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Greta talked to a county social services worker mentioned in an article along with Balfour. The worker said she didn’t know him well but heard good things about him from those members of his congregation she dealt with.
So far, he seemed like a typical rural preacher. Now what?
Stymied by this approach to getting information on Balfour, she decided to confront him directly.
The next Sunday she attended his morning service. She wore a light gray suit outfit to avoid drawing attention to her deputy status and sat in a back pew. A woman directed a choir in an opening song, and then she addressed the congregation to join in a second song. At the conclusion, a man rose from a chair to the right of the choir and approached the pulpit.
Balfour looked the part—early forties, around six-foot plus, solid build, dark hair with gray streaks, and a ringing voice. As advertised, the congregation received a large dose of damnation and hellfire, liberally salted with quieter interludes and protestations of God’s love if people would come to Him and accept Jesus as Savior. Greta didn’t count the choruses of “amens” that erupted during the hour. At the end, when Balfour called for those who wanted to come forward to accept Christ, half a dozen responded, to even louder “amens.” Greta had to admit—he was very good.
Sitting in the back, she was one of the first out the door. She stood aside, while Balfour shook hands with the congregation members as they left. He had spotted her and looked questioningly at her several times. She wasn’t sure whether he recognized her, although there weren’t many women around who looked like her.
After the last person had shaken hands and left, she walked up to him. He was an inch or two taller than she thought, just under her own height.
“Pastor Balfour. I’m Tillamook County deputy sheriff Greta Havorsford.”
“Of course, Deputy Havorsford. I remember you from the Student Career Day at Cloverdale High School last year.”
She h
ad forgotten they had both been there that day. “There’s something I need to talk with you about.”
“Shall we sit at the pews, or would you like to go to my office?”
“Pews are fine.”
They went inside the church. He sat in the last row of pews, and she went to the row in front of his and swiveled to face him, her left arm along the pew back.
“So, Pastor, do you know someone named Howard Toompas, who also goes by the name of Howie?”
Balfour stared at her, his face blank.
“Howard or Howie Toompas?” she repeated.
“Isn’t he the man that was found dead several months ago?”
“That’s right. Did you know him?”
“No. I never met the man, as far as I can remember. I’m always trying to talk about Jesus with anyone who’ll listen, so I can’t be certain I’ve never met him. Why do you ask?”
“It’s part of our investigation into the murder. Your name appeared on a list of possible acquaintances of Toompas.”
Balfour looked genuinely puzzled. “A list. What list? I have to wonder how my name appeared on a list if I can’t remember ever meeting the man.”
“How you got on the list is irrelevant, just that you are on it.”
Of course, it’s just my list, Greta told herself.
“Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you about this Toompas if I don’t remember ever meeting him.”
Greta paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts, then jumped in with both feet. “In that case, what can you tell me about Roman Pererra?”
He startled, as if an electric jolt had hit him in the butt. He said nothing, but his initial blank expression morphed into something else. Fear? Worry? Resignation? She didn’t know.
She waited. Almost a minute passed before he spoke.
“Roman Pererra. There’s a name I thought I’d left well behind me.”
“So, you admit you’re Roman Pererra?”
