by Jane Jensen
One of our first stops was Ag Vet Associates. The place was pleasant and clean, and a receptionist confirmed that the vet in question, Dr. Lane, had indeed been called to Beiler’s farm the night of the murder. Dr. Lane was on a farm visit, but he offered to stop by the station when he was done.
He came by, and Grady and I took him into a little room for the interview. Bill Lane was a man in his early thirties who still had the clean-cut vibe of a Boy Scout. He confirmed everything Ezra had said. He’d been at Ezra’s farm from about quarter past midnight until a little after four A.M. Unfortunately, he didn’t recall seeing anything on his drive in or out—no parked cars, headlights, walkers, or anything else of note. And they’d both been very consumed with the emergency in the barn while he was there. Dr. Lane knew most of the families in the area and, as far as he was concerned, they were all good people, especially Ezra Beiler.
I attended the autopsy. I hate them with a passion and they usually give me nightmares, but I felt I owed it to Jane Doe—to be willing to see what had really been done to her for myself, not to ignore the grim horror of it, not push it off to a paper report I could review over a cup of coffee or a statistic I could tabulate. She was so young, her body only newly ripened as a woman. It would never grow old now.
I met with Grady in his office afterward and told him about the findings.
“The blow was right here.” I cupped my hand around the left back side of my skull. “There were no signs of struggle, nothing under her fingernails. So he hits her from behind—she doesn’t see it coming. Then, when she’s unconscious, he suffocates her like this.” I put my hand over my nose and mouth. “That was the cause of death—asphyxiation. The capillaries of her eyes were all blown and she had foam in her airways.”
Grady shook his head at the mental image. “So was it an argument? If she wasn’t in his face, why’d he hit her?”
I picked up my cup of coffee from where I’d parked it on his desk and tapped the side thoughtfully. “Okay, bear with me; this is all hypothetical. What if she arranges to meet a guy, they go park on a rural road for a little make-out action, and he pushes too far or wants something kinky. She says no, and gets out of the car. Her back is to him, maybe she’s calling her dad or a friend to pick her up. But the guy’s all jacked up and doesn’t want to hear no. He picks up a rock, comes up quietly behind her and—” I mocked a blow to my own head.
Grady made a face. “That’s pretty far to go to get into someone’s panties. And she didn’t show signs of penetration or semen.”
“I know. But let’s say our perp didn’t mean to hurt her that much. The ME’s pretty sure the weapon was a rock—that’s a weapon of opportunity, not premeditation. Maybe he just meant to stun her so he could have his way, or he just reacted in anger. But the blow does more damage than he intended. Now he panics. He can’t take her to the hospital without getting himself in trouble. Maybe he feels he’s got no choice but to finish the job, hush her up. So he covers up her mouth and nose.”
Grady nods. “Yeah. I could see that. If he’d meant to kill her, he could have kept hitting with the rock, but he only hits her once, right?”
“Right. The fact that he switched methods in the middle indicates some kind of shift in mood or intent. And putting your hand over someone’s nose or mouth who’s unconscious—that’s a coward’s act, right? It’s bloodless and it’s easy. You don’t need rage for that. Hell, it’s the common choice of mercy killers. We saw a few of those when I was in New York.”
“Okay. But why the long time between when he killed her and when he put the body in Miller’s barn?”
I dropped into the chair in front of Grady’s desk and took a sip from my cup. One thing I loved about the Lancaster police station—they had damn good coffee. “I think he was working it out. He didn’t expect to kill her. Suddenly, midday, he’s got a dead body. So he hides her and tries to figure out what to do. That night, when it’s dark and he can get away with it, he gets rid of her.”
“So he, what, put her in his trunk till then?”
I bit my lip. “Maybe. They haven’t found any fibers on the body, but she was dragged through the water. Trace evidence could have gotten washed away. But the coroner thinks she spent several hours outside in the snow, postmortem. There was skin tissue damage that indicates contact with ice or snow.”
