“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while,” Skid mutters as he circumvents the car and heads toward the workbench.
He’s right. Dust and cobwebs coat every visible surface. Again, I wonder about the veracity of the tip. “You take the workbench. I’ll start with the shelves and we’ll work our way toward the door. Let’s make it quick.”
“You’re not going to get an argument from me, Chief.”
I pluck gloves from my pocket and jam my hands into them. Carefully, I step over a galvanized tub and make my way toward the shelves. Though the door is open and the single window is uncovered, there isn’t much light, so I pull out my mini Maglite, flip it on.
I start with the top shelf, which is at about eye level. There’s an old garden sprayer. A coiled hose. A box filled with oily rags. I work my way from top to bottom, checking each shelf as I go, finding nothing of interest.
Behind me, I hear Skid clanging around, muttering the occasional obscenity. “Anything?” I call out.
“Not finding shit, Chief.”
I work my way over to the car. I’m entertaining the idea of calling it a day when I glance at the door handle—it’s an old chrome thing with a thumb button—and I notice a smudge in the dust.
I look down; there’s a mark on the concrete floor where the dust has been disturbed. A heel print, I realize; someone has been here. I glance through the windshield, but there’s too much grime for me to see the interior. I reach for the handle. The hinges groan when I open it. The red vinyl seat has been torn to shreds by some animal intent on nesting. The steering wheel is missing. There’s a hole in the dash where a radio had once been. Wires dangling. I shine my light on the floor and do a double take when I spot the mason jars. Two of them, shiny and clean and filled with clear amber liquid. They’re lined up side by side like a couple of Mom’s canned goods.
“Skid, I’ve got something.”
I’m bent at the hip, shining the beam onto the backseat, when he rounds the hood and comes up behind me. I motion toward the two jars. “They haven’t been here long.”
“Looks like gas.” He whistles. “Didn’t the fire marshal find a couple of broken mason jars at the scene?”
“Yep.” Squatting, I lean into the car, put my nose an inch from the jar lid, and sniff. “It’s definitely gas.”
“What’s that sticking out from beneath the jar?”
I lean back on my haunches and shift the flashlight. Sure enough, the beam glints off of something metallic. Using my gloved hand, I push the jar aside. “It’s a key.”
“Looks new.”
“The dead bolt on the tack room door over at the Gingerich place was only a couple of months old.” I glance up at Skid. “There were two keys. One was found at the scene.”
“Maybe this is the other one. State boys pick up latents?”
“They did. Haven’t heard back on the ID yet,” I tell him. “Should be any time.”
“Easy enough to figure out if the key fits the lock.”
I hear myself sigh as that uneasy sense of skepticism mushrooms into cold, hard suspicion. “Skid, why would someone who was questioned by the police about an arson hide something like this on his property?”
“That’s a stretch even for Chris Martino.”
I flip off my Maglite and look around, find Skid’s eyes already on mine.
“You think someone planted it?” he asks.
I nod. “The big question is who.”
He jabs a thumb in the general direction of the house. “What do we do with Prince Charming?”
“Let’s see what he’s got to say.”
I glance toward the door to see Chris Martino standing in the doorway, looking in.
I lower my voice. “Call BCI and get a CSU out here. We need those mason jars and that key processed for latents.”
“You got it.”
“Set up a perimeter with tape, too, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
We start toward the door. I hear Skid on the phone behind me as I slip through. Martino is standing a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a beer. “Told you you weren’t going to find anything.”
I cross to him. “When’s the last time you were in that shed?”
“Been so long I don’t even remember. Two or three months, maybe.”
“We found the mason jars,” I say quietly, watching him.
“Mason jars? What? Do I look like I can tomatoes?”
I say nothing.
“Look,” he says, “whatever crap’s in that shed don’t belong to me. That ain’t my car. Ain’t my junk. All of it belongs to the landlord.”
I think about asking him about the key, decide to keep that bit of information to myself. “Do you keep gasoline here on your property?”
The nasty smile falters. “I got a gas can on the back porch for my lawnmower. Mower’s broke and I think the can’s empty.” Some of his belligerence drops away, and for the first time, he looks worried. “What’s this all about?”
“Has anyone been in that shed, Mr. Martino? Landlord? Neighbor?”
“No one,” he tells me.
“Has anyone been on the property? Visitors?”
“No. I mean, not that I know of.”
“Have you had any prowlers out here? Any unidentified persons on your property? Strange cars? Anything like that?”
He lifts the beer, takes a long pull, watching me carefully. “What did you find in there? A dead body?”
I glance over at Skid. He gives me a thumbs-up, letting me know the CSU from BCI is on the way. I turn my attention back to Martino. “Look, we’re going to tape off this area. We’ve got a crime scene unit coming out here to take a closer look at the shed.”
“Crime scene unit, huh?” He laughs. “You people better not be aiming to hang anything on me.”
“The only way you’re going to get anything hung on you is if your prints turn up on those mason jars,” I tell him. “Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“I may want to talk to you again, Mr. Martino, so if you have to leave town for any reason, you need to let me know.”
