2 Lost Legacy

by Annette Dashofy

  Zoe caught the slightest hint of a grin cast her way, and her face warmed. She opened her mouth to give an official status report, but Loomis cut her off, offering his personal take on the situation, concluding with, “I need to get these two wagonloads of hay inside before it rains, so can you folks please cut him down and get him outta there? No disrespect intended.”

  Pete eyed Zoe, his eyebrow raised in a question. She shrugged. “I advised Mr. Loomis that we have to treat this as a crime scene, but—”

  “I keep telling you, it ain’t no crime scene.” Loomis’ face had blossomed into a shade of red that made Zoe fear he might explode. Or at least have a stroke.

  A second Vance Township police vehicle rolled into the driveway.

  Pete tipped his head toward the barn. “Well, Mr. Loomis, why don’t you tell me exactly how you found Mr. Engle.” He pointed a finger at Officer Seth Metzger, who was climbing out of the township cruiser. “Call dispatch and get Kevin and any of the part-time guys that are available out here. And request County and the crime unit. We’re going to need the help. Then start getting statements from all these guys.” Pete motioned to the farm workers, who still hadn’t regained their color.

  He turned a fuming Carl Loomis to the barn entrance. Zoe blew out a sigh, glad someone else was now the focus of the farmer’s rants. Not that she didn’t understand his concerns. She suspected more than one farmer in the area was frantically trying to get his hay in right about now. No trace of blue sky remained. The wind was kicking up dust devils in the driveway. And the air was so thick, if she could grab a chunk and squeeze, she was sure moisture would pour from it like a saturated sponge.

  Alone for the moment with her partner, she caught his arm and drew him away. “Do you know anything about the Engle family?”

  Earl shrugged. “Just that they’ve lived in the area and owned this farm forever.”

  “No.” She studied the house. One of the shutters appeared ready to drop to the ground. A broken upstairs window had been replaced with a sheet of plywood. And no way would she trust the rickety steps to the front porch to hold a person’s weight. “They haven’t owned this farm forever. Don’t you remember hearing the stories about this place?”

  “Stories? What stories?”

  She motioned to the barn where Carl Loomis flung his arms in animated outrage as Pete calmly jotted notes. “James Engle isn’t the first person to hang in that barn.”

  In all Pete’s years with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police, he’d never faced anything like Carl Loomis. The man was livid, not because a friend was dead, but because two wagonloads of hay were on the verge of getting soaked. Of course, being a city cop transplanted to the role of Police Chief in rural Vance Township meant he didn’t know shit about things like wet hay.

  Thunder rumbled, sending Loomis closer to the edge of hysteria. “You don’t understand,” he said for the fourth or fifth time. “I can get better ’n five bucks a bale for this hay, but not if it gets wet. Do you know what that adds up to?”

  Pete sympathized. But the coroner and the county crime unit hadn’t arrived yet. He had to keep everyone away from the body. “What about covering it?”

  “That’s what that girl said. I don’t exactly have a tarp in my hip pocket. And she wouldn’t let me in the barn to look for one.”

  Pete spotted Zoe deep in conversation with her partner. So she’d already attempted to solve Loomis’ problem? Naturally. She’d grown up in Vance Township and lived on a farm. She’d know better than he what this guy was going through. Pete looked for Metzger. The young officer was speaking with a group of Loomis’ workers who milled around one of the wagons. “Seth!” he called.

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “Pull the tarps out of the vehicles. You and those boys get busy covering the wagons.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lightning cut across the sky. In mere seconds, thunder rumbled.

  Loomis’ rage subsided. He glanced at the sky. “I need to go help my boys.”

  Pete waved the appeased farmer away and watched the road for the coroner and the team from County as the men made short work of covering the hay.

