Pray for Silence kb-2

by Linda Castillo

  “Tell me about that.”

  “It happened about the time Aaron decided he would not be joining the church. Amos was upset and forbade Aaron to see the Englischer. One night, he caught the outsider in the barn with Aaron. I don’t know what happened, but Amos lost his temper and went after the Englischer with his fists.”

  “And Aaron?”

  “He picked up a pitchfork and used it against his datt.”

  There’s no doubt in my mind why Aaron didn’t mention that part of his juvenile record. “How badly was Amos hurt?”

  “The wounds required surgery.”

  “Aaron was arrested?”

  “The English police were called. He was arrested and taken to jail.”

  “But tried as a juvenile.”

  “I do not know the English laws, but I believe that was the case.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Bishop Fisher.”

  “I will say a prayer for the Plank family.”

  “I think they would like that very much.”

  “Gott segen eich.” God bless you.

  I disconnect to find Tomasetti staring intently at me. “Sounded like an interesting conversation.”

  “Aaron Plank attacked his father with a pitchfork when he was seventeen years old.”

  “Must have been pretty pissed off to do something like that.”

  “He didn’t mention it when I talked to him.”

  “Maybe we ought to give him another chance to fess up.”

  “If he’s still in town.”

  “Since there’s only one motel, that ought to be pretty easy to figure out.”

  Grabbing my keys, I rise. “Damn, you’re getting good at this cop stuff, Tomasetti.”

  “I was just trying to impress you.”

  “It’s working.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The Willowdell Motel is located on Highway 83 a few miles out of town. During the summer months, the place caters to tourists visiting Amish Country. During deer season, the motel caters to the dozens of hunters that flock to the area to bag that purported eight-point buck. The motel’s one-size-suits-all décor doesn’t differentiate between the two groups of clientele.

  Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into the gravel lot and we begin looking for Aaron Plank’s Camry. “He might have gone back last night.”

  “He’s still got the house to deal with,” I point out. “He’ll either need to hire a professional cleaner or do it himself. With so much blood, I’m betting he hires it out. At some point, he’ll need to get the place appraised. If he wants to sell it, anyway.”

  “How much is a farm like that worth?”

  “A hundred and sixty acres. Farmhouse. Barn. Outbuildings. It’s a valuable piece of land. Traditionally, in an Amish family the eldest male child will inherit the farm when the parents pass.”

  “It’s a stretch, but maybe he felt entitled. Kill the people who pissed you off and get a farm worth several hundred thousand dollars in the process. Maybe he decided to speed things up.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t like Aaron Plank for this. James Payne, yes. But not Aaron.”

  “People have done worse for less.” But I can tell by his lack of enthusiasm he’s not buying it either.

  We’re midway through the lot; no sign of the Camry. “He’s not here,” I say.

  Tomasetti stops outside the motel office. “Let’s see if he checked out.”

  The heavy-set woman behind the counter tells us Plank checked out a couple of hours ago.

  “He didn’t happen to say where he was going, did he?” I ask.

  “Sure didn’t. But I can tell you he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath when he signed his receipt.”

  Back in the Tahoe, I’m feeling frustrated and tense. “Kind of early in the day for a nightcap.”

  “Especially if he’s driving back to Philly.” Tomasetti shrugs. “When in doubt, turn to alcohol.”

  I frown at him, then a thought strikes me. “Maybe he’s at the farm.”

  “Tough place to stay if it hasn’t been cleaned up.”

  “Maybe he decided to do it himself.”

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tomasetti hangs a U-turn. “Worth a shot.”

  Five minutes later we park next to the Plank buggy—right behind Aaron’s Camry.

  “Good hunch, Chief,” Tomasetti says.

  I glance toward the farmhouse. I see the kitchen curtains blowing outward, snapping in the stiff breeze. A nifty little gas generator sputters outside the window, the cord snaking inside. “Looks like he’s airing the place out.”

