A Gathering of Secrets

by Linda Castillo

  “Did he say where they were meeting?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “Well, he got the note the day before he was killed in that fire. I assumed it was that night,” he tells me. “The night he was killed.”

  “Did you see the note, Mr. Baker?”

  “Caught a glimpse of it. I mean, he was laughing and sort of waving it around. I kind of gave him the cold shoulder about it because I didn’t think it was right.”

  “Do you remember anything specific about the note?” I ask. “The kind of paper? Was it handwritten?”

  “I think it was just regular notebook paper.” Brows knit, he rubs his chin. “I think it was colored ink. Pink or purple. Come to think of it, the writing was kind of girlish, with swirls and hearts and stuff like that.”

  I pull out my notebook and write it down. “Any idea what happened to the note?”

  He shakes his head. “Never saw it again. Me and Al went through Danny’s locker at the store, but there wasn’t anything in there. Just an old cap and his work gloves.”

  “Had he ever mentioned this mystery woman before?”

  “Well, you know, he wasn’t an alley cat or anything like that. But he was a young guy. He liked … you know … girls.” Ralph Baker ducks his head. “Talked about ‘getting some’ all the time. I figured he was lying, like the rest of us. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  * * *

  Arson is a particularly difficult crime to solve. Mainly because much of the evidence left at the scene, DNA, fingerprints, or footwear impressions—the structure itself—is often destroyed by the intense heat or by the efforts of the firefighters. Tomasetti informed me that in the state of Ohio only about twenty-six percent of arson cases result in an arrest. Unless you have a witness, a confession, or a damn good security camera positioned in just the right place, chances are it will go unsolved.

  Despite my growing suspicions about Daniel Gingerich, the notion of someone getting away with such an insidious crime doesn’t sit well. I know from experience that once someone crosses the line and commits a violent crime, they’re a hell of a lot more likely to do it again. That’s one of the reasons I’ve focused on motive.

  I recall my conversation with Ralph Baker and his assertion that Daniel had received a note from an unidentified woman. I believe Baker is telling the truth. But I learned a long time ago never to take anything at face value. Just because Daniel was waving some note around doesn’t mean it came from a woman. Anyone could have used such a tactic to lure him into that barn. But who? And why?

  Pulling out a legal pad, I go to a fresh page and write down the things I know about the case so far.

  Note? Unknown individual lured Daniel Gingerich to the barn. A woman?

  I underscore the word “unknown.”

  Premeditated? Definitely.

  Suspects: The neighbor, Chris Martino. Felon. Ex-con. Argument over stolen horse tack. Temper.

  Early on, Martino was a viable suspect, but no more. Now, the question foremost in my mind is who left the mason jars and key in his shed—and why.

  Milo Hershberger. Jealousy over Luane Raber?

  Emma Miller’s parents, Sam and Esther Miller. Daughter was pregnant. Had she been raped by Daniel Gingerich? Was he indirectly responsible for her suicide?

  Elam Schlabach. Did he find out something happened between Daniel and his girlfriend and decide to mete out a little revenge?

  Luane Raber? Did she know her husband-to-be was cheating on her?

  Did Mose and Sue Raber know their daughter was planning to marry a serial seducer—or worse? Did they murder Daniel to prevent her from making a mistake?

  What about Ruth Petersheim? Nervous. Evasive. Mark Petersheim? Connection?

  Frustrated by my lack of progress, I toss the pen aside and go back to the file, page through it. I come across the photos I found in Daniel’s bedroom and something pricks at my memory. Something about the photo …

  Reaching into my desk drawer, I snatch up my reading glasses and study the picture. It’s the one in which Daniel is grinning from ear to ear; he’s bare-chested and doing his utmost to accentuate his muscles, but in a silly, joking way. I recognize the Amish girl as Luane Raber.

