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Adameyer nodded, but looked confused. “What the hell was he doing here?”

“He was Vukovich's nephew. It's a long story, Jerry.”

“Is that what was bugging you about this case?”

I shrugged. “I'll make a statement.”

“Give it to Clarence,” he said. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Officer Clarence Davidson and I sat at the kitchen table while I gave my statement. It was terse. “Call me tomorrow if you have any holes to fill,” I said.

“Seems pretty cut-and-dried.”

“Agreed.”

When I walked out of the house a half-dozen newspaper and television
reporters were standing behind the yellow crime scene tape waiting for an interview and looking like a swarm of amusement park carp begging for popcorn. Waving at me thirty feet from the reporters was Shelly Dennison. I got the attention of a uniformed officer and motioned for him to allow Shelly inside the yellow tape. She ran up and embraced me like I was a soldier returning from war. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“I'm fine. What are you doing here?”

“They cut in on the news and said you were inside the house and had reported that two men were dead. Why are you here?” “That's Jack Vukovich's place.”

In a moment, the realization came over her face. “The guy who was going to go to the press with that story?” “That's the one.”

“He's dead?”

“Quite dead.”

“Oh my God. That's wonderful, darling, wonderful. The story died with him, right?”

“One of my oldest and dearest friends also died with him.”

“I'm sorry,” she managed. “But the important thing is, that man is gone and can't hurt you.” She squeezed my arm. “Let's get out of here.”

“I need to talk to the reporters before I leave.”

“Be careful. Don't say anything that will . . .” I glared at her. “This may surprise you, Shelly, but I've talked to reporters before.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “Sorry.”

I answered questions for ten minutes, explaining my role in the drama and being careful not to overstep my bounds, referring other questions to Chief Adameyer.

“Where's your car?” I asked Shelly, walking away from the reporters. It was parked a few hundred yards up the road, past the house that was under construction. When I opened her door she said, “I am so relieved that this horrible nightmare is over.”

“The horrible nightmare of losing one of my friends?”

She smiled and rubbed my arm. No, I thought. It was her horrible nightmare she was concerned about—a campaign in free fall and a smudge on her reputation. “How about I come over to your place? You shouldn't be alone tonight.”

“On the contrary, Shelly, I think it's a perfect night to be alone.”

T
he Reverend Dale Ray Coultas was laid to rest on the slopes of New Alexandria Cemetery on the morning of Wednesday, September 29, 2004. Every seat in the sanctuary of his Cathedral of Peace was filled. Parishioners and friends stood two deep around the rim of the sanctuary, and speakers were set up on the front lawn for those who could not squeeze inside the doors. Pepper stood alone in the back of the church; Adrian was not in attendance.

Deak's wife telephoned me the Sunday after his death and asked me to speak at the memorial service. She said, “Dale thought very highly of you. He treasured the times the two of you spent together when you were young. I think he would be honored if you spoke.” Of course, I said yes.

I was up early and on the road by 6 a.m., heading to Steubenville for the 10 a.m. memorial service. I traveled alone. Shelly had declined my offer to accompany me. Oh, she said, I would love to, sweetie. Can't. Meetings. Planning sessions. Crazy times, you know. Got elections to win. You'll do great. I know you'll do great. Okay. Love you. Drive safe. Bye. Mwah! It was now all she could do to maintain some semblance of a personal relationship until after election day, when I would go the way of the state representative from Ashtabula County.

My eulogy took fifteen minutes. I had practiced without emotion. But the words caught in my throat when I looked down from the pulpit at Deak's family—his wife, children, sisters, nieces and nephews, and parents who had grown gray and frail, their eyes transfixed, looking but not seeing, searching for answers to the
unanswerable. The memories of our youth flooded back. I cleared my throat and talked of how I would miss Deak. Until his death, I viewed my youth like a completed picture puzzle. But with Deak gone, it was as though someone had stolen a piece of the puzzle and it could never again be complete.

I spoke of Dale Ray's passion for the Lord and how at an early age he had developed the nickname Deacon, which we shorted to Deak. He was destined to walk in the way of the Lord and bring people to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ. When he first became my friend he was a kind and caring boy; he grew up to be a kind and caring man. I told them that I was with their minister when he died. He wasn't afraid. He spoke of his loving wife and children, and of his flock. He wanted you all to know that he loves you still and looks forward to seeing you again in heaven.

Admittedly, I took some liberties in recounting Deak's final moments. Under different circumstances, however, I was certain that is exactly what he would have said.

The funeral procession extended more than a mile, taking a full half hour for the cars to cram into the hillside cemetery and the crowd to gather around the green tent under which the casket was taken. I stayed to the back of the crowd, hoping to make a quick exit when the gravesite service concluded. There was to be a dinner at the cathedral after the interment, but I wanted to avoid further inquisition about his death.

Instead, I drove back up to Robinson Township and had lunch with Pepper at his Double Deuce Steak House. It was the first time that Pepper and I had talked at length since Deak's death. I told him a story that those at the church didn't hear. We ate and hugged and promised to be better about staying in touch.

*    *    *

Margaret led Barbara Zeffiro of the
Beacon Journal
into my office at ten o'clock the following morning. I had called her on my way home from the funeral and set up the interview.

I walked over to the mini fridge in my office and grabbed a bottle of water. “What do you want to drink, Barbara?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“You're going to be here for a while. What do you want to drink?”

“Something diet.”

