A Simple Murder

by Linda Castillo

  “Unconscious?” The Amish man gapes at me, steps back, putting a hand to his chest. “He is injured?”

  “He was taken to the hospital about twenty minutes ago. I don’t have word just yet on his condition.”

  “I saw the police lights.” His brows furrow. “What happened to him?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If you could answer a few questions, it would be a big help.”

  “Of course. Come, while I finish here.” Without speaking, he turns back to the buggy and resumes hitching the horse, working quickly now, anxious to get on the road.

  “I can drive you and your wife to the hospital if you’d like,” I tell him.

  “We will take the buggy.”

  I can tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that the news has shaken him. I give him a moment and then ask, “When’s the last time you saw Noah?”

  “Last night. When he left. Around seven o’clock.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “The high school,” he mutters.

  Surprise ripples through me. “Homecoming?”

  He nods, his mouth tightening, telling me he isn’t happy about it.

  Having grown up in Painters Mill—having grown up Amish—I know firsthand how unusual it would be for a Swartzentruber boy to attend a typically “English” social rite of passage like homecoming.

  “Who was he with?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look at me. “Es maydel.” That girl. He says the words with a generous dose of distaste. “The one he’s been seeing. The English girl. Ashley Hodges.”

  Another layer of surprise settles over the first. Ashley Hodges is the daughter of a high-powered local attorney, Craig Hodges. The family was in the news recently when the Columbus Dispatch profiled his law firm, Hodges and Hodges. According to the piece, they’re Painters Mill’s wealthiest family.

  “They’ve been seeing each other?” I ask. “Dating?”

  He gives me a withering look. “Noah is on rumspringa.”

  He says the word as if it explains everything. In a way, it does. Rumspringa is the Deitsh word for “running around.” It’s the time in a young Amish person’s life, usually their late teens, before they commit to the church. A time when they’re allowed to break all those Amish rules while their parents do their best to look the other way.

  “I knew nothing good would come of it,” Mr. Kline says.

  “Why is that?” I know the answer, but I’m obliged to ask anyway.

  He looks at me as if I’m dense. “She is English.”

  “Does Noah own a vehicle?” I ask, knowing many times young Amish men will purchase a vehicle during rumspringa. “Does he drive?”

  The Amish man glares at me over the horse’s back as he smooths the leather. “No.”

  “How did he get to the school?”

  “He walked, like always.”

  “Do any of his friends have access to a vehicle?” I ask. “Amish or English?”

  “Ben Weaver bought a car a couple of months ago.” Clucking his tongue, he shakes his head. “Lives over in Killbuck now with a bunch of boys.”

  I write down the name. “Are Noah and Ben close?”

  “They were up until a few months ago.”

  “What happened?”

  The man sighs. “They had some kind of falling-out. Don’t see each other much anymore.”

  “What was the falling out about?”

  “You’ll have to ask them.” He makes a sound of disapproval. “You know how young men are during rumspringa. Drinking beer and staying out all hours. Dumb as a herd of cows.”

  “Do you know how Ashley got to homecoming?”

  He shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

  I think about that a moment. “Mr. Kline, has your son had any arguments or disagreements with anyone recently?”

  His hands go still on the harness. He looks at me over the top of the horse’s back, his eyes narrowing on mine. “What are you asking me, Chief Burkholder? Did someone do something to my son? Hurt him? On purpose?”

  “I’m just asking questions that need to be asked so I can get this figured out.”

  “Noah is Amisch. He has no enemies.” He resumes harnessing, yanks a strap tight. “No telling about that girl, though.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You figure it out, Kate Burkholder. You should know, with your being English and all.”

  I wince inwardly, curb a pang of an emotion I don’t want to identify. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help me figure out what happened?” I ask.

  Kline finishes with the harness and glances back toward the house. “We have to leave for the hospital now. Our business is done.”