  I flip through all three photos, go back to the one in which Daniel is without a shirt. That’s when I realize the thing that’s bothering me is the birthmark on his abdomen. I’ve seen it before. But how is that possible? Where would I have seen something that’s usually covered by clothing? I’d never met Daniel.…

  The baby.

  The memory strikes me like a blow. Ruth Petersheim’s baby. The day Mona and I went to see her, little William had spit up. He’d been wearing a onesie and she’d changed his diaper, exposing the exact same mole on his abdomen.…

  “My God,” I whisper. “Is Daniel Gingerich the father?”

  No wonder Ruth Petersheim had been so nervous, so standoffish. I’d assumed it was because she’d become pregnant out of wedlock. She fudged on the date and didn’t want anyone to do the math. Having grown up Amish, I understand that. This is different, especially if she was pregnant by another man and passed off the child as her husband’s.

  In terms of motive, this could be a significant development and I find myself thinking about Mark Petersheim. If I’m right about the birthmark, does he know the baby isn’t his? Did Ruth tell him? If Daniel is the baby’s father, did he and Ruth have a consensual relationship? Or was it something else? If there was a sexual assault involved, does Mark Petersheim know about it? Does he know he’s raising another man’s child? Did he decide to do something about it?

  The murder of Daniel Gingerich has been one of the most frustrating, twisty cases I’ve ever worked. Over the course of a few days, my victim has evolved from wholesome and much-loved Amish teenager to suspected sexual predator. Because of the nature of his alleged crimes—and the fact that his victims are Amish—none of the women came forward and none of them are willing to speak with me about it. I have no way of telling whether it’s because they’re trying to protect their privacy or the privacy of someone else—or because they, or a family member, are guilty of a horrific crime and attempting to cover their tracks.

  Even the physical evidence is refusing to materialize. I’m not optimistic that the latents found on the key at the scene will be identified. We’ve received a handful of calls on the hotline; each was looked into, but so far nothing has panned out. That leaves me with a slew of suspects based solely on theory and guesswork, but none of it is compelling. All I can do at this point is continue talking to people in the hope someone will open up and level with me.

  A glance at my computer tells me it’s too late to pay Ruth Petersheim a visit tonight. Probably best to catch her when her husband is at work anyway; she’ll be more apt to speak openly, especially if Mark Petersheim doesn’t know the child he’s raising as his own was fathered by Daniel Gingerich.

  CHAPTER 14

  It’s not yet noon when I roll up to Ruth and Mark Petersheim’s house and park curbside. I take the narrow sidewalk to the porch and knock. I hear shuffling on the other side of the door and I imagine Ruth looking out the peephole, trying to figure out a way to get rid of me. I’m about to knock a second time when the door opens a couple of inches. Ruth Petersheim peers out at me, eyes darting, a cat facing off with a junkyard dog.

  “Hi, Ruth.” Though we’ve already met, I show her my badge. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  Her eyes widen, then flick past me as if she’s expecting to see an armada of cops, weapons drawn, cuffs at the ready. “Little William has a fever,” she says quietly. “Maybe we could talk later?”

  I smile, hoping to put her at ease. “I drove all the way from Painters Mill. I just have a few questions for you. I promise to keep it short.”

  A dozen excuses scroll across her face, but after a too-long moment she acquiesces.

  The small house smells of bacon and coffee, with the lingering redolen
ce of dirty diapers. There’s a can of furniture polish with a raggedy dishcloth on the end table.

  The Amish woman stops in the center of the living room and turns to face me, blocking my way. “Like I said, I barely knew Daniel Gingerich.”

  “Your husband is at work?” I ask.

  “Of course he is.”

  She doesn’t invite me to sit. Doesn’t want me venturing any more deeply into her refuge.

  “I’ve heard a lot of things about Daniel Gingerich in the last few days,” I begin. “Since I last spoke with you.”

  She stares at me, blinking, as if she doesn’t know what to make of that or how to respond. She doesn’t know where I’m going with this and she sure as hell doesn’t want me to continue.