  The first large raindrops plinked on the tin roof, forcing Pete to step inside the reeking barn. He stared up at what remained of Jim Engle. What would it take to drive someone to end his life in such a gruesome manner? Loomis said the man was dying of cancer. Surely he’d had access to drugs—morphine. A simple overdose had to be a more preferable form of suicide than hanging.

  Unless it hadn’t been a suicide.

  “Pete?”

  He swung around to find Zoe standing in the rain at the barn entrance. Wisps of her short blond curls fringed her EMS ball cap.

  “Franklin just pulled in,” she said. She held a pair of latex gloves, wringing them like an old washcloth.

  “Thanks.”

  She didn’t move, but caught her lower lip in her teeth.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” She paused, took a glance at the body, and wrinkled her nose. “Do you know the history of this barn?”

  “No.” From the look on Zoe’s face, he suspected it must be relevant.

  “I’m not sure of all the details, but I remember hearing stories when I was a kid. My mom’s family once owned this farm. There was some hoopla about two of her uncles being found dead here. In this barn. One was hanged. I can’t remember about the other. But I do remember my mom despised the Engle brothers, including James Engle.” Zoe tipped her head toward the corpse.

  Okay, so this particular history lesson sparked Pete’s interest. “And why did she despise the Engles?”

  Zoe glanced over her shoulder at Monongahela County Coroner Franklin Marshall who was lugging a large duffle bag toward them.

  “Because,” she said to Pete, lowering her voice, “Mom believed James Engle was responsible for the deaths.”

  Two

  “What have we got?” The clipboard Franklin held over his head served as a poor substitute for an umbrella against the windblown rain.

  Pete wondered the same thing. He stepped back just far enough into the barn to allow Zoe and Franklin shelter without disturbing the footprints in the dirt and motioned to the body hanging from the rafters. “I’ll get my camera and shoot some photos,” Pete shouted over the roar of the downpour on the tin roof. “Then you can tell me.”

  “Do you guys need my help?” Zoe asked as four more police cruisers crested the hill and rolled toward the farm.

  “I don’t believe so,” the coroner said. “Looks like we have plenty of manpower on the way. You and Earl can go back to saving the living.”

  Pete dashed through the deluge with her to their vehicles and motioned for her to get into the passenger seat of his SUV. He removed his cap and mopped his face with a handkerchief. “What else do you know about those other deaths?”

  “Not much.” Zoe panted from the run. “It was an old family lore sort of story. There’s probably nothing to it, but I thought I’d mention it.”

  “Aren’t your mom and stepdad coming to visit soon?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Soon? Yeah. I have to pick them up at the airport tomorrow morning. First time they’ve been back from Florida in years. I can hardly wait.”

  Pete chuckled at her sarcastic tone. “I bet. Maybe you could ask her about those old homicides. Find out what happened.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “How long ago did all this take place?”

  “I don’t know. Way before I was born.”

  He gazed through the fogged windshield at the barn. That would make the cold case more than thirty-five years old. If it even was a case. “I doubt Jim Engle’s death has anything to do with your great uncles. But you know how I hate coincidences.”
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  “Yeah. I’ll ask Mom when I see her.” Zoe reached for the door handle.

  Pete caught her arm. “Are you coming to the poker game tomorrow night?”

  She gave him a devious grin. “I’ll be there. After spending the day with Mom and Tom, I’ll need to get away.” She dove from the SUV and rushed around it to the medic unit.

  Pete watched her climb into the ambulance. The paramedic uniform with its lumpy cargo pants and gadget belt did a good job of camouflaging her figure, but his imagination stripped away the obstacles. He’d wanted to ask her out a half-dozen times since the mess with her ex-boyfriend last winter, but he always thought better of it. Reluctantly.

  She kept stressing how much she valued their friendship. Friendship? What stirred in him at the moment sure didn’t bear that particular label.

  At least they still saw each other socially for the weekly card game whenever she wasn’t on duty.