  “Or cleaning up.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  We disembark and head toward the door. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of the birds singing all around. The crisp leaves rattling in the wind. A dozen or so cows hanging out in the paddock near the barn. Everything seems so benign. Except for the fact that a family of seven was wiped out in this very place just three days ago.

  I ascend the steps and knock. Music floats through the open window. Classical guitar with a dash of Madrid. Several minutes pass. I’m in the process of raising my hand to knock again when the lock rattles.

  Aaron Plank opens the door several inches and peers out at me. Even through that small space, my cop’s eyes take in details. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks inordinately out of place in the big Amish kitchen wearing a paisley silk robe. His hair is mussed. His cheeks are flushed. His feet are bare.

  “Can I help you?” No smile. No warmth. His voice tells me we’ve interrupted something he didn’t want interrupted. The cop in me wants to know what that is.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.

  Plank’s eyes go from me to Tomasetti, who is standing slightly behind me. He makes no move to open the door. “This is kind of a bad time.”

  “I understand,” I say. “But we only need a few minutes.”

  His gaze flicks sideways. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “So are we,” Tomasetti cuts in. “A murder case. Now open the door and talk to us.”

  Aaron’s mouth tightens into a thin, hard line. The door swings open as if by its own accord. Stepping back, he tugs at the belt of his robe. “I would have come down to the station.”

  “I’m afraid this won’t wait.” I step into the kitchen. The aromas of candle wax and coffee mingles with the fresh air gusting through the window. I see a high-tech coffeemaker on the counter. Dishes draining in the sink. A bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses sit on the counter. That’s when I realize Aaron isn’t alone, and I get a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. The kind you get when you know someone is watching and you don’t know who or why. There were no other cars in the driveway, but I know he’s got company.

  “Who’s here with you?”

  Leave it to Tomasetti to cut to the chase. Listening, I cross to the living room. A dozen candles sit on the table, their tiny flames flickering in the breeze. Classical guitar streams from a cool little sound system on the floor.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Both Tomasetti and I look up to see a dark-haired young man trotting down the stairs. He’s got eyes the color of whiskey and just enough scruff of a beard to look en vogue. I know even before he introduces himself that the man is Aaron Plank’s lover.

  “I’m Rob Lane.” Crossing to us, he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”

  Tomasetti shakes the man’s hand and introduces himself.

  I step forward and do the same. “We spoke on the phone,” I say.

  “Of course.” Rob’s expression turns appropriately sober. “I couldn’t believe it when Aaron told me what happened to his family, especially with their being Amish and in a town this size.”

  “You didn’t mention you would be traveling to Painters Mill,” I say.

  “I hadn’t planned to at the time.” He
grimaces. “But Aaron’s been understandably upset. He asked me to fly out for the weekend.”

  I spot Aaron in the kitchen, pouring red wine into two glasses and start toward him. “Is there some place we can talk?” I ask him. “Alone?”

  Frowning at me, he brushes past and hands Rob one of the glasses. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Rob.”

  I nod, wondering about the attitude change. Last time I talked to him, he was cooperative and forthright. Now, he’s petulant. Why the turnaround? Is the grief over losing his family settling in? Did I come down on him too hard the last time we spoke? Or is there another reason for his abrupt turnaround?

  “Why didn’t you tell us you attacked your father with a pitchfork when you were seventeen?” I ask.

  Aaron takes a swig of wine. “It’s not the kind of thing you want to reveal to the cops when they’re investigating the murders of your estranged family.”

  “Surely you knew we’d find out sooner or later.”

  He shrugs.

  Tomasetti steps closer, crowding Aaron. “It’s called lying by omission. In case you missed that episode of Law and Order, Einstein, that’s the kind of thing that usually makes the cops suspicious.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” Aaron says.

  “You attacked your father and put him in the hospital,” I say. “You didn’t tell us. Now he’s dead. It could appear as if you do have something to hide.”