  “I’m not sure he was the upstanding young man everyone seemed to think he was,” I tell her.

  No response.

  I pull the baggie containing the photograph of Daniel Gingerich from my pocket, open it, and slide out the photo. It’s the one in which he’s without a shirt, smiling and carefree, showing off his muscles to his girlfriend. I hold it out so that Ruth can see it.

  She stares at the photo as if it’s a bloody, violent thing that’s about to jump off the paper and tear her to shreds.

  “The other day when I was here,” I say, “I couldn’t help but notice the birthmark on William’s abdomen.”

  “He doesn’t have a birthmark.”

  “I saw it,” I say gently.

  Her mouth opens. She raises her hand and steps back. “I think you should go,” she says in a strangled voice. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  I hold my ground, hold her stare. “I did a little research on moles and birthmarks.” I flick the photograph with my finger. “This type of mole is hereditary. It’s passed down from parent to child.” I wait, but she says nothing, doesn’t respond, so I prod. “The mole on your son’s abdomen is identical to Daniel’s.”

  “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk. She takes another step back. A quick glance left. If she’d had a place to run, she would have. But Ruth Petersheim knows there’s no escape. This is a reality she must face. A truth that must be revealed.

  “I need you to level with me about your relationship with Daniel Gingerich,” I tell her.

  She presses her hand to her mouth as if to suppress a cry, but she doesn’t make a sound. She looks at me over her fingertips, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t talk about that.”

  “Did you have a relationship with Daniel?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Is Daniel William’s father?”

  A brief hesitation and then, “No.”

  I say her name quietly, grappling with my own emotions, my patience, my conscience. “Ruth, I know this is difficult. I get that. I’ll do my best to make sure that whatever you tell me today will go no farther than this room.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything. There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Did you have a sexual relationship with Daniel Gingerich?”

  “No.” For the first time anger resonates in her voice. A flash of denial in her eyes. “What kind of question is that? How could you ask such a thing?”

  I repeat the question, more firmly this time. “I need the truth and I need it right now. If you refuse to answer, I’ll have no choice but to come back with a warrant and take you to the police station for formal questioning. If you force me to take that route, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to keep this just between us.”

  The statement isn’t exactly true. First of all, I’d need a judge to sign off on a warrant; this young woman isn’t a viable suspect. Bringing her in for questioning on such a stretch would be a hard sell. Still, my questions are justified. If Daniel Gingerich is the father of her child, if the sexual encounter between them was not consensual, I have indisputable proof of what he was. I’m one step closer to establishing a motive for his murder. I also have another name to add to my growing list of suspects: Mark Petersheim.

  “Tell me,” I say quietly. “Please.”

  Ruth chokes out a sound and begins to cry. Raising both hands to her face, she swipes at the tears with shaking hands. “My husband doesn’t know. No one knows. They cannot find out.”

  “What doesn’t he know?”

  “He doesn’t know William is…” She closes her eyes as if uttering the words aloud is too painful, too shameful, to accomplish. “Mark doesn’t know. Please don’t tell him. He loves little William so much.”

  For a full minute, she stands there, head down, sobbing and shaking. Spotting a box of tissues on the coffee table, I tug one out and hand it to her. “Ruth, I’m not the enemy. I’m not trying to hurt you or your husband or that sweet little boy. But I need to know what happened. I can’t walk away from this.”

  The statement seems to calm her, drive home the fact that I’m not going to go away, and she regains control of her emotions. Using the tissue, she takes a moment to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

  “Is Daniel Gingerich William’s father?” I ask.

  Closing her eyes against a fresh round of tears, she jerks her head. “Yes.”

  “You had a relationship with him?”

  “No.” She opens her eyes, looks at me. “Not a relationship. Never.”

  I wait.

  As if resigning herself to physical torture, she sags, her shoulders coming forward, and she looks down at the floor. “I met him a few times over the last few years. You know how it is when you’re Amish. Everyone knows everyone else. Daniel was … nice. Hardworking. All of the Amish thought highly of him.” Her mouth twists. “He was handsome, too. All the girls liked him.