  Someone pounded on his window, jarring Pete out of his fantasy regarding Zoe sans uniform. He made out the form of County Detective Wayne Baronick through the rain-streaked glass. Pete powered the window open, and a dripping Baronick rested his arms against the door. “Hey, Pete.” The young hotshot presented his usual broad smile. “Think it’ll rain?”

  Pete grunted. Smartass.

  “You getting the photographs?”

  “Yep.” Pete reached into the backseat of the SUV and retrieved his evidence collection kit, including his digital camera. He hit the button to close the window, forcing Baronick to jerk his arms out of the way. Stifling a smile, Pete climbed out.

  Baronick fell into step beside him as they jogged to the barn. Lightning sizzled across the sky, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that shook the ground beneath their feet. “Holy shit,” Baronick said, diving the last few feet into the barn.

  Pete bit back a laugh and set his bag on the dusty floor.

  “What do you think, Franklin?” Baronick asked. “Suicide?”

  The coroner jotted notes on a pad. “You know I’m not going to make any declaration until after the autopsy.”

  “The farmer who found the body thinks so,” Pete told Baronick. “Says the old man had lung cancer and has been threatening to kill himself for a while.”

  Baronick gazed out through the rain. “Is that the victim’s house?”

  “Yep.”

  “Anyone else live with him?”

  “Not according to Carl Loomis. Engle’s wife passed away five years ago. His brother lives about a mile north of here.” Pete dug his camera from the bag and thumbed it on.

  “Has the brother been notified?” Baronick asked.

  “Not yet.” Pete lifted the camera to his eye and snapped a wide-angled shot of the barn with the victim hanging in the center.

  “Okay.” Baronick cleared his throat. “You document the scene. I’m going to check out the house. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this poor sap left us a clear and concise suicide note.”

  Pete silently rolled the slim odds of that happening around in his head.

  “When you’re done with the pictures,” Baronick continued, “my guys can take over processing the barn and help Franklin with the body. Then you and I can pay a visit to the other Mr. Engle.”

  Pete placed a ruler on the floor next to one of the footprints to indicate scale and focused the camera. He knew Baronick hated to call on the next of kin as much as he did. But if Jim Engle’s death turned out to be a homicide, family members would also be their prime suspects.

  By the time Pete and Baronick stepped onto Wilford Engle’s front porch, the storm had blown past, and the skies were clearing. Carl Loomis had informed Pete that the victim’s brother was in his mid-seventies, but the man who opened the door appeared old beyond time. His flesh was so pale Pete guessed it hadn’t felt the sun within the last decade. Ironic that the brother hanging in the barn looked to be the healthier of the two.

  “Wilford Engle?” Pete said.

  “Yeah.” The old man squinted at Pete and his uniform.

  Baronick held up his badge. “May we come in?”

  “No.”

  Pete studied Engle. With the rain gone, both the heat and humidity were on the rise. In spite of it, Engle wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt from which bony wrists and hands protruded. Stained denim coveralls made for a much heavier man hung on his frail frame. But the man’s dark eyes suggested steel forged by years of hard work and hard living. Wilford Engle took no bull from anyone. Ever.

  “Sir.” Pete softened his voice. “We’re here about your brother.”

  Engle blinked. “My brother? Jim?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Engle,” Baronick said, “but your brother is dead.”

  Engle’s shoulders shifted downward, as did his gaze. “Well, that’s it then. I knew it was coming. Just thought we had a little more time is all. Thank you, officers, for letting me know.” He stepped back, his hand on the door, ready to close it.

  Pete blocked the door open with his foot. “I’m afraid Detective Baronick didn’t make himself clear. Your brother didn’t die of natural causes.”

  Engle stiffened. “He didn’t?”

  “No, sir. His body was found this afternoon hanging in his barn.”

  Engle’s face might have lost its color if it’d had any. The old man’s knees buckled, and he slammed sideways into the doorjamb. Pete grabbed for him, but the awkward angle threw Pete off balance. His foot caught on an uneven board, and his ankle rolled as Engle dragged both of them to the porch floor, Pete on the bottom. For a bag of bones, the old guy was damned heavy.

