I, Tish Bardell, was standing in Dr. Beth’s office when I remembered the murderer’s name. It just flashed into my mind as if I hadn’t been searching for it all these years—searching for it and not being able to remember it. I repeated the name under my breath three times, trying to make sure it wouldn’t disappear from my thinking again. In my excitement, had I accidentally said the name aloud? Some of the waiting patients had lowered their magazines and were staring at me. I ignored them, and I tried to avoid smearing their signatures when I eased my left arm across the page to sign Beth’s appointment book. But who cared about smears today! Remembering the murderer’s name was like a Roman-candle exploding in my mind. It kept repeating over and over again. Maybe I should write the name down. Even Roman candles went out eventually.

My sister, Ashley, died 10 years ago. At that time I’d just celebrated my fifth birthday, and Ashley and Beth were 15. I’ve struggled with partial amnesia ever since Ashley’s murder. Dr. Beth, once Ashley’s best friend, believed that somewhere hidden inside my brain lay the identity of Ashley’s murderer. All these ten years she had been trying to coax the name into my conscious mind.

This was the day. Now I could hardly wait to tell Beth the horrible thing I had remembered.

Today Beth’s a practicing psychologist with an office in the Mental Health Medical Plaza right downtown, and I’ve lived with her since my parents died of broken hearts. Beth says extreme grief caused their deaths. I saw little difference between grief and a broken heart.

My professional sessions with Beth have always been freebies because she’s been determined to identify Ashley’s murderer and bring that person to justice—and also because she says that with my blonde hair and green eyes I’m a spitting image of Ashley. I remind her of their past friendship.

Today when I blurted the murderer’s name at the beginning of our latest mind-probing session, Beth snapped on the tape machine she always kept at the ready. At her signal, we began recording our question and answer session.

Beth: You’re absolutely sure Butch Smith is the person who stabbed Ashley?

Tish: Yes. I’m absolutely sure. I saw it happen. I couldn’t be surer and I don’t understand how I managed to blank it from my mind all these years. (I felt tears welling up, felt my throat tighten, but I refused to break down and ruin this session with tears. Today my anger was stronger than my grief and my sadness.)

Beth: Sometimes when we can’t bear things, we blank it out. Can you bear talking to me about it now?

Tish: Yes. Today I can. At the time, I felt abandoned and horrified by Ashley’s death. I think I felt so furious at Butch that my mind snapped. When my parents questioned me, I wanted to reply, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell them a thing.

Beth: What happened?

Tish: My parents thought I was deliberately refusing to answer them. In addition to the grief they were feeling, they were angry at me, and I couldn’t explain my silence.

Beth: So what did you do?

Tish: In my childish grief and my unspeakable anger at Butch Smith, I tried to get even with my small world and everyone in it. When nobody was paying any attention to me, I walked back to the church, to the sanctuary where Butch stabbed Ashley. I couldn’t bear the memory of his crime. I ran from the sanctuary and crept into the narthex where I stole the first thing I saw—a gilt-edged book from a brass dais mounted on a walnut stand. That was my childish way of getting even with my parents, Butch Smith, my world.

Beth: Nobody stopped you?

Tish: It happened on a Monday, and nobody was around to see me take the book. Later, when Pastor Brandon missed it, he made an announcement from the pulpit. He begged the thief to return the church’s property and he even offered a reward for the book. My whole body burned with guilt, but I said nothing. And I hid the book well. Do you want to see it?

Beth: Later. I’ll certainly want to see it later. But right now, if you can bear to do so, please tell me about the day Ashley died. Tell me everything you can remember no matter how small the detail.

Tish: Ashley and I had walked to the church so she could practice on the pipe organ. Although she’d been taking organ lessons only two years, she’d been invited to play the coming Sunday’s offertory. I tagged along because I liked to be with her and because I liked the lingering scent of candle wax that hung in the sanctuary.

Beth: Did you see Butch inside the church when you arrived?

Tish: No. We were alone. I could hear someone typing in another room, and somewhere a phone rang, but nobody answered. We went to the church office and the secretary gave Ashley the key to the organ and clicked on the sanctuary lights for her. Ashley eased onto the organ bench and turned the instrument on while I sat in the pew our family usually sits in on Sunday mornings.

Beth: The two of you were alone?

Tish: Yes. But before long Butch arrived, and I lay down in my pew, hiding, because I hated him. I felt pleased that he couldn’t see me.

Beth: You hated him? Why did you hate Butch?

Tish: He scared me because he was so big and mean. The week before, he painted his name on my new scooter and he laughed when I cried. When Daddy asked him about it, Butch lied and said he didn’t do it. But I saw him do it. He lied. He loved scrawling his ugly name on things. Remember? One time he ruined a freshly painted wall on our school. And he wrote his name on the new water tower. Nobody ever punished him, not even when he scrawled on cemetery gravestones and then toppled them over. His rich dad paid for cleanup.

Beth: I remember. Go on.