  “I’d just met Mark and we’d gone out a few times, but we weren’t that serious yet. We were of Rumspringa age, you know. Both of us were running around a little bit. And so when Danny asked me if I was going to be at the singing over to the Schwartz farm after worship, I told him I’d be there. I figured there’d be no harm in it. I knew most of the other Amish who would be there.”

  An Amish “singing” usually takes place on Sunday evening, after worship and at the same farm where worship was held earlier in the day. It’s an occasion in which Amish youths from different church districts can get together, sing hymns, and visit. It usually ends around ten or eleven P.M.

  She shakes her head. “I know I’m not much to look at. I don’t know why he chose me. But he was kind and interested, and I was … flattered. Too flattered, probably. So I asked Mamm and she said I could go.”

  A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, as if she’s remembering what it had been like to be that young, carefree girl looking to have some innocent fun. But the twisting of her mouth is in direct conflict with the pain etched into her every feature.

  “You have to understand, Chief Burkholder. Daniel was from a good family. He had a good job. Made good money, too. Those are important things when you’re a seventeen-year-old Amish girl.”

  “You met him at the Schwartz farm for the singing?”

  “I did, and he was a perfect gentleman. So funny. He announced several of the hymns that night. Afterward, he offered to drive me home. He had a car, you know, and the thought of riding in it was such a thrill. So I went.”

  She looks at me, eyes shimmering, and tilts her head. “We listened to the radio and it was … wonderful. He had a bottle of alcohol beneath the seat. I knew better than to drink. It’s forbidden in our church district, you know. But it was … exciting, too. We parked and listened to music and drank tequila right out of the bottle.”

  Her mouth tightens. A flash of shame in her eyes. “It was the first time I ever drank alcohol and I couldn’t handle it. I drank too much. At first it was fun, but then … I told him I wanted to go home. I thought it was going to be okay. I thought …

  “Chief Burkholder, something happened to him when we were parked out there on that back road.” She says the words so quietly, I have to move closer to hear. “It was like he turned into
another person,” she whispers. “He … dragged me from the car, threw me on the ground, and he forced me.” The words tumble out of her, a tangle of ugliness and cruelty and shame. “It was like … he turned into someone I didn’t know. Someone I should have been afraid of all along but I was too stupid to see it.”

  “Did he rape you?”

  She jerks her head. A single, devastating nod. A sob escapes her. Tears shimmer on her cheeks. Snot on her upper lip. She doesn’t seem to notice. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone with him. I shouldn’t have drank the alcohol. Worst of all, I was already seeing my husband. But that’s what I get, isn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell her. “No one deserves that.”

  Her eyes go hard. “I’d never … you know. I mean, before that night. A few weeks later I knew I was ime familye weg.”

  I stare at her, feeling more than is prudent. “What did you do?”

  “I lied. To everyone. To Mark. To myself. I let Mark court me. I … you know, with him as quickly as I could manage.” She closes her eyes, seems to struggle with something. “Mamm told me that those kinds of little white lies are okay as long as they’re used to protect tender feelings.”

  “You told your mother what happened?”

  Her gaze skitters away from mine. “She found the … blood from that night. You know … on my underwear.” She takes a shuddery breath. “I told her nothing happened. That it was just my monthly. But I think she knew. She … was in an awful big hurry to get me married.” She looks down at the floor.

  I’m so drawn in to her story, the horrific nature of the assault, all of it without the support of her family or the Amish community, it takes me a moment to find the words for my next question. “Does your datt know what happened?”

  “I don’t think my mamm told him.”

  “Did you see Daniel or speak to him after that night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you write to him? Or leave him a note or letter?”

  “No.” Her brows knit in confusion. “Why would I?”

  “Did you ask him to meet you in the barn the night of the fire?”