  * * *

  The Hodges family lives in the Maple Crest Subdivision, an upscale housing development that’s Painters Mill’s rendering of location, location, location. Set on lushly landscaped lots, the homes are spacious, tasteful, and expensive.

  Two turns and I pull into the driveway of a spectacular Tudor-style mansion and park behind a white Escalade. A flagstone path takes me past a sculpted boxwood hedge to massive double wood doors more befitting a Scottish castle. I ring the bell and wait.

  A pretty blond woman of about forty answers. She’s wearing yoga pants and a snug T-shirt, distracted, her cell phone tucked into the crook of her neck. She does a double take upon noticing my uniform. “Oh.” Ending her call, she motions me into the foyer. “I thought you were the pool guy,” she says a little breathlessly. “Is everything all right?”

  I give her a quick summary of what happened to Noah Kline.

  “Noah? Oh my God.” She presses a hand to her throat. “Is he all right?”

  “I’m not sure what his condition is at the moment. I’m trying to find out what happened.” I pause, giving her a chance to respond. When she says nothing, I add, “Ashley Hodges is your daughter?”

  “Yes, of course.” She sticks out her hand and we shake. “I’m Belinda Hodges.”

  “I understand Ashley was with Noah last night.”

  “They went to homecoming together.”

  I give her a thoughtful smile. “Must have made quite a stir.”

  She smiles back. “I’ll say.”

  “Did either of them have any problems with anyone?”

  “I talked to Ashley briefly when she got home and she had a wonderful time.”

  “Your daughter is fifteen?”

  “Fifteen going on twenty.” She blows a breath through her bangs. “A sophomore this year. She’s an honor student. Captain of the volleyball team. She volunteers at the retirement home one night a week.”

  “How well do you know Noah?”

  “I’ve only met him a couple of times, but he seems quite nice.” Her eyes meet mine as the meaning of my questions sinks in. “You think what happened to him wasn’t an accident?”

  “At this juncture, I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” I say, keeping the point of my visit as innocuous as possible. “Does Ashley drive?”

  “She just got her temporary permit. So far, so good. Knock on wood.” She taps her knuckles against the door. “Jason, my son, got his last year, and boy do I worry. They’re responsible, but you know how kids are.”

  I let the silence ride. She fiddles with the Fitbit on her wrist, glances toward the kitchen. Ready to be rid of me so she can get on with her day. More concerned about her schedule than Noah.

  “Would it be all right if I talked to Ashley, Mrs. Hodges? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

  She blinks, hesitates. “She’s still sleeping.”

  It’s after 8:00 A.M., early for a teenager who was up late the night before, but not an unreasonable time, especially in light of the circumstances. “I’m sorry to wake her, but I’d really like to speak to her to see if there’s anything she can add.”

  “Sure, let me get—”

  “I’m right here, Mom,” comes a sing-song voice.

  I turn to see a pret
ty, blond-haired girl trot down the curved staircase.

  “I got dibs on pancakes!” Behind her, a slightly older boy wearing a Painters Mill High football hoodie pounds down the steps. Both of them are giggling. At the landing, he elbows past his sister, descends the remaining steps in two big strides. He doesn’t notice me until he reaches the base. He freezes, giving us a deer-in-the-headlights stare. Not expecting to find the police standing in the foyer first thing in the morning.

  The girl’s stride falters when she notices my uniform. “Oh. Hi.”

  Ashley Hodges is slender and athletically built, with blue eyes and sooty black lashes. Wearing ratty sweats, her hair pulled into an untidy ponytail, and not a stitch of makeup, she’s model pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way. She reaches the base of the stairs, eyes darting from me to her mother and back to me. “What’s wrong?”

  Belinda Hodges smiles at her children. “Chief Burkholder, this is my daughter, Ashley. And my son, Jason.”

  The two teenagers exchange looks, then move cautiously toward us. Belinda leans to kiss both of them on their cheeks.

  Ashley’s eyes flick from her mother to me and back. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s Noah, honey.” Belinda Hodges puts her arm around her daughter. “He’s in the hospital.”