  “Mr. Engle? Are you all right?” Baronick knelt beside them.

  Engle moaned. “Yeah.” He squirmed, grinding a sharp elbow into Pete’s sternum. “Help me up, goddammit.”

  Baronick grabbed an arm, and Pete pushed from underneath. Groaning, the old man struggled to his feet. But not before stepping on the ankle Pete had twisted. He bit back a yelp of his own and hoisted himself up as Baronick helped Engle into the house.

  The old man shuffled to a faded, battered sofa and flopped onto it. “I’m sorry about that.” He rubbed the shoulder that had impacted against the doorjamb. “I take these spells.”

  Pete’s ankle screamed when he put weight on it, but he gritted his teeth against the pain. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I guess I got a few of my own,” Engle said. “You sure it was my brother?”

  “Carl Loomis gave us a preliminary identification,” Pete said.

  “Pre-what?”

  Baronick jumped in. “Preliminary. The coroner will confirm the ID with dental records or fingerprints. But Mr. Loomis was certain it was him.”

  “Well, Carl would know.” Engle frowned at his hands in his lap. “Hanged, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.” Baronick pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket. “I searched your brother’s house.”

  Engle’s eyes darkened. “You had no right—”

  “I found his suicide letter.”

  Engle choked. “You what?”

  “Found a letter. It was handwritten. Lying on the kitchen table.”

  The old man shifted on the sofa. His mouth worked as though forming words, but no sound came until he said, “I don’t believe it. Where is this letter? I want to see it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s evidence.”

  “Evidence?” Engle’s voice went up an octave. “Can’t you tell me what it said?”

  “Yes, sir. I copied it word for word.” Baronick looked down at his notes and read, “I’ve done things in my life I’m not proud of. Now the good Lord is punishing me with this disease. I deserve every excruciating minute of torture it brings. But I pray my death will offer some light to the darkness. Forgive me. This is the only way. Goodbye,
brother.”

  Engle’s hands trembled. “I can’t believe he went and done it.”

  “Excuse me?” Baronick said.

  Engle’s eyes narrowed on the detective. “I want you to stay out of my brother’s house.”

  “We can’t do that.” Pete straightened, ignoring the flames licking his ankle. “Until the coroner tells us otherwise, we consider his house a crime scene.”

  The old man glared at him and gave a grunt.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?” Pete asked.

  “What’s today? Friday? Must have been...oh, Tuesday. I drove him to a doctor’s appointment in Brunswick.”

  “And what doctor was that?”

  “Dr. Weinstein. In the old National Trust Bank Building on Main Street.”

  “Mind telling us what the doctor said?” Baronick asked.

  “He said Jim was dying. What the blazes do you think he said?” Engle pulled a bandana from his hip pocket. “Moron,” he muttered into the fabric before blowing his nose.

  “Did your brother give you any hint he intended to commit suicide?”

  The old man grew pensive and leaned back, sinking into the sofa. “Yes.” Engle’s gaze shifted to the window. “I didn’t believe he’d really do it, though.”

  “Is it possible that someone killed your brother and made it look like suicide?”

  The old man sputtered. “Are you out of your mind? Who would go to the trouble to kill a man who’s only got a couple of weeks to live? No one, that’s who. Moron.”

  Pete cleared his throat.

  He’d have preferred to be armed with more information before questioning the old farmer, but he wanted to see the man’s reaction. “There’s something else I’d like to know about.”

  Engle gave an exasperated sigh.

  “I’ve been told your brother wasn’t the first person to die in that old barn.”

  Engle gave Pete a hard, cold stare. “Yeah? So? Farming’s a dangerous way to make a living.”

  “But the case I’m speaking of wasn’t a farming accident.” At least he didn’t think it was.