According to the Winnebago County Sheriff Department, the press conference would begin at 9 A.M. on the Culbertson home’s front lawn. At 8:26, after circling the area numerous times, Bert found a parking spot three blocks away. She maneuvered the vehicle between a black SUV and a utility truck with only inches to spare. Gigi held her breath and covered her eyes until Bert shut off the engine.

“You’ve got some magical powers, girlfriend.” Gigi peered out the car windows, amazed.

“What? Ye of little faith.” Bert laughed and gave a soft shove to her partner’s shoulder. “You didn’t think I could do it?”

“Heck, I’m not sure my mom’s old VW would fit in here.” She opened her door and stepped to the curb. Shaking her head, she shrugged, “Wow!”

Bert locked the car and walked around to join Gigi. “Nonsense!” She laughed at her co-worker before adding, “We better get stepping. I want to nose around before the press conference gets started. By the way, did you hear anything more from Ric?”

“No, he said O’Shea and the Sheriff were in the Chief’s office almost all night. People were coming and going, but no one was talking outside the office. Ric seems to think they’re going to press charges.”

“Well, I guess we’ll know soon enough what’s going on.” The two women hurried down the sidewalk, dodging discarded bikes, broken Tonka trucks, and other miscellaneous toys. Police placed barricades at each end of the block, allowing the news media trucks, police cars, and reporters parking access since the street was narrow.

“Looks like a block party instead of a press conference.” Bert surveyed the area. “Must be a hundred people here, and that’s not counting police officers.”

“Crazy! And we couldn’t get anyone to talk to us.” Gigi shook her head. “Guess they’re all looking to get their five minutes of fame.”

“Something’s going on, but I’m not sure what it is.” Bert nibbled on the inside of her cheek. “Let’s mill around. We’ll split up and see if we can pick up on anything.” 

The women separated, listening and mingling among the people.

**********

“May I have everyone’s attention, please?” A well-known and respected officer, Sergeant Triston Hall, approached the podium. The crisp, freshly pressed, and starched dress-shirt showed today’s press conference’s mood - strictly business. On an average day, if you were looking for Triston, the first spot to check would be the break room, eating a chocolate glazed long john and black coffee, no cream, and three sugars. After her morning fix, she would be at the front desk, a powerhouse with an attitude. If asked to describe her, the first word would be tough, a hard-ass except where kids are involved. Triston had a big heart for all of them. After Beth’s mother’s death, Triston had several opportunities to have a conversation with the teenager, and in typical Triston fashion, she liked the girl. Her heart rejected the department’s current decision, but her head forced her to follow the rules.

Checking her watch, she surveyed the crowd before tapping the microphone with her pen. “Quiet, please.” 

Not getting the response she expected, Triston switched to her “get it done” voice and announced, “Coffee klatch is over, folks. Let’s get to work!”

As the roar settled into a low buzzing hum, she leaned into the podium, adjusted the microphone, and spoke, “On behalf of RPD, the Sheriff’s Department, and Mr. Culbertson, we would like to thank all the volunteers and law enforcement officers that took part in the area search last night. Unfortunately, sixteen-year-old Beth Culbertson is still at large. When dealing with juveniles, our first concern should be to find her and bring her home.”

One reporter yelled across the crowd. “Is she listed as a runaway?” 

Encouraged, another jumped on the bandwagon and asked, “Is she wanted for questioning, or are charges pending against her?” 

A WREX reporter standing near the front of the crowd threw in his gauntlet and added, “Is the recent death of her mother involved in any way?” He received an icy stare from Triston. 

As the barrage of questions continued, Triston stepped away from the podium, sat down, and crossed her arms against her chest, waiting for silence.

Satisfied, Triston approached the podium for the second time and tapped on the microphone. “We ask that you refrain from any questioning at this time. First, Sheriff Trainor will speak to you, followed by Rockford Police Chief Pat O’Shea. Also, Mr. Culbertson would like to make a brief statement. Thank you.” She turned and nodded at the Sheriff, remarking, “I’ll turn the podium over to you, sir.”

