“Thanks for coming in so early, Auggie.” I scan the faces in the room and take a moment to get my words in order. “While I was reviewing the disks from the Long and Plank cases last night, I discovered this.”
Leaning across my desk, I pass out the photos I printed. “The hand you see in that still does not belong to Todd Long.”
A ripple of surprise goes around the room. For the cops, it’s a collective sound of sudden interest. For Auggie, it’s the sound of a man who’ll now have to deal with an unhappy town council. Nothing gets the bean counters more perturbed in a tourist town than a murderer on the loose.
Auggie looks like he’s going to throw up. “Are you certain?”
“I’m certain enough to keep the investigation open.”
He groans, a little boy whose balloon has just been burst by the neighborhood bully.
Glock speaks up from his place by the door. “Can we ID this guy using the scar?”
“We can try.” I look at T.J. “I want you to take this photo to every doctor in town. Millersburg, too.”
“I’m there.”
I turn my attention to Glock. “I want you to talk to Scott Barbereaux. Tell him about the wine bottle we found. Ask him when he was at Miller’s Pond. Find out who he was with. Verify it. Ask him about September twenty-second. Rattle his cage a little.”
Glock nods. “My pleasure.”
“Make sure you get a good look at his right hand,” I add.
I look at the mayor. “Auggie, I was wondering if you could call an emergency town council meeting and let the members know about this. Tell them we’re working around the clock and that I’ll have a press release late this afternoon.”
The mayor sighs. “Boy, it’s going to hit the fan when they find out the case isn’t as closed as they’d like it to be.”
“Maybe you could remind them of what another murder would do to tourism.”
“Good point.” He gets to his feet. “Anything else, Kate?”
I shake my head, motion toward my team. “We’re just going to go over some police stuff.”
Grimacing, he nods and heads for the door.
I wait a beat, then give Glock a pointed look. “Close the door.”
Arching a brow, he leans over and the latch clicks shut.
I scan the men’s faces. “Let me preface by saying none of what I’m about to say leaves this room.” Doughnuts, coffee and the earliness of the hour are forgotten. Their collective attention focuses on me. “We know the accomplice is still out there. As far as the investigation, we have two things going for us at this point. The scar. And the DNA from the semen we found inside Mary Plank. If the DNA belongs to Todd Long, we’re back at square one. If it doesn’t match Long, we may have our first big break. However . . .” I pause, let the word sink in. “If the accomplice isn’t in the CODIS database, we’ll be left high and dry.”
“How long until DNA results come back?” Pickles asks.
“Tomasetti is pushing, but he can only do so much. The lab is backlogged. It’s going to be a few more days.” I grimace. “Too damn long. This killer is an animal. Savage enough to cut a fetus from a woman’s body for the sole purpose of keeping us from doing a paternity test.”
The men nod in unison.
“I think I figured out a way to smoke this bastard out of his hole,” I say.
“How?” T.J. asks.
“We set a trap with bait he won’t be able to resist.”
He looks around as if wondering if he’s the only one who’s not following. “What bait?”
“Billy Zook.”
A stir goes around the room. Not a stir of alarm. A stir of anticipation. The kind hunters feel in the moments before they embark on the pursuit of a dangerous animal.
“Does the killer know the Zook kid witnessed the murders?” Glock asks.
“Not yet. But if I release that information to the press, you can bet he’ll be aware of it by the end of the day.”
“The media’s kind of a wild card, isn’t it?” T.J. asks.
“Not if I feed them exactly what we want them to report.”
“If we make it too easy and name the witness outright, the killer will smell a trap,” Pickles says.
“I won’t use names. But I’ll mention the disk and the face in the window. I’m betting the killer kept a copy of that disk.”
Skid nods. “First thing he’s going to do is take a look at it.”
“If we found the kid’s face, he can find it,” T.J. adds.
I nod. “It’ll take some doing on his part. He’ll need to review the disk, magnify the image. Identify and find the kid. But if we make it too easy, he’ll know it’s a trap.”
Glock leans back in his chair. “How do you know the killer will be able to identify the kid? Hell, how do you know if he’ll even read the newspaper?”
“It’s not a perfect plan,” I tell him. “But Painters Mill is a small town. Even with the kid being Amish, it’s reasonable to think the killer will somehow learn about the witness. Once he does, he should be able to ID him.”
“Lotta ifs in there, Chief,” Skid says.
“I know,” I reply. “But if you look at the killer’s profile, I think he’ll go for it. He’s ruthless. He’s smart. Cunning. Billy Zook can put him in prison for life. Maybe even get him lethal injection. This killer has already murdered seven people, including a toddler.”
“Eight people if you include the baby Mary Plank was carrying,” Pickles adds.
“Pretty solid motivation,” Glock says.
T.J. raises his brows. “The killer could run.”
“True. But I don’t think he will. I believe he’s established here. His life is here. He doesn’t want to give it up. That’s why he killed Mary Plank and her family.” I shrug. “If you look at the situation through the eyes of a psychopath, it’s a hell of a lot easier to eliminate a threat than it is to start over in another country.”