  “I didn’t kill my family. It’s absurd of you to think so.”

  “Lying to the police doesn’t exactly bolster our confidence in your ability to tell the truth,” Tomasetti says.

  Aaron glares at him, swigs more wine. “I’m not capable of that kind of violence.”

  “You stuck your old man with a pitchfork,” Tomasetti mutters. “That’s pretty violent.”

  “I had no reason to kill them.”

  “They condemned you for being different. They thought you were perverted. Maybe you wanted to pay them back for the hell they put you through when you were seventeen.”

  “All I wanted was to live my own life.”

  “They wouldn’t let you do that, though, would they?” Tomasetti is goading him now.

  “I forgave them a long time ago.” Aaron’s voice turns defensive.

  “Did they forgive you?”

  “I had no control over what they thought of me or my lifestyle,” he says.

  “This is a nice house, Aaron,” I break in. “Are you going to keep it?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Tomasetti picks up an empty bottle of wine, makes a show of looking at the label, then sets it down. “Nice little love nest. Private. Roomy. Kind of ironic that the two of you are holed up in here now, drinking wine, hanging out, while the rest of your family is buried just down the road.”

  Rob steps forward. “You’re out of line.”

  Tomasetti shows his teeth, but his eyes are focused on Aaron. “They put you through hell, Aaron. Especially your old man. He thought you were sick. Maybe this is your way of paying him back.” He makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “Maybe you and lover boy are celebrating. Rubbing all that intolerance in their self-righteous faces.”

  “That’s not how it is,” Aaron retorts, his voice rising.

  “Then tell us how it is.”

  Aaron divides his attention between Tomasetti and me. “I told you. I forgave them. I moved on.”

  “Is that why you’re so upset?” Tomasetti asks.

  “I was alone here! I needed . . . a friend. I called Rob.”

  “You haven’t even cleaned up their blood yet, and here you are dancing and drinking wine and having veal parmesan for lunch. That’s cold.”

  “W-we were going to hire a professional c-cleaner.” Aaron stutters the words. “They can’t come out until tomorrow.”

  “How much did you hate your father?” Tomasetti asks.

  “I didn’t hate him. He hated me. His son. He couldn’t stand what I was.” He turns his gaze to mine. Through the anger, his eyes plead for understanding, and for the first time I see the shimmer of tears. “I loved him. I loved all of them.”

  “Is that why you stabbed him with a pitchfork?” Tomasetti asks.

  “I was a teenager. He was . . . ignorant. He didn’t . . . wouldn’t understand. I lost my temper!”

  “I think you still have a temper,” Tomasetti says. “I’ll bet you’d like to stick a pitchfork in me right now, wouldn’t you?”

  Aaron hurls the wineglass to the floor, inches from Tomasetti’s foot. Glass shatters, shards flying against the wood cabinets. Tomasetti doesn’t even flinch.

  “Hey.” Rob steps between Tomasetti and Aaron, like a referee stopping a fight after a particularly devastating blow. “Come on, you guys. This has gone far enough.”

  “Going to go a lot farther if we get lied to again.” Tomasetti jabs a finger at Aaron. “You listening?”

  Aaron lunges at Tomasetti. I step forward, ready to intervene. But Rob catches Aaron by the arms, hauls him back. “This conversation is over,” he snaps.

  Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “You might want to watch that temper of yours, Aaron. You don’t want the cops thinking you’re capable of violence.”

  “Fuck you!” Aaron screams the words.

  “Enough.” Before even realizing I’m going to move, I step closer, turn to face Aaron. “You need to calm down.” Then to Tomasetti. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  Scowling, Tomasetti walks away. Bad cop. Time for me to move in. I turn back to Aaron. Something I see in this troubled young man’s eyes touches me in a place I don’t want to acknowledge. Maybe because Aaron Plank and I have more in common than he could ever know. Those parallels have been floating around in my subconscious since I learned of his excommunication.

  “Come here.” I motion toward the kitchen.