I grabbed her a can of diet cola and started back across the room. “You received a phone call last week and the caller told you to ask me about Peter Sanchez, correct?” She nodded. “Do you know who called you?”

“No.”

I handed her the can of soda. “I do. It was a man named Jack Vukovich.”

“The guy from the hostage situation at the Thimble Lakes?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Let me tell you a story, Barbara. It begins on a foggy Monday morning—June 14, 1971. I was fifteen years old and without a care in the world. That morning, my three best friends and I ventured into the hills west of Crystalton, Ohio, a place called Chestnut Ridge, to look for arrowheads.”

That's the way it began. I told her everything. I told her that I watched Petey Sanchez die and conspired to keep his death a secret. When Jack Vukovich was accused of murder and went to prison, I remained silent. For years I tried to bury the memory of the event in my consciousness. I couldn't. What I did was wrong. Jack Vukovich tried to blackmail me. He threatened to expose everything if he was indicted on rape charges. He was going to be indicted. He was an animal, and I was glad he was dead.

I told her how Botticelli had gone after Vukovich on murder charges in exchange for kickbacks from Carson Nash. I also gave her photocopies of the campaign contributions and a typed transcript of my conversation with U.S. Representative Alfred Botticelli and allowed her to listen to my recording of the interview to verify the information.

It was just after 1 p.m. when the interview concluded. When she capped her pen and closed the second notebook she had filled, she said, simply, “Wow.”

I nodded. “Wow, indeed.”

“Let me ask you one more question. Why did you do this? You kept it a secret for more than thirty years, and the only other person who would have brought it to light is dead.”

“My silence cost a dear friend his life. The events that occurred on Chestnut Ridge that morning triggered a series of events that ruined lives—Reverend Coultas, Adrian Nash, and his father. They have lived in a continual maelstrom since that summer. Pepper Nash and I escaped, somewhat, but you can never completely distance yourself from such a horrific event. The likes of Alfred Botticelli, and Jack Vukovich, and my own conscience, were always there to remind me of my culpability. Reverend Coultas wanted to tell the truth the day Petey died. If he had, if any of us had, none of this would have happened. But, he remained silent because I wanted him to remain silent. Where has it gotten us? In a way, my life has been no different than that of someone who skips bail and ends up running from the law for years. They live in perpetual fear of being caught. Every time a teacher or a minister would talk about truth and honesty, I felt like they were talking just to me, like they had a portal into my soul and knew I was hiding a deep secret. I've spent my entire adult life worrying about when the secret was going to be exposed. I was tired of it. It's just that simple.”

When Barbara Zeffiro left, Margaret walked in. “Did you tell that girl your story?”

“I did.”

“Umm-umm-umm-umm-umm. Am I going to have to look for a new job?”

“I don't know, Margaret.”

On the way home I called the chairman of the Ohio Republican Party and told him to get ready for a bunch of phone calls because all hell was going to break loose when the
Beacon Journal
hit the streets the next morning.

“What's wrong?”

“I can't tell you,” I said. “I always honor a scoop.”

“What's that mean?”

He was still pleading for information when I hung up. I can only assume that he then speed-dialed Shelly, because she was calling my phone within minutes. I let her call roll to voice mail and didn't call her back. She could read about it in the morning, too.

Inexperienced criminals will hang themselves with their own alibis. Under questioning and in moments of panic, they begin creating elaborate stories of where they were, who they were with, what they were watching on television, adding minute details in an explanation of why it was impossible for them to have robbed the gas station. I have always been astonished at the number of criminals who literally talk their way into jail.

The most experienced criminals, at least the ones that have been through the judicial system a few times, understand the benefits of simplicity. I don't know. I don't remember. I didn't see anything. I wasn't there. I want to talk to my attorney.

When giving my statement to Officer Davidson and during my interview with Barbara Zeffiro, I was mostly truthful. When I wasn't, I kept it simple.

What I didn't tell them was that after Deak died I wiped the .38-caliber handgun clean of his fingerprints, and while cradling it in a handkerchief, pressed it into the lifeless palm and fingers of Jack Vukovich. After I believed it to be properly covered with his prints, I dropped it beside the body, as though that was where it landed after Vukovich committed suicide. Then, I called 911.

Did I know where the pistol came from? How would I know? I assumed it belonged to Vukovich, since he was the ex-con. What would a minister be doing with a pistol? Was I certain that it was a murder-suicide? Absolutely. At least that was what Reverend Dale Ray Coultas had said in the moments before he died. Why did he call me instead of 911? He didn't say. What was he doing there? He brought groceries and was ministering to his uncle. Jack Vukovich was a troubled soul and Reverend Coultas had a soft heart. Did I know why Vukovich used the weapon on the preacher and himself? No idea. Reverend Coultas died before I could ask him.

I justified lying to protect Deak's memory and his reputation. No one was going to shed any tears over Jack Vukovich. Deak was the one who had suffered with the memories of abuse. His family and congregation didn't need to know the truth. What purpose
would it serve other than to besmirch the memory of a good man? None that I could see.

The following week I would call the chief investigator of the Main Street Task Force and tell him that Deak said he had given Vukovich the checks from the foundation under threat of death to him and his family. Obviously, the threat wasn't a bluff. Perhaps, I offered, Reverend Coultas had told Vukovich that no more money was forthcoming and that precipitated the shooting and suicide. That seemed the most plausible explanation.