“So he doesn’t intend to kill her. It happens. He hides the body outside, goes home, and tries to figure out where to dump her. He remembers this area of Amish farms, with the creek and the trails the animals use to get to the water, and he decides to put her there.”
I nodded. “He’d have to know the area well, but yes.”
“Either he figures there’s no way the family there would be blamed for it, or he’s looking for a scapegoat.”
“It’s hard to believe he’d think anyone at Miller’s would be a suspect. The father’s unlikely and the oldest boy isn’t mature enough, if you ask me.” Wayne Miller was a farm boy, so he was strong, but he wasn’t all that big and he still gave off the impression of a boy still too naive to have had dealings with a girl like our Jane Doe.
“What if the killer made a mistake? What if he thought he was putting the body in someone else’s barn, someone he thought he could frame?”
“Anything’s possible,” I admitted reluctantly. “But at some point you have to stop reaching for straws and investigate the most likely theories. Otherwise you’ll just chase your own tail and get nowhere.”
“Yeah,” Grady agreed. “Unfortunately, the boot prints aren’t likely to pan out. They’re a common Everly farmer’s boot that’s been in production forever, and from the way the pattern is worn down, they’re old.”
“Any chance of checking online sales records?”
Grady gave me a you-gotta-be-kidding-me look. “Online! You buy boots like those at a feed store, and you pay cash. That’s how farmers work. And yeah, I’m having Hernandez check out the local stores, but honestly, I doubt we’ll get a lead.”
Damn. I’d pinned some hope on those boot prints.
“So . . . profile. You sure the killer’s a man?” Grady asked.
“The scenario we just laid out—it makes more sense if it was a man. But maybe she got in a fight with a girlfriend or a woman jealous because she was flirting with her boyfriend or something. The blow to the head—the ME says it was a strong blow but can’t rule out a woman. The suffocation afterward, that definitely could have been a woman. But the way the body was transported . . .”
“Yeah.”
“I laid awake thinking about that last night,” I admitted. It hadn’t been a pleasant evening. “I kept thinking about the killer pushing Jane Doe’s body under those chicken-wire fences and then diving under himself—sinking down completely into that freezing cold water in the middle of winter with a dead body right there. And then, when he gets to Miller’s, pulling her out of the water, lifting that body, carrying it across a field of snow in the night air while soaking wet. That took a lot of strength, but also balls of steel. It was a low of twenty degrees that night. How desperate did the killer have to be to do that? He was desperate to hide what he’d done. Like, crawling-over-broken-glass-to-escape-a-fire desperate.”
Desperate . . . why? Desperate to hide his sin? I didn’t say it out loud, but my gut had a pet theory. I wasn’t convinced a modern person could have done that. We’re too soft, too lazy. The killer was someone used to physical hardship, used to doing unpleasant things, a person driven by overwhelming guilt or fear of being found out.
“Yeah,” Grady agreed. “We’re looking for a man.”
“Well, there was no sexual assault, so we can’t entirely rule out a very strong woman with big feet, but again—”
“No point wearing yourself out chasing the unlikely. I agree.”
“Here’s another thing—the Millers don’t have a dog. How’d the killer know that? I�
��d expect most big farms to have a dog. Both of the Fisher farms and the Lapps do. A dog would have woken up the family. That was a big risk to take unless he knew for sure. Maybe that’s why it was that farm.”
“Yeah, you’re right. He must have known the Millers. Which brings us back to our list of service providers and customers to those farms.”
Or the people who live there, I thought. I’d interviewed everyone who lived at those farms and they all seemed to be as impeccable and forthright as you would expect from the Amish, and there was nothing to connect them to Jane Doe. And yet . . .
Grady saw it on my face. “You’re still thinking it’s a resident, aren’t you, Harris?”
“Not ruling it out.”
“They all have alibis—”
“If you consider not waking up a spouse or parent while they’re sleeping an alibi. Didn’t you ever sneak out of the house when you were a teenager?”
“—and they’re all in good standing in the community. Well, the only one who isn’t has the most solid alibi of them all.” Grady took a sip of his coffee.