  Feeling Tomasetti’s and Rob Lane’s eyes on me, I walk into the kitchen, aware that Aaron follows a few feet behind me. Once in the kitchen, I turn to face him. “You’re not helping your cause.”

  He sneers. “You must be the good cop.”

  “You’re not a suspect.”

  “Then why are you hassling me?” Crossing to the counter, he snags another wineglass and pours more merlot into it.

  “Because you withheld information that might have been helpful.” I return evenly. “What else aren’t you telling us?”

  He looks away, raises the glass to his lips, takes a too-big gulp of wine. “I heard you used to be Amish,” he says. “Is that true?”

  “I was. A long time ago.”

  “Then you know gossip is one of their favorite pastimes,” he says. “You know they can be a bunch of judgmental pricks.”

  “Who are you protecting?” I ask point-blank.

  “No one.”

  “Is it Mary? Was she into something she shouldn’t have been? Are you trying to protect her reputation? Her memory? What?”

  He looks down at the wineglass in his hand.

  “Aaron, you need to talk to me. We’re trying to find out who killed your family. If you know something, now is the time to open up.”

  After a moment, he raises his eyes to mine. “I know in the scope of things it doesn’t seem important, Chief Burkholder, but I don’t want anyone to know what I’m about to tell you, especially the Amish community. Mary cared about her reputation. It mattered to her. She wouldn’t want them gossiping about her. About Mamm and Datt.”

  I give him the most honest answer I can. “I’ll do my best to keep whatever you tell me out of the public eye.”

  His hand trembles when he sets down the glass. “I received a letter from Mary. About a month ago.”

  The revelation sends a jolt through me. “What did it say?”

  “She wanted to leave the Amish lifestyle. She asked for my help.”

  “Why did she want to leave?”

  “She said she didn’t fit in, couldn’t conform.”

  I know t
here’s more. “Did she mention a boyfriend?”

  He eyes me warily. “You know about him?”

  “She kept a journal. I found it in her room. I’ve read it.”

  “A journal?” Emotion swells in his eyes. “Can I see it?”

  “You can when I close this case. For now, it’s evidence.” I move closer to him. “What did she say about the boyfriend?”

  “Just that he wasn’t Amish, but she was crazy about him. Really crazy. Made it sound all romantic. You know, teenaged girl stuff. She wanted to marry him. Have his kids. Shit like that. She was sneaking out at night to be with him.”

  “Did she mention a name?”

  “No.”

  I hold his gaze. “Do you still have the letter?”

  “I tossed it.” He looks away. “I didn’t know it would be the last time I heard from her.”

  “What was the tone of the letter?” I ask.

  “I swear to God she seemed fine. Just . . . confused. In love for the first time.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I wish I’d dropped everything and driven down. I might’ve been able to do something.” He closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. “Mary always looked up to me. I was her big brother. She watched me leave the Amish way of life, and she wanted the same for herself.” He sighs. “I had Rob to help me through it. She didn’t have anyone. I wish I could have been there for her.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about the letter?” I ask. “Anything that worried you?”

  He shakes his head. “God, I don’t remember all the details. She kind of caught me up on family stuff. How fast little Amos was growing. She said everything was fine. I do recall that she talked a lot about the guy. She was definitely into him.”

  “Did she say anything that made you concerned for her safety?”

  “No.”

  Disappointment digs into me. “Did you write her back? Call her?”

  “I wrote her a letter.” His face screws up. He brings his fist down on the counter. “I wish to God I’d had the courage to drive down.”

  “What did you say in your letter?”

  He blows out a breath, composes himself. “I hooked her up with an Amish guy near Millersburg. He runs a sort of . . . underground railroad for young Amish men who want to leave the Plain life.” He gives me a sage look. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you about this, Chief Burkholder. The man is Amish. He’s married to an Amish woman and they have six children. If anyone finds out what he does, he’ll be excommunicated.”