He’d just opened his laptop to check e-mail when a tap on the door drew his attention. He looked up, to see Deputy Superintendent Lawrence Bates step into his office. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
Since he hadn’t done shit except haul in boxes and clutter things up, Tomasetti smiled. “I have a knack.”
Bates slid into a chair, leaned forward, and set his elbows on his knees. He was a tall, lanky man of about fifty who smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, and somehow still managed to run six miles a day. He was married, with two college-age kids and a couple of Labrador retrievers. He’d come over to BCI from the FBI office in Dallas, Texas, six years ago. Rumor had it that he’d had an affair with his administrative assistant. Things had gotten ugly when his wife found out, and she’d given him an ultimatum. Larry had chosen his marriage over the bimbo and made the move to Cleveland. He looked like a man who’d been paying for his transgressions ever since.
“I understand you’ve spent some time in Holmes and Coshocton counties in the last year,” Bates says.
John thought of Kate and smiled. “I’m familiar with the area.”
Eleven months ago, he and Kate had worked a serial murder case in Painters Mill. It was a brutal case. They’d spent some intense days together, butted heads a few times, and somehow forged a friendship that had, so far, withstood the test of time. Looking back, Tomasetti realized that the Slaughterhouse Killer case and, more specifically, his relationship with Kate, had probably saved not only his career but his life.
“You have a pretty good working relationship with the local law-enforcement agencies down there?” Bates asked.
“I do.”
“This came in this morning.” Bates handed him a blue sheet of paper, which John recognized as a Request for Assistance form. “I spoke with Sheriff Rasmussen down in Millersburg. He tells me there’s been a string of hate crimes in the area in the last six months.”
“Hate crimes?” John knew from experience most were against minorities: African-Americans, Hispanics, Jews, and gay men. “Against who?”
“The Amish.”
“That’s a twist.” But John knew hate for the sake of hate had no boundaries. Vaguely, he recalled that Kate had told him about several incidents. “Doesn’t that fall under the FBI’s jurisdiction?”
“Hate crimes are against the law whether it’s on a state or federal level. Since we got the call, we show up.” Bates continued: “Rasmussen tells me there’ve been half a dozen incidents. Started out with a few bashed mailboxes. The usual kind of thing you see in small towns. Then a couple of weeks ago, someone ran a buggy off the road. A pregnant Amish woman was injured, lost her baby.”
Tomasetti picked up the RFA form and skimmed the particulars. “Any of the vics press charges?”
“Not a one.”
“So even if we catch the perpetrators, we basically have nothing.”
“We have you.”
“Because I have such a charismatic and persuasive personality?”
Bates chuckled. “Because you know Chief Burkholder.”
John wondered if someone had it written down in some file that he and Kate were sleeping together.
“I understand she was born Amish,” Bates said, clarifying.
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“I thought she might be able to persuade some of these Amish to come forward, press charges, and testify, if we get that far.”
“If anyone can do it, Kate can. She’s … determined.”
A picture of Kate materialized in his mind—not the cop, but the woman. She was girl-next-door pretty, with big brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She kept her brown hair cut a tad too short—when she bothered having it cut at all. She wasn’t beautiful in the classic sense, but she was attractive as hell. And she appealed to Tomasetti on a level that went a lot deeper than the flesh.
Working with her again would be no hardship. He and Kate worked well together. Better than well, if he wanted to be honest. It had been over two months since he’d seen her, and he’d been looking for an excuse to drive down to Painters Mill. Last time he was there, they’d closed a difficult murder case. An Amish family gunned down in their home. The case had taken a heavy toll on Kate. He’d been wanting to check up on her.
Leaning back in his chair, John looked around the room. “When do I leave?”
Bates glanced at his watch. “How about five minutes ago?”
* * *
The sky hovers low and ominous when I turn into the long gravel lane of the Slabaugh farm. The rain has stopped, but I know there’s more coming, probably in the form of freezing rain. It’s late afternoon, but the temperature has already begun a precipitous drop. To make matters worse, the storm clouds that have been building to the west most of the afternoon are creeping this way. Welcome to northeastern Ohio in December.
Bishop Troyer’s buggy is still parked in the gravel near the back door of the house. Two additional buggies are parked near the barn, and I know friends and neighbors of the Slabaugh family are taking care of the livestock, mucking and feeding and doing what needs to be done to keep the farm and up and running until decisions can be made. I know I’ll find the women inside with the children, comforting them with food, prayer, and reassuring words.