A distant alarm bell rang in my head. “What? Who are you talking about?”
He grunted. “Ezra Beiler. I talked to Aaron Lapp. The Millers, the Fishers, the Kings—all of them are beyond reproach in Lapp’s eyes. And he’s a deacon of the church himself. Ezra’s the only one who’s not in good standing at the moment, and he had the vet there all night.”
I stood up and shoved my empty coffee cup onto his desk, paced. I felt a weird mix of emotions. Annoyance was definitely in there.
“When did you talk to Aaron Lapp about this?” I asked Grady tersely.
“I stopped by there on Saturday after I talked to Klein’s Dairy. It was nearby and I wanted to speak to someone high up in the Amish community, get their impression of those farmers.”
“And you chose Aaron Lapp? He’s one of them!”
Grady got a frown on his brow—part irritated, part guilty—like he wasn’t sure what I was objecting to but he felt maybe he’d done something wrong all the same. “Well, that was sort of the point, Harris. He’d know his neighbors better than anyone, wouldn’t he? And he’s a deacon. It wasn’t like he was trying to put suspicion on anyone. He’s positive it couldn’t have been an Amish—which I agree with, by the way. He only mentioned the thing with Ezra when I pressed for people’s standing in the church.”
Everything Grady said made sense, and I would have asked Aaron Lapp those questions myself, had I thought of it. But I didn’t like being left out of the loop, especially when the resultant conversation was mano a mano. “I’m just surprised you didn’t mention it.”
“Yeah, I shoulda. But really, I didn’t learn anything new except about Ezra, and he’s airtight. My focus has been on this other list.”
I forced myself to relax. There was no point in broadcasting my sensitivity and being labeled touchy. Been there, done that, learned my lesson. I forced a smile. “Right. So what did Lapp say about Ezra Beiler?”
Grady blew out a heavy breath. “He told me—with reluctance, mind—that Beiler has been struggling since his wife’s miscarriage and subsequent death. When I pushed him for more, he said Ezra hasn’t been attending meetings like he ought. I thought there was more, but Lapp wouldn’t tell me. I wondered—it’s a bit odd that Beiler is clean-shaven. The Amish grow beards when they get married, but it’s not common for them to shave it off if they’re widowed, not that I’ve seen. Anyway, Lapp just said they were praying for him and it was ‘in God’s hands.’ I got the impression they were giving him some time to straighten out due to his mourning. If he doesn’t, he’ll likely be in trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Well, nothing legal. Every Amish Ordnung has rules, and members of the church are expected to follow them. If they don’t, they’ll be given warnings, and if they still don’t comply, eventually they’ll be shunned.”
I knew what shunning meant. I wondered how close Ezra Beiler was to that eventuality and exactly why. I was reminded of the attitude of despair in which I’d first seen him. I knew all about despair. We were bosom buddies. Maybe that’s why that man had gotten under my skin.
“Just saying,” Grady went on. “I’m glad Beiler has a strong alibi. He seems like a nice kid to me. I don’t give a rat’s ass if he misses church or shaves his damn beard. I’m just glad we don’t have to consider him a suspect. As for the rest, I don’t see it.”
“I know,” I said, in a conciliatory voice. I know you don’t.
“You’re the one who said there’s no point grasping at straws.”
“Yeah. And that’s exactly what I meant. So let’s go over the list of people who visit those farms.”
Grady was correct about grasping at straws. I’d done some research online. Not that I was trying to prove him wrong, but there were other Amish communities outside Lancaster and I was curious if there’d ever been an Amish murder anywhere. I couldn’t find any reference to a deliberate homicide being done by an Amish ever, which is amazing if you think about it. I did, however, find other vices. Drug trafficking, for one, among the Amish youth. Numerous cases of animal abuse and a few of domestic abuse.
I’d seen plenty of families in my time as a cop in New York that had no real parenting, no structure, no moral code. By comparison, the tight-knit families of the Amish were a dream. I may not have believed in God the way they did, but as a cop I couldn’t argue against their sense of morality and community. But the fact was, the Amish were not eunuchs and not saints. They were human like all the rest of us and were capable of grievous wrong. But if they were capable of abuse and drug trafficking, wasn’t it just a small step to homicide?