Skid rakes his hand through his hair. “That’s some cold shit.”
“Have you run this by the Zooks?” Glock asks.
The thought makes me sigh. “It’s going to be a hard sell.”
T.J. looks from face to face. “But won’t the boy be in danger?”
“No,” I reply.
“How can you guarantee that?”
“Because he won’t be anywhere in sight. I will.”
Ten minutes later I’m on my way to the Zook farm. Glock offered to ride along, but I declined. The odds of my convincing this conservative Amish family to help are better if I do this alone. Even then, I have my work cut out for me. My Amish background will only go so far, particularly since I’m no longer a member of the church district. I’m an outsider encroaching on a society I turned my back on a long time ago.
The morning sun beats down from a severe blue sky as I head out of town. I pass an Amish man and a team of mules raking hay. I’m in such a hurry, I barely notice the scent of newly cut alfalfa. In that moment it strikes me there was a time when I had no concept of urgency. Life was slow and simple; my life path set on a course that would have been much the same as my mother’s and grandmother’s before me. All that changed the day I shot and killed Daniel Lapp.
I wave to the Amish man as I pass. I smile when he returns the wave. Turning into the gravel lane that will take me to the Zook farmhouse, I hope I’ll be able to convince William and Alma to help me.
I park behind a black buggy. Midway to the house, I hear my name. I turn to find William and his youngest son walking toward me from the barn. Man and boy wear typical Amish work clothes—trousers with suspenders, blue work shirts and flat-brimmed straw hats. Their boots are covered with muck, and I realize they’ve been cleaning the hog pens and transferring manure to the pit.
William greets me in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder Mariya.” Good morning.
I respond in kind. “I’m sorry to disturb your work.”
“Isaac and I were just going in for the midday meal.”
Unde
r normal circumstances, anyone that visits an Amish home during a meal would be asked to join them. The Amish are generous with food, and the women prepare large portions. But because I have been excommunicated, he doesn’t ask. I don’t take it personally, but it doesn’t bode well for what I’m about to propose. “Do you and Mrs. Zook have a few minutes to talk?” I glance at Isaac. “Privately?”
“There is much work to do.”
“This won’t take long.”
He grunts an unenthusiastic reply without looking at me.
I fall in behind them. We enter the house through the back door. The kitchen is a large room and smells of frying food and cooking tomatoes. From where I stand, I can feel the heat coming off the stove. A rectangular table draped with a blue-and-white checkered cloth dominates the room. Alma stands at the stove with a spatula in her hand, turning something in a cast iron skillet. She looks at me when we enter, and offers a small smile. Canning jars rattle in boiling water, and I know she’s probably been at the stove since the wee hours of morning. Though the windows are open, the room is uncomfortably hot and I break a sweat beneath my uniform shirt.
“Hello, Katie,” Alma says.
Feeling out of place, I smile at her. “Hello, Alma.”
The table is set for four people with plates, glasses filled with water, and napkins. William takes his place at the head of the table and growls, “Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin.”
“Next month you’ll be complaining about the cold.” Alma sets a plate of fried ham, green beans, sliced tomatoes and a piece of bread slathered with apple butter in front of him.
“Wash your hands, Isaac,” she says to her son. “And tell Billy to come down.” She looks at me. “Katie, would you like to join us?”
William gives her a dark look.
Frowning, she puts her hands on her hips. “Mer sot tem sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.” One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.
“She is under the Meidung,” William growls.
“She is in our home.”
I almost smile when William looks down at his food and concedes to his wife. Alma turns her attention to me. “I have fried ham with vegetables and bread. Would you like a plate?”
“I’m not hungry. But thank you.” I look from Alma to William. “I’m here because I need your help.”
William raises his head to look at me. “That is a first. The English police asking the Amish for help.”
Isaac and Billy wrestle into the kitchen. William speaks sharply to them. “Sit at the table, boys. We will pray.”
Eyeing me suspiciously, Billy and Isaac take the chairs to William’s right. Alma sets a basket of bread in the center of the table and then takes her place to her husband’s left. I stand near the kitchen doorway, perspiring in the sweltering heat, trying not to feel like an outsider as the family bows their heads and William recites the before meal prayer.
“O Herr Gott, himmlischer Vater, Segne uns und Diese Diene Gaben, die wir von Deiner milden Gute Zu uns nehmen warden, Speise und tranke auch unsere Seelen zum ewigen Leben, und mach uns theilhaftig Deines himmllischen Tisches durch Jesus Christum. Amen.”
Oh Lord God, heavenly Father, bless us and these thy gifts, which we shall accept from thy tender goodness. Give us food and drink also for our souls unto life eternal, and make us partakers of thy heavenly table through Jesus Christ. Amen.
Even after seventeen years, the words come back with a clarity that astonishes me. I recited that prayer a thousand times as a child. Memories fly at me out of the backwaters of my mind. My datt’s baritone voice. Sarah and Jonas and I trading food beneath the table. Mamm knowing what we were doing, but never busting us because she knew sometimes Datt’s punishments were too severe for the crime.
The memories scatter when William raises his head, grabs his fork and begins to eat. “What do you want from us?”
