In the Bleak Midwinter

Behind her, Russ tapped on the horn. “Meanwhile, I hope you’ll reach out for some support and not try to go it alone.”

Edith nodded. “I’ll call Barb and Mitch. After all, they’re involved too, in a way.”

Clare opened her mouth and closed it again. If she got into exactly how involved the Shatthams had become last night, she could be here all afternoon. They’d find out their son’s latest attempt to get out from under his problem soon enough.

“You do that.” She retreated down the steps. “We’ll speak soon.”

She tugged on the car door, only to find it locked. Russ leaned over and let her in. Sliding into her seat, she glanced through the clear Plexiglas screen at Wesley, sitting perfect-postured in the back. The small sliding door that allowed for communication between front and back was latched shut. Clare reached for it.

Russ shifted the car into gear. “Clare, I’d rather not have any more questions until we get to the station. I want to do this by the book.” He backed slowly out of the Fowler’s drive. “I want his voluntary statement on the record, not in a car where his lawyer will be able to get it thrown out at trial.”

She cast one more look back at the young man. He met her eyes, bleak and hopeless. She had wanted to feel a sense of triumph, of justice, when they caught up with Katie’s killer. Instead she felt an ache in the pit of her stomach. So much damage. To so many lives. And it wasn’t over yet.

CHAPTER 29

At the station, Russ escorted Wesley into the interrogation room and latched the door behind him. “I’m going to make a pot of coffee,” he said to Clare. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup right now.”

“Please. What happens now?”

“I already talked with Kaminsky last night, so he’ll be expecting my call. He’s going to be here to listen in to the questioning. I want to charge this kid some bad, but I want it to stick.” He squinted into the distance. “We’ll need a cross-jurisdiction warrant to search his room at the Academy. And I want his truck . . .”

Clare cut him off. “Can I speak with him now? Not as part of this, but as priest to parishioner?”

Russ frowned. “You just met him this morning. How much of a pastoral relationship can you have?”

“That’s not the point, Russ. I want to help him if I can. He’s obviously very troubled.”

“He’s very troubled because he carefully planned and executed two cold-blooded murders and now I’ve caught his ass, excuse my French. And let’s not forget he would have done the same to you if you hadn’t escaped him. Jesu—um Crow, Clare, you’d try to make excuses for Charles Manson!”

“I’m not making excuses for anything he may have done.” She crossed her arms. “No one is beyond forgiveness, Russ. Or beyond asking for forgiveness. I have to believe that.”

He pulled off his glasses and polished them on his shirt front. “I don’t even know why you’re here. After I speak with Kaminsky, I want you to take my truck and go home.” He rapped on the door to the interrogation room. “Wesley? Reverend Clare here would like to speak with you as your—” he glanced at Clare, “—spiritual advisor. You want to talk with her?”

There was a pause. “I guess so. Okay.”

Russ unlatched the door. “There’s an alarm buzzer on the wall. If he makes any moves on you, use it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Clare nodded. The room was a smaller version of the meeting room, albeit without windows. Heavy, well-worn wooden table and chairs, tired institutional green walls. She had thought there would be one of those two-way mirrors like in the movies, but it looked like the Millers Kill police department wasn’t quite up to cinematic standards yet.

Wesley was standing at the far end of the room, his back against the wall, his eyes shadowed and suspicious. She tugged at a chair. It was bolted to the floor. She sat down and propped her chin in her hand. “I’m the one who found Cody, you know.”

Wesley looked at his boots. “Yeah, I know.” He darted a glance at her. “My dad says you’ve been working hard to see that the Burnses get to adopt him.”

She nodded. “You could help with that. As his father, you can authorize a legal adoption just by signing over the papers. They wouldn’t have to wait and wonder the way they are doing now.”

He brushed the speckled vinyl floor with the toe of his boot. “I guess we never realized that you couldn’t just give away a baby. I didn’t mean to have them wait. We just—it was easier to not think about it. The fact that there was a baby on the way. We never exactly planned any of it.”

“What about the motel? The fake I.D.? That must have taken some planning.”