I hoped I was wrong.
—
“Detective Harris,” I said, showing the guy my badge. “And this is Detective Grady. May we come in?”
Larry Wannemaker was a driver for Klein’s Dairy. He drove a truck that did a pickup round to thirty-one farms, siphoning up milk into the company’s refrigerated tanker truck. His run included Grimlace Lane Monday through Friday and had for several years.
“What’s this about?” Larry was playing it tough. He guarded the door to his little ranch-style house like he was Cerberus on the banks of the River Styx.
“It’s about a police investigation,” Grady said flatly, looming even taller. “You can let us in, or we’d be happy to take you down to the station to chat.”
Larry scratched his side, where a stained red hunter’s vest covered a gray thermal shirt. He looked nervous. “Fuck it. I don’t have time for that shit. Give me a minute though.”
He disappeared back inside, shutting the door. I heard movement as he apparently straightened up. There was the sound of an old window being forced. Grady looked worried for a second but I just rolled my eyes. The guy wasn’t trying to escape; he was airing out the place. I could smell the pot from the doorway.
Finally, Larry let us in.
Larry Wannemaker was in his late twenties, though he looked older. His long brown hair was back in a ponytail and he had a goatee. He was lean going on skinny and could be considered good-looking if you disregarded his crooked yellow teeth and the lecherous gleam in his eyes as he looked me over. He got high regularly, I guessed, and not just on beer and pot either. Still, his place was fairly clean and his employer seemed happy enough. Larry might be a partier, but he was straight when he needed to be. You didn’t run a milk route if you were irresponsible. This much I knew.
A stack of porn magazines featuring big-breasted women left no doubt as to his sexual orientation. Charming.
“You work for Klein’s Dairy doing a pickup route in Paradise,” I began coolly.
“Yeah.” Larry sounded wary. He didn’t offer to let us sit down. He stood nervously and folded his arms tight across his chest.
“So you know that area pretty well then, huh? Ronks Road, L
enore, Grimlace Lane.”
“Yeah. What’s this about?”
“Ever seen this girl before?” I pulled out the photo of our Jane Doe and handed it over.
Larry stared at the picture. I could swear I saw recognition on his face, but it passed quickly. He shoved the photo back to me. “No idea.”
“Really.”
Larry shrugged. “Why the hell should I know who that is?” He chewed on a thumbnail.
I stared at him. I wasn’t getting a good vibe. I was pretty sure he was lying. And why was he so nervous? Was it just because he had drugs in the house?
“Do you hunt?” I asked, nodding at his vest.
“Huh?” He looked down in surprise, as if expecting to see a gun he’d forgotten he was carrying. “Oh, the vest. Yeah, I do. Sometimes.”
Brilliant.
“When? What do you hunt?”
“Just deer. I go every year. A friend of mine hunts bear, but I’ve never gone. I mean to someday though.” He chewed on the nail again. His eyes slid to my chest and stayed there. Apparently my B cups held his interest just fine even though they were mostly hidden by my open wool coat and suit jacket.
I leaned forward a bit, tilting my head down in an obvious bid to get him to look at my face. “Mr. Wannemaker? Ever hunt along the creek there by Grimlace Lane?”
Caught, he looked guilty. “No. We go up to the state game lands. Why? Was someone shot?” His gaze flickered anxiously between Grady and me. “Hey, I haven’t been out hunting since last September. Like, at all.”
I wondered if he was being coy, if he really hadn’t heard about the dead girl found in the Millers’ barn. Ezra said that news traveled fast, but it might not travel at all between the Amish and a man like Larry, even if he did pick up their milk. It was hard to imagine Amos Miller and Larry Wannemaker having much to say to each other.
I gave Grady a slight nod.
“Where were you this past Tuesday, between ten A.M. and four P.M.?” Grady asked.