“I ain’t going anywhere.” Taking a final, disgusted look at me, he sighs and heads back toward the house.
* * *
Shvetzah f’um da Deivel un du zayl da saund funn sei flikkels. Speak of the devil and you’ll hear the flap of his wings. It was one of her grossmudder’s favorite sayings. It basically means if you spend too much time thinking about the Devil, he’ll come your way.…
If Neva hadn’t been so scared, she might’ve laughed. She’d known he would come after her. For weeks, she’d been driving the car to and from work. She’d been careful. No stops along the way. Not even for gas. She didn’t take any chances. Didn’t tempt fate. She rarely left the house after dark. When she did, she was never alone. Mamm thought she was such a good girl. So focused on her job at The Mercantile that she had no interest in the things some of the other Beachy Amish girls were doing. If she only knew …
He’d bided his time, waited for her to let down her guard, make a mistake. Of course, fate had obliged. His rage, the darkness inside him, was a fear she’d lived with for months now. He might be Plain, but he hadn’t forgiven her. And he would never, ever forget.
Not that she’d done anything wrong. She hadn’t. Had she? She’d made one wrong decision. Just one. Dear God in heaven she was sorry for it. She couldn’t have known someone else would pay such a terrible price. By all accounts, it should have been her. If she could go back and change it, she would. If she could trade places, she would.
Too late now …
Earlier this afternoon, one of her little sisters had fallen out of a tree and broken her arm. Her parents had ridden to work together this morning, but Mamm had taken the car to the bank. Left without a vehicle, Datt took Neva’s, leaving her at the shop with nothing more than a bike. Of course her datt had no way of knowing he’d placed her in danger. But he had.
And now, here she was, alone, out in the middle of nowhere, and it was almost dark. She’d been peddling as fast as she could for miles; she was breathless and sweating, looking over her shoulder like some scared rabbit.
He’d driven past her slowly the first time, his face a pale oval as he stared at her through the window. As far as she could tell, he was alone. That was bad, because it meant there was no one to pull him back. No one to calm him down. Or stop him. No, she thought, he’d be back, and she still had three miles to go.
The hiss of tires against asphalt sounded behind her, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A glance over her shoulder revealed he was just twenty yards away, driving slowly, pacing her, watching her.
I didn’t mean it, she thought. Please leave me alone.…
Easing the bike to the right, she pedaled faster, keeping the tire on the white line, giving him plenty of room. He didn’t pass this time. He hovered, moving ever closer. Fifteen yards. Ten. The truck he drove was a big thing with a noisy engine that stank of exhaust. It was too close. A couple of yards behind her. Then it was crowding her.
Slowing, she ticked the handlebars right. Her front tire slipped easily off the asphalt and onto the gravel shoulder.
“Go away,” she whispered beneath her breath.
The engine groaned. She glanced left, saw the hood. The grille swerved. The fender hit her knee. The impact knocked the bike sideways. The handlebars jackknifed and were yanked from her hands. The bike careened into the ditch. Then she was falling. A yelp tore from her throat when she slammed into the ground.
Neva lay facedown, gasping, the breath knocked out of her. Dirt in her mouth. Tufts of grass scraping her cheek. She tasted blood on her lip, and spit dirt. She rolled, got to her hands and knees, looked toward the road to see him jog down the incline. Eyes on her, intent and filled with rage.
“Leave me alone!” She was scrambling to her feet when viselike hands clamped over her shoulders.
“Shut up,” he snarled.
She was dizzy with fear as he dragged her up the incline toward his truck. She stumbled, tried to twist away, but he was too strong. At first she thought he was going to put her in the vehicle. Take her somewhere and kill her. But when they reached the pickup, he spun her around and shoved her against it hard enough to dent steel.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut, you fucking little whore!” Lips peeled back, teeth clenched, he grabbed her arms, fingers digging into her flesh. He shook her violently, and slammed her against the vehicle again.
“I didn’t say anything,” she choked.
“You talked to the fucking cops!”
“I didn’t … I didn’t…” She ran out of breath, couldn’t find the words, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.
His face was so close she could feel the spit flying out of his mouth as he spoke. The wet stickiness of his sweat where his skin touched hers.
“I didn’t do any—”
His hand snaked up. Viselike fingers found her throat, dug in, squeezed hard enough to cut off the blood to her head. “Shut up and listen.”
She grabbed his wrists, tried to get him to loosen his grip, but his hands were like steel. Her vision went dim. Her knees buckled, but he held her up by her throat, shoving her against the truck.
Grinding his teeth, he loosened his grip slightly, yanked a folding knife from his pocket, snapped it open, and set it against her cheek. “If you open your mouth again, I will hunt you down and I will cut your throat. I’ll cut off your fucking head and bleed you like a pig. I’ll kill your friends. And I’ll kill your fucking parents. Do you understand me?”
She stared at him, frozen in terror, certain he was about to slit her throat, and no one would ever know the truth …
“Do you understand?” he roared.
She jerked her head.
Lifting her off her feet, he swung her around, and shoved her into the ditch. Neva reeled backward, arms flailing, and she landed hard on her back. She rolled, struggled to get her knees under her, raised her head.