Tish: That day in the church Butch asked Ashley to go to a school mixer with him. She refused. Nobody else had asked her, but I knew she didn’t want to go with Butch. At first she spoke politely and softly. He wouldn’t accept her refusal. He even stepped over the communion railing and plopped down beside her on the organ bench.

Beth: Did he touch her?

Tish: He grabbed her arm and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away. Ashley disliked Butch, too. She taunted him, sort of chanting: Fools names and fools faces are always found in public places.

Beth: How did he react to that?

Tish: He shook his fist at her and left the organ bench and sanctuary. But in only a few short minutes he returned, scowling and carrying a knife. He snuck up behind her and I saw overhead light glint on the steel blade.

Beth: What did you do? Were you still hiding in the pew?

Tish: I never left my hiding place. I sat up for just a moment and shouted a warning, but Ashley was playing loudly. Organ sounds covered my voice. Neither Ashley nor Butch heard me. I hid again, peeking, but ducking from sight after Butch stabbed her and ran. I can’t bear talking about the blood, the ambulance, her funeral. I’ve always felt guilty about not being able to make her hear my warning. I shouted as loudly as I could. Really I did. But the organ . . .

Beth snapped off the tape. "Forget the guilt trip for now. We’ll discuss it later. Please show me that book you stole."

"Okay. I hid it and I’ve never really examined it—ashamed of stealing. I’ll go home and get it for you right now. I still know exactly where it is."

"I’ve more patients now." Beth glanced at her watch. "Will you bring me the book at four o’clock? I’ll be through with office hours by then."

"Are you going to make me return the book?" Tish asked. "I suppose that would be the right thing to do. After all these years, Pastor Brandon would be very surprised, I think. And I’d be very embarrassed to have to admit to stealing."

"I think he’d forgive you," Beth said. "After all, he’s in the sin/forgive business. But of course, you’ll have to forgive yourself, too."

Sometimes Beth made things very difficult, but I always tried to do what she suggested. I supposed I’d have to return the book to Pastor Brandon with an apology. But I’d worry about that later.

I found the book where I’d hidden it deep in my lilac-scented bureau drawer. Now when I opened it, I saw it was a dated guest register for visitors so sign as they entered the church. Of course I immediately turned to Aug 5, 1994, the day Ashley died. All the names on that date were on the left-hand page. The right hand page held names signed on August 6. All except one.

Butch had signed his name and the August 5^th date on the right hand side of the book with the August 6^th signatures. At first that seemed strange, but I remembered that Butch loved seeing his name in strange places. Then suddenly I remembered something else and I understood.

Returning to Beth’s office, I showed her the guest register. She turned to the August 5 page just as I had done, and she saw Butch’s name on the August 6 page.

"He couldn’t resist signing his name, could he?" Beth asked, shaking her head.

"Butch and his folks never belonged to our church, but his name in this book proves he came there on the day Ashley died. Won’t this book help prove he murdered her?"

"It’s only circumstantial evidence," Beth said. "It’s time to go to the police. Will you tell Detective Bailey your story? He’ll probably be more interested in your eye-witness account of Butch’s activities than he will in this book."

Of course I agreed to go with Beth to police headquarters.

The police station stunk of stale cigarette smoke. I could taste it on the back of my tongue. Although Detective Bailey loomed so big and tall he scared me, I tried to forget that as I talked and showed him the church book. His drawer in his steel file cabinet squeaked as he pulled out Ashley’s folder, read it, then pulled Butch’s folder and studied handwriting samples.

"Will you please wait here until we bring Butch in for questioning?" Detective Bailey asked.

We waited. Butch operated a sleazy bar near the railroad tracks. I don’t patronize bars, or anything else in that part of town, so our paths had never crossed. Now when Butch entered the station his black scowl matched his black hair until he turned so pale I thought he might faint—or run.

"Ashley?" He whispered her name then shook his head as if dazed.

"This’s Ashley’s sister, Tish," Detective Bailey said. "I see you’ve noticed the family resemblance. Please hear her out.

Butch had a wild look in his eyes as he listened while I retold my story. When I finished, everyone sat silent for only a moment before Butch jumped up and began shouting.

"You’re trying to frame me! I’ve never been near that church in my life. Someone forged my name. Someone’s trying to frame me."

"I don’t think so," I said. "From past news articles, everyone in this town knows you’re left handed, knows your love of seeing your own name in obvious places. Well, I’m aware of those things, too. Think about your signature in the guest book."

"It’s not my signature," Butch shouted. "I tell you I never entered that church—not ever. Someone signed my name to get me in trouble."

"I don’t think so, Butch. I know how it is to be left-handed. It’s hard for a lefty to sign his name on a left side page with no place to rest his arm. This book was on a dais and there would have been no support for your arm. But you couldn’t resist leaving your name, so you reached across the book, rested your arm on the left page and signed the right side page."

"That how it happened, Butch?" Detective Curry asked. "You stabbed Ashley in a fit of rage. Then in a fit of ego, you signed the visitor’s book."

Butch slumped forward as Detective Curry read him his rights then snapped the steel cuffs around his wrists.