I didn’t want to discuss police business with the children present, but I may not get another opportunity, so I plunge ahead. “It’s about the Plank case. I need your help.”
“I do not see how we can help,” Alma says. “Billy did not see the man clearly—”
“The killer doesn’t know that.”
William and Alma look at me. Isaac stops eating and looks at me, a green bean sticking out the side of his mouth. Only Billy continues chewing, oblivious to the conversation. “I do not understand,” William says after a moment.
“I want to set a trap. Make the killer believe Billy was a witness. To do that, I need access to your farm for a few days. So I can lure the killer here.”
Alma opens her mouth to speak, but William beats her to it. “I will not allow you to put my family in danger.”
“That is too dangerous for Billy,” Alma says simultaneously.
I level a stare at them. “None of you will be in danger.”
William sets down his fork. The look he gives me makes the hairs on my arms tingle. “We are Amish, not dumb farm animals.”
“You know I don’t think that,” I snap.
William bristles. Glancing at his children, he motions toward the living room. “Isaac and Billy, go to your room.”
Alma’s gaze darts from me to her husband. “William . . .”
“Go!” He thrusts a hand toward the door.
Isaac snatches a piece of bread from the basket, and without a word, they flee the kitchen. William gives me an accusing stare. “I will not allow you to come into my home and frighten my children.”
“William, if this wasn’t important, I wouldn’t be here. But I have a killer to catch. I have a responsibility to the people of this town to keep them safe.”
“The killer is an Englischer,” William growls. “This is not an Amish matter.”
“The Plank family was Amish,” I counter.
“I cannot help you.” William resumes eating, using his fork and chewing with a little too much vigor.
“If I don’t stop him, he’ll kill again.”
He chews harder, ignoring me.
Frustrated, I look at his wife. “If you’ll just listen to what I have to say.”
“I have heard enough.” The Amish man stands abruptly. “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers; for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?”
The passage is a doctrine that forbids an Amish person from doing business with outsiders. I heard it many times in my youth. I don’t believe it now any more than I did then.
“Yes, we are two societies,” I tell him. “Amish and English. But we are one town. And this killer doesn’t differentiate between the two.”
Without looking at me, William mutters something in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Alma puts her hands on her hips. “But what of the people who are in danger, William? If it is in our power to keep them safe, perhaps this is the path God would want us to take.”
Her husband brings his hand down on the table hard enough to rattle silverware. “No!”
I’d known the plan would be a hard sell. The principle of separation from the outside world colors every aspect of an Amish person’s reality. My own parents shared a similar view. In this case, I suspect that buried somewhere inside that philosophy, is also fear for his son.
Realizing there’s nothing more I can say, I give William a final look. “The Amish are not the only children of God in this town. Think about that tonight when you’re trying to sleep.”
The level of emotion in my voice surprises me. Disgusted with them, with myself, I head for the door, yank it open, take the steps at a too fast pace to the sidewalk. I’m nearly to the Explorer when I hear my name. I turn to see William coming down the steps. Alma stands just inside the screen door, watching.
William reaches me and stops. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then he surprises me by saying, “I will talk to Bishop Troyer.”
I don’t know if that’s good or bad because I have no idea if the
bishop will give his blessing. I want to tell him keeping people safe is bigger than this clash of cultures. Because I so desperately need his cooperation, I hold my tongue. “Thank you.”
“Gott segen eich,” he says, then turns and walks away.
CHAPTER 26
I’m standing at the window in my office, thinking about John Tomasetti when the call comes. I hadn’t expected to learn of William Zook’s decision via telephone, but Bishop Troyer is one of the few Amish who has a phone and uses it. It’s mainly for emergencies, like the time when Joe Yoder fell off the roof during a barn raising and broke his leg. But the bishop is also sort of an acting liaison between the Amish community and the English. When important calls need to be made, they are made to and from the bishop’s home.
“This is William Zook.”
“Hello, William.” Anticipation makes my heart thud dully in my chest.
“Bishop Troyer has given his blessing. I will allow you to use the farm, but that is all.”
My relief is so profound that for a moment, I fumble for words. “I appreciate that.”
“I do not want Billy to be in danger, Chief Burkholder.”
“None of you will be in danger,” I say firmly. “Two of my officers will be taking you and your family to a safe house.”
“I do not understand what that is.”
“A house where you’ll stay while we wait for the killer.”
“No English house,” he says.
I tamp down impatience while my brain scrambles for a solution. “Is there an Amish family you could stay with for a few days?”
He considers that for a moment. “Rachael and Joe Yoder. The storm blew down some of the pens and chicken coop. It will take Joe and me a few days to make repairs.”
“All right. Two officers will be with you at all times.”
Williams sighs. “So be it.”
Half an hour later, Glock and I are in the shabby-chic warehouse offices of The Advocate, Painters Mill’s weekly newspaper. Filled with the smells of paper and print ink, the publisher’s office is a large room crammed full of artsy photos in stainless-steel frames, an antique desk and credenza, several tastefully battered leather chairs and dozens of stacks of newspapers that are taller than me.
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