None of that makes what I have to do next any easier. The barn is now a crime scene, off-limits to everyone until it’s been processed and any evidence removed. More than likely, the pigs will have to be loaded onto a stock trailer and hauled away. Another disruption to four lives that have already been devastated.
“Scene is probably going to be pretty trampled,” Glock says.
“I’ll call Tomasetti and request a CSU.” I look at the barn, aware of gossamer snowflakes melting on the windshield. “We need to get it taped off. Talk to someone about getting the pigs hauled away.”
“What are we going to do about the kids?”
Thinking about the four children inside, I sigh. I can’t put off calling for a social worker much longer.
“I hate to see them uprooted or separated.” I kill the engine and punch off the lights. “But I’m going to have to contact Children Services.”
“Can’t the Amish take care of them until Slabaugh is cleared?”
I nod. “If he’s cleared.”
“He a suspect?”
The thought makes me feel slightly nauseous. “Let’s just say he’s a person of interest.”
“Got it.”
I give him a look as I reach for the door. “Let’s get the barn taped off.”
At the rear of the Explorer, I open the hatch and pull out my crime-scene kit. There’s not much to it—just a box of disposable gloves, several pair of shoe covers, yellow crime-scene tape, a sketch pad and notebook, evidence bags, a dozen tiny cone evidence markers, a couple of inexpensive field-test kits—for cocaine and crystal meth—and a digital camera.
“Going to be a tough scene to process,” Glock comments.
He’s right. The place has literally been trampled—by the fire department volunteers, the police and paramedics, whoever has been caring for the livestock. “We’re not going to find much.”
“Whatever we do find is contaminated.”
“Won’t do us much good if this ever goes to court.”
The big door still stands open, someone’s attempt to air the place out. The smells of hogs, hay, barn dust, and manure greet us like an offensive old adversary when we walk inside. The barn is filled with deep shadows. Looking around, I spot a lantern hanging from a rafter, pull it down, and light the wick.
Setting my crime-scene kit on the wood windowsill, I open it and hand disposable gloves and shoe covers, the crime-scene tape, and adhesive tape to Glock. “Let’s get it taped off.”
“A little late for shoe covers and gloves.”
“Gotta treat it like a crime scene from here on out.” I look around. “Keep your eyes open for anything that might have been used as a weapon.”
>
“Will do.”
Quickly, we don the protective gear. While he strings crime-scene tape, I cross to the livestock pens and look around. Someone put the hogs outside, but I can hear them grunting and slopping around in the mud beyond the door. The concrete is slick with muck, both liquid and solids. The smell is overpowering. It strikes me that the pit will need to be emptied, all of its contents gone through. Some lucky BCI agent isn’t going to have a very good couple of days.
I lift the gate latch. The steel groans when I push it open and enter the pen. A hundred or more cloven hoofprints mar the thick sheet of mud. I see human footwear marks with a dozen different treads, and I curse myself for not having been more careful. Looking at the destroyed crime scene, I tell myself there was no way any of us could have known. Still, some caution might have given us a better chance of finding something useful in terms of evidence.
Vaguely, I’m aware of Glock stringing tape a few yards away, the wind hissing through the open door behind him, sleet tapping like delicate fingernails against the glass panes. I grew up on an Amish farm. Being here brings back a lot of memories of my own childhood. We raised cattle for beef, but we also had horses, chickens, and several goats. We farmed corn, soybeans, and wheat. Our barn was much like this one: old, but built to last. The manure pit was smaller, but the concept was the same. I was a tomboy and spent many hours exploring the barn with my brother, Jacob. Datt always left the grate over the pit. I made my sister, Sarah, cry once when I told her there were monsters living in the muck. I never thought of it as an instrument of murder.
I walk the perimeter of the pen. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something that seems out of place. You never know when something that initially appears mundane will become a piece of evidence. Spotting a pair of leather work gloves on the windowsill, I remove the camera from my pocket and snap four shots from different angles. I do the same with a two-pound coffee can someone probably used to measure feed. I snap two more photos of a big pocketknife that was probably used to cut hay twine. Next, I take a dozen shots of the manure pit from different angles. This is the first step in documenting the scene. Once the CSU arrives, every movable object will be bagged and sent to the lab for examination.