He pointed the knife at her. “Don’t make me come back.”
Giving her a final, scathing look, he put the knife away, turned, got into the truck, and left her in a shower of gravel and dust and the bitter taste of her own fear.
CHAPTER 13
The graabhof is located on the township road west of Painters Mill. It’s nearly ten A.M. and, as I make the turn, I spot a convoy of black buggies headed toward the cemetery. Daniel Gingerich was well thought of among his brethren and they’ve shown up in force to pay their final respects. In the back of my mind I can’t help but wonder: How many of them know who he really was?
The actual funeral was held earlier at the Gingerich home. I drove past on my way to the station and, judging from the number of buggies in the driveway, I’m betting there were a hundred people in attendance.
I contemplated stopping in, but decided not to. Because the service was in an Amish home, I wouldn’t have been welcomed. Though they would have been too polite to ask me to leave, it would have been awkward. The family has been through enough.
Following that service, friends of the Gingeriches, other family members, and the hearse—which is a single-horse spring wagon—traveled to the graabhof where Daniel will be laid to rest. This is the rite I can attend without intruding.
At the intersection, I pull onto the gravel shoulder, shut down the engine, and get out. I’ve been to many Amish funerals over the years, not only as a family member or friend, but as a cop with concerns about traffic. Sometimes there are upward of fifty buggies and, invariably, some driver who’s in a hurry.
I raise my hand in greeting as another buggy passes, and then I go to the rear of the Explorer, dig into my box of traffic flares. It’s not a busy highway by any means, but there’s enough traffic to warrant reminding drivers to slow down.
By the time I finish with the flares, most of the buggies have entered the grounds and parked with extraordinary neatness along the gravel lane. I drive through the gate and park in the shade of the old bois d’arc tree that’s guarded this entrance since I was a kid. I try not to think of the other funerals I’ve attended here, my own parents’ included.
While a funeral is always a somber occasion, the Amish generally view death as part of life’s cycle and God’s divine plan. They’re accepting of death and often don’t question its cause, however untimely or unfair. Most believe the dead are in a better place, with God, and are confident of, and comforted by, the knowledge that they will one day join them.
I respect the Amish ways. It’s pretty futile to rage against something as inevitable as death. That said, I could never quite buy into the whole acceptance thing. I was always the one to rail against the unfairness of it, whether it was from natural causes or something a hell of a lot more malevolent.
Aside from keeping an eye on traffic, I’ve come to observe the mourners. Listen to them. In the course of a homicide investigation, attending the victim’s funeral can be helpful. There are many ways in which guilt manifests itself. Undue crying. Excessive emotion. Making a scene. With the Amish, even the subtlest of reactions today could be telling.
My being here is also good PR for the department. Despite my efforts since I’ve been chief, there remains a level of distrust between the Amish and the English government. My being formerly Amish goes a long way toward bridging the gap, but a divide still exists. I want them to know I’m here to support them.
I hang back until the coffin is removed from the hearse. Leaving the Explorer, I enter the cemetery as the casket is carried by pallbearers using two stout hickory poles. I reach the crowd as the casket is placed over the open grave.
Miriam and Gideon Gingerich and their three children—Fannie and the two little girls—stand nearest the grave, heads bowed in silent prayer. Bishop Troyer with his long silver beard stands next to his wife a few feet away from them. Luane Raber, her siblings, and her parents are on the other side of the grave. Luane is leanin
g against her mamm, shoulders hunched, her face in her hands. I spot the three girls I met at The Mercantile yesterday, standing together instead of with their respective families. Neva Lambright makes eye contact with me, but looks away quickly. Even Milo Hershberger has shown up, though I suspect he came more out of loneliness than to pay his final respects. There’s no sign of Esther and Sam Miller.
Once the casket is in the grave, one of the Amish ministers reads a hymn. A silent prayer follows, and then the four pallbearers begin to shovel dirt into the grave.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I turn, surprised to see Ralph Baker, from the farm store, approach. “Hi, Mr. Baker.”
He’s wearing a navy JCPenney suit with a shirt still creased from its packaging. He draws up next to me, shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “After talking with you the other day, I remembered something that might be important. About Danny.”
Realizing we’re standing too close to the mourners to discuss the case, I motion toward the Explorer. “Sure.”
“Anyway,” he says as we start that way, “I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but the day before Danny was killed we took our supper break together, went out for burgers. He was all pumped up about some woman. Said she’d left him a note and he was going to hook up with her that night.”
My interest jumps. “Did he mention a name?”
He shakes his head. “No. And to tell you the truth, I was kind of ticked off at him. I mean, I’d met that sweet Luane a couple of times.” He gestures toward the crying girl. “I’d liked her. I told Danny I just couldn’t see him two-timing her like that, right? But he was all hot under the collar about meeting this woman. Talked about it like he was going to … uh, you know, get lucky and he’d been wanting to hook up with her for some time.”
I think about that a moment, try to make sense of the scenario. “Is it possible the note was from Luane? Maybe she was going to surprise him?”
“Seems like it was kind of an illicit thing, you know? Some kind of tryst.”
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