  “What?” The girl presses both hands to her cheeks, her eyes meeting mine over her French-manicured fingertips.

  “Whoa,” mutters Jason. “What happened to him?”

  “How bad is he hurt?” the girl asks, the pitch of her voice rising. “Is he okay?”

  I recap the basics, keeping it vague.

  “Oh my God. Mom.” She looks at her mother, her expression ravaged. “I have to go see him. Please.”

  “Sure, honey.”

  Jason touches her arm. “I can take you if you need a ride, squirt.”

  I address the girl before she can turn away. “I understand you and Noah went to homecoming last night.”

  Though she’s visibly shaken by the news of Noah’s hospitalization, happiness flashes on her face at the mention of his name. “It was our first real date. We just danced and talked all evening. He’s incredibly sweet. We had a great time.”

  “How did you get to the school?” I ask. “Did someone drive you?”

  “Dad drove me. Noah walked, like always.”

  “What did Dad do?”

  The four of us turn at the sound of the male voice. I see Craig Hodges emerge from the kitchen. Wearing sleek running gear—tights and a windbreaker, with headphones looped around his neck—he’s sweating and flushed as if he just arrived home from a morning run. He does a double take when he sees me and his expression sobers. “Is everything all right?”

  I tell him about Noah Kline.

  “An accident?” he asks.

  “We’re not sure what happened just yet.” I turn my attention back to the girl. “Ashley, were there any problems last night? Any disagreements with anyone? An argument? Anything like that?”

  “Everyone was so sweet to Noah. I mean, he didn’t know a soul and he wasn’t exactly comfortable. I introduced him around, you know, and everyone went out of their way to make him feel welcome.”

  “What time did you leave?” I ask.

  “I picked her up around midnight,” Craig inserts.

  “What about Noah?” I ask.

  “I offered to drive him home,” he says. “It had been raining on and off.” The man shrugs. “He said he’d walk, so I let him.”

  “You should have asked a little more nicely,” Ashley says, pouting.

  Her father shrugs. “He’s a big boy.”

  “Here we go,” Jason mutters, rolling his eyes.

  Ashley’s eyes fill with tears. She looks up at her mother. “Mom, please, Noah doesn’t have a phone. I just want to see him. Please. Can we just go?”

  Craig sets his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Of course, sweetheart. Let me walk Chief Burkholder to her car. You grab a quick breakfast, get dressed, and then we’ll go.”

  He makes eye contact with his wife, then me, his expression letting me know he’s got more to say that he doesn’t want his daughter to hear. Jason catches his father’s silent message. The three of us head outside.

  When the front door closes behind us, Craig says, “Ashley’s too naïve to understand, but I thought you should know, Chief Burkholder. She had a boyfriend before Noah came along.”

  Jason nods, his expression sober. “Doug Mason. He’s on the football team. I always liked him, but he’s kind of a jerk.”

  “Doug wasn’t happy when she broke up with him.” The lawyer grimaces. “Even less so when he found out she was seeing this Amish kid.”

  “Some people at school think it’s weird that Ashley’s going out with an Amish guy,” Jason tells us. “They think the relationship is cringey. But Doug’s a bully.”

  “He got into trouble for hazing one of his freshman teammates last year,” Craig says.

  I divide my attention between the two of them. “Has Doug Mason had problems with Noah Kline or Ashley?”

  The two exchange a look, then the attorney scowls. “I saw some changes in Ashley right about the time they broke up. She wouldn’t talk about it. Said everything was fine.” He sighs unhappily, his expression contrite. “I went through her phone. I just about hit the roof when I saw the texts Mason had sent her. That little shit called her a few choice names.”

  “Like what?”

