was scheduled to come by at one. Nana Cole had hustled me out of there at ten-of. After I visited the sheriff’s office, I went to Benson’s Country Store and picked up a few things. Well, more than a few things. My grandmother had given me a long list.

So, at nearly three, I walked through the back door juggling four plastic bags. Nana Cole sat at the table with an old guy around forty. He was certainly not my idea of a physical therapist, but whatever. Each to his own.

I shoved the bags of groceries onto the counter, and said, “Hi, I’m Mrs. Cole’s grandson. I thought you’d be finished by now.”

“Henry, this is Jasper Kaine,” Nana Cole said. I remembered the name. He was my grandmother’s neighbor who leased her cherry orchards.

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were the physical therapist.”