It had been an exceptionally long night. Sheriff Trainor didn’t like press conferences, especially ones involving kids. His first impression of Mr. Culbertson hadn’t been a good one. After this morning, it had deteriorated. 

Sheriff Trainor approached the podium, acknowledging with a nod several familiar faces. He took his prepared speech from his pocket, unfolded it, and moved to the microphone. Clearing his throat, he read, “At 6:34 pm last night, the Department Dispatcher received a call requesting assistance at 1543 Peyton Street, the Culbertson’s residence. “

A helicopter hovered over the group. Annoyed, the sheriff looked up, waited for it to move off, then continued. “Two squads were in the area, and both units arrived at said location ten minutes after the call to the dispatcher. A witness, identified as Nancy Galgato, reported she came to the home, found Mr. Culbertson unconscious and bleeding from an open wound to his head. My report shows he received medical attention from his private physician.” 

The sheriff drank some water. Sensing an opening, several reporters began bombarding him with questions he did not plan to answer.

Raising his hand, he waited for the voices to come to a low rumble before he continued reading the prepared speech. “The report indicates Beth Culbertson left the home of her own volition, and she was unharmed. Our concern is for her safety. Last night, my department joined forces with the Rockford police and initiated a door-to-door search, seeking information concerning the missing teenager and the assault against her father. We are asking Ms. Culbertson to contact her family or law enforcement. Now, I’ll turn the mic over to Chief Pat O’Shea.” The two men avoided looking at each other.

“Thank you, Sheriff Trainor.” Chief O’Shea nodded in his direction, acknowledging his assistance in the investigation. “The Rockford Police Department, including myself, want to thank Sheriff Trainor and all his staff for their quick response and assistance last night. Because their dispatcher received the initial call, they responded and then notified our department since it’s within city limits.”

A uniformed officer stepped over to the sheriff and whispered into his ear. The sheriff’s eyes shot toward the chief before he followed the officer away from the staging area.

Chief O’Shea continued to address the reporters. “Our initial contact indicated the assault on Mr. Culbertson derived from an intense argument between him and his daughter. Ms. Culbertson died in a horrific automobile accident six months ago, and the household has been under extreme tension. The victim stated he walked away, and his daughter bashed him from behind. Mr. Culbertson told the officers cash was missing from the residence, and he assumed his daughter had taken it.

“However, during a late-night interview with Ms. Galgato, she admitted the reason she had come to the Culbertson home. Earlier, she’d left a bank deposit bag from Captain Jack’s Bar. It contained the receipts and cash from the previous night. It was also missing from the residence. Both Galgato and Culbertson admitted they withheld the information to protect the daughter.”

O’Shea loved grandstanding. This morning’s press conference was feeding his ego, big time. He paused, cleared his throat, and continued, “Considering this recent evidence, charges of aggravated assault and grand theft are pending. We hope if Beth Culbertson is listening to this press conference, she will contact our offices. Thank you for your time.” He smiled for the cameras and then left the area, not responding to the flurry of questions following him.

Sergeant Triston Hall spoke into the microphone, “Excuse me, but Mr. Culbertson would like to say a few words.”

The uniformed officers made an opening, and a nurse dressed in a pale blue uniform pushed Dwight Culbertson in a wheelchair, front and center. Like angry bees, a loud buzz rose from the crowd. A large turban of white gauze bandaged his head. He appeared to struggle for air. The unsuspecting reporters went wild. Their cameras flashed like fireflies at night. In the background, Nancy Galgato suppressed her pleasure; she’d gotten the exact reaction she’d wanted.

Gigi gasped, but Bert’s reaction was far different. Her gut told her Beth wouldn’t have assaulted her father unless it was in self-defense. She glared at Dwight with a vengeance. “Gigi, I don’t know what happened, but it’s not the picture they’re painting. Beth didn’t do this!” 

Gigi frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know, Bert. He looks awful.”

“He’s going to look worse when I get done investigating him.” Bert was furious, and the gears were shifting into high. “I can’t do this alone, Gigi, but it’s not what you expected for your first week on the job.”

“Shut up! We’re in this together.” Gigi was determined to stand by her new friend, but she couldn’t help but be a little nervous. She’d expected nothing like this when she accepted the job.