“—when you’re done just give me a holler,” Tom Hoffman was saying. He was putting his hat back on his head, heading for the door. “Number’s on my card. Homicide Detectives from Lancaster are coming back today at three and they’ll probably want to speak to you. They know you’re in town.”
Vince started and turned toward Tom Hoffman. He’d been snapped out of his silent reverie but hadn’t missed much. Tom was leaving, so he could get down to whatever business he had to do. “Fine,” Vince said. He held his hand out to Tom. “And thanks. Really. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
Tom Hoffman’s eyes held his as he shook his hand. His grip was warm and firm. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “Just doin’ my job. And I hope I do it right, because what happened here really bothers the hell out of me.”
“I know what you mean,” Vince said.
“I understand you and your mother weren’t very close,” Tom Hoffman began. “From what I gathered in talking to Lillian, you and your Mom have been estranged for ten years or so. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re still checking things out around here,” Tom Hoffman continued. “That’s one of the things you have to do in a homicide investigation. The most likely suspects to come up are usually those that are closest to the murder victim. In this case, Lillian and the rest of your Mom’s church friends are the most viable suspects, since they were the only ones your mother associated with. But there’s just nothing there to connect any of them. A lot of them may be nutty in their religious beliefs—hell, I think they’re nuts and I’m a rock-solid Christian myself—but there’s no way they could have done such a thing. The very idea that Maggie was murdered was enough to get them to assemble for an emergency prayer session at Reverend Powell’s house. Lillian was just beside herself with grief. They not only don’t display the signs of guilt or suspicious behavior, but the physical evidence isn’t there. Vincent Caruthers and John Van Zant were both at home with their families that night; Lillian was on the phone with her sister; a few of the others in their little congregation were with the Reverend preparing for a Bible study. The only person alone that night was your mother. That’s why we think it was a home-invasion robbery.”
Now all the questions that had been on his mind since hearing about his mother’s death wanted to spill out. He’d held back as long as possible, especially since meeting Tom forty minutes before at the station. At that time the Chief had given him information on when the coroner would be finished with his report, and when Vince could claim the body. He’d also given Vince the names and phone numbers of his mother’s friends so that he might contact them with funeral arrangements. They hadn’t talked about the specifics of the murder at all. Now that they were alone, away from the hustle and bustle of the police station, there was so much he wanted to know.
“You told me over the phone that it appeared to be a robbery gone bad. I’ve been mulling that scenario over in my mind since last night when you called me and I just don’t get it. Don’t get me wrong, I realize people are killed in home invasion robberies all the time… especially in L.A. and other big cities. But…”
“To have it happen in a rural community like Lititz Borough is something you just can’t fathom,” Tom Hoffman finished for him, nodding. He hooked his fingers through the belt loops in his slacks and regarded Vince seriously with his dark eyes. “That’s an understandable position. It’s true, we don’t have much to speak of in the way of crime in Lititz. You should know that yourself, having lived here for a while. But it happens. And when it does, especially when it’s a murder like this, it becomes the talk of the town for the next ten years. We just don’t get that kind of crime in communities like this. Christ, everybody in Lancaster County is still talking about the Laurie Snow murder and that happened eight years ago!”
“Which I suppose brings me to my next question,” Vince said. He crossed the living room to the small kitchen that his mother had spent long hours toiling over pot roasts, cakes, and pies for church bake sales. “Do you have any suspects in mind? Could it have been anybody local?”
“That’s a possibility, although I doubt it.” Tom Hoffman looked a little uneasy as he stood in the center of the living room. “Don’t get me wrong, Vince. We have exactly one bad boy here in Lititz. Guy by the name of Steve Anderson. Steve is nineteen years old and is a hopeless excuse for a man. When he’s not serving time for shoplifting and grand auto theft or assault and battery, he usually spends time in our drunk tank for disorderly conduct. He did two years in a Lancaster Youth Facility when he was sixteen for beating another boy so bad that the victim lost an eye and was permanently brain damaged. His parents are alcoholics—his dad is on disability from a work injury as a welder at the Harley plant in York, and his mother is a sorry excuse for a woman. There are two older children who haven’t fared much better; the older son left home four years ago and is living in Baltimore, doing what, I don’t know. The daughter, from what I gather, works as a stripper in Philadelphia and has a few prostitution convictions. The family had a fairly nice home, but they lost it when the parents of the boy Steve beat up sued them and won. It wasn’t long after that when Steve’s father lost his job at the plant. They’ve been gettin’ by on public assistance since then. Anyway, to put it as bluntly as I can, the minute I stepped in your mother’s bedroom and saw what had been done to her, Steve Anderson was the first person I thought of who could have done such a thing. I came this close to heading down to the trailer the Anderson’s have moved to and arresting Steve myself.” He held his thumb and forefinger up, emphasizing how close he’d come to hauling Steve Anderson’s white-trash ass to jail the night Maggie Walters was killed. “But then Guy King, my deputy, talked some sense into me. The… well, the things we found in your mother’s bedroom was what Guy convinced me that somebody like Steve wouldn’t have the sophistication to do.”
“The sophistication?” Vince raised an eyebrow at that. What was so sophisticated about murder?
“Yeah,” Tom Hoffman took off his hat again and rubbed the top of his head with his right hand. He looked slightly queasy. “Did you ever hear about the incident in Arkansas a few years ago regarding the murder of three little boys? Eight years old I believe they were. Three teenagers were caught and ultimately convicted in their deaths.”
Vince shook his head. “No.” Watching the local news was about the most he digested when it came to the world’s atrocities.
“It happened in a community similar to Lititz. The boys had been sexually mutilated and sodomized. Then they’d been brutally slashed with a knife. The murders were committed in a gully, off in the woods. The murder weapon was found six months later, but it’s questionable that’s even the weapon used. Anyway, what led the police to their suspects was that they were regarded as local riff-raff, much in the way Steve Anderson is. Only these guys—kids, actually, ’cause they were no more than seventeen or so when it happened—were nowhere near the scum Steve Anderson is. Their biggest sin was that they were into heavy metal music.”