  “Uppity bitch. Cocktease.” He growls at the back of his throat. “Once I got myself calmed down, I talked to Doug’s father and it stopped.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A couple months.” He heaves another sigh. “Look, I’m not a big fan of her relationship with this Amish kid. He seems decent enough and I don’t have anything against the Amish, but those people are backward. They only go to the eighth grade. The boy doesn’t even drive. None of that bodes well for a successful career.”

  “Some of the Amish make a good living,” I point out. “Farmers. Cabinet makers. Furniture makers. Builders.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not the future I have in mind for my daughter. Honestly, I don’t know what she sees in him.”

  * * *

  I call Pomerene Hospital on my way back to the scene. After being put on hold twice, I finally get the emergency department. Due to HIPAA laws and privacy concerns, the nursing supervisor can’t tell me much. But because I’m law enforcement working an open case—and she knows me personally—she’s able to give me enough information so that I can proceed with the investigation.

  The news isn’t good.

  “Doctor Romer ran a CT scan and some x-rays upon arrival,” she tells me. “The boy’s got a skull fracture, Chief. Likely a traumatic brain injury. He’s in a coma.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “Critical.”

  My heart stutters in my chest. “Is he going to make it?”

  “It’s going to be touch and go for the next twenty-four hours. They don’t want the brain to swell. That’s the main concern. That’s all the doc can say at this point.”

  I wonder if Noah’s parents have arrived at the hospital. If they’ve heard the news. I think about Ashley Hodges. In the back of my mind I’m reminded that if the boy dies from his injuries, the investigation will take a much more aggressive path.

  I thank her as I make the turn onto the township road. Tomasetti’s Tahoe and a Ford Focus I don’t recognize is parked on the shoulder. The men are standing in the field, a measuring tape stretched between them. I meet them at the spot where Noah Kline was found.

  “This is Kyle Holloway,” Tomasetti says, motioning toward the man on the other end of the measuring tape. “He’s a patrol sergeant with the Wooster PD and specializes in accident reconstruction.”

  “Thanks for coming.” I extend my hand and we shake.

  Holloway is casually dressed in khaki slacks, rubber boots for the mud, and a plaid shirt covered by a Wooster Police Departmen
t windbreaker. He grins. “I owed John a favor.”

  I give Tomasetti a look. “Lots of people owe you a favor.”

  He shoots me a half smile. “How’s the kid?”

  I tell him. “Things are going to heat up if he doesn’t pull through.”

  “Especially in light of what we think happened here,” Holloway adds.

  I look from man to man. “That sounds like maybe this isn’t a likely case of car surfing gone awry.”

  Putting his hands on his hips, Holloway makes a sound of bemusement, and strides toward the road. “I’ve reconstructed hundreds of accidents in the thirty years I’ve been a cop, Chief Burkholder. In this case, I don’t have much in the way of skid marks or even a vehicle to look at. That said, we’re not operating completely blind, either. Judging from the tire ruts, the footprints, the other indentations and marks where I believe someone was on the ground, and the location of the blood, I think we’re dealing with extremely dangerous and irresponsible behavior.”

  From his place on the shoulder of the road, Tomasetti indicates the skid marks in the gravel. “Vehicle went off the road here. Went through the ditch and entered the field.”

  “There’s no indication he tried to stop, at least initially.” Holloway takes it from there, motions toward the ground where he’s standing. “I pick up the victim’s footprints here. He’s running. Moving fast. It looks like the vehicle came at him from behind.” He walks about twenty feet and points out a place where the mud is smooth and slightly compressed. “There’s no way to tell exactly what happened, but I believe the victim was struck at least twice by the vehicle. There are marks in the mud where he went down. There’s blood.”

  For the span of a full minute the only sound comes from the caw of crows from the greenbelt and the bawling of a cow at the back of the Schlabach farm.

  “Are you saying the driver of the car purposefully ran him down?” I hear myself ask.

  Holloway nods. “I think that’s a likely scenario.”

  “Is it possible this was a bunch of teenagers clowning around?” Tomasetti asks. “An inexperienced driver? Maybe they’d been drinking? Something like that?”