Lowering the camera, I spot a snow shovel leaning against the far wall. The blade is caked with dried muck and I realize it was probably being used to shovel solids into the pit. I think of Solomon Slabaugh’s head wound and realize a shovel would make a pretty good weapon. Stepping back, I snap half a dozen photos. I put the camera in my pocket and squat next to the shovel to examine the blade. A quiver goes through me when I see hair on the back of the scoop. “Shit.”
“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”
I nearly start at the sound of Glock’s voice. Rising, I glance over at him and motion toward the shovel. “There’s hair on the blade. Looks human.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Maybe.” I bend for a closer look at the hair. “Definitely not from a pig.”
He approaches and squats next to me. “Same color as Solomon Slabaugh’s.”
I’m tempted to put some of the hair in an evidence bag for safekeeping, then decide to let the CSU handle it—mostly for chain-of-evidence reasons. Straightening, I sigh, thinking of the children. As much as I hate the idea of subjecting them to another interview, they’re my best bet at getting my hands on some solid information. “I’ve got some garbage bags in my kit. Bag the shovel. See what else you can find and mark it.”
“You got it.”
Rising, I start toward the gate that will take me out of the pen. “I’m going to talk to the kids.”
“You want me to go with you?”
Snapping off my gloves, I toss them into a trash can, then stop and turn to him. If we weren’t dealing with Amish kids, I might take him up on the offer. But I don’t want to overwhelm or intimidate them. “The fewer non-Amish people present, the more likely they’ll be to open up.”
“Gotcha.”
“You want the bad news?”
“Lay it on me.”
“I’m going to need you to stay here and keep the scene secure until the CSU arrives.”
“No problem.” He pats the coat pocket where he keeps his cell phone. “Just give a call if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Glock.”
I go through the door and into the cold. A strong west wind buffets me as I head up the sidewalk toward the house, and I huddle deeper into my coat, wishing I’d put on a few more layers. At the back door, I knock and wait. A moment later, a tall, thin Amish woman I’ve never met answers. She’s wearing a blue print dress with a black apron, the requisite kapp, opaque hose, and well-worn black shoes. I show her my badge. “I need to speak with the children.”
She doesn’t look happy to see me, even less happy with my request. I’m relieved when she opens the door and ushers me inside. “Sitz dich anne.” Sit down.
The smells of coffee and cinnamon titillate my olfactory nerves as I step inside. Heat from the kerosene stove warms my face. A second woman stands at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. She turns as I sit at the table, nods a greeting, then returns her attention to her task. Being here in this Amish kitchen brings back memories. Growing up, I spent countless hours sitting at a big table just like this one while my mamm fussed at the stove, and I feel an uncharacteristic jab of melancholy for things lost. Not because I want to be Amish, but because I know that once pieces of your past slip away, those pieces are gone forever, and there’s no going back.
I think of my brother, Jacob, and my sister, Sarah, and for an instant I miss them so much, my chest aches. As children, we’d been close. Now they’re strangers; it’s been weeks since I’ve seen either of them. I have two nephews I barely know and a brand-new niece I’ve never met, mostly due to my own evasion. I don’t know why I avoid them the way I do. To say it’s complicated would be an understatement. As I sit at the table with the smells of an Amish house all around, I wonder if they’re part of my lost past, or if they’re part of a future I simply haven’t been able to reach for yet.
“I’m Ellen.”
I’m pulled from my thoughts to see the thin woman who’d answered the door eyeing me suspiciously as she dries her hands on a towel. “Would you like coffee and pie?” she asks.
I wonder if she’d be offering these if she knew I’d once been Amish and that I’d been excommunicated for going on fourteen years now. “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”
She pours from an ancient-looking enamel pot and carries the cup to me. “The younger children are in their room, sleeping,” she says. “They have had a very trying day.”
I pick up the cup and sip. “What about Mose?”
“Wait.” She disappears into the living room. A moment later, Bishop Troyer appears. He’s a short man with bowed legs, a round belly, and thick gray hair that’s blunt-cut above heavy brows. A salt-and-pepper beard hangs from his chin, reaching nearly to the waistband of his trousers. He’s looked much the same since I was a child: old, but never seeming to age further.
He doesn’t look happy to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”
“I need to speak with the children,” I say without preamble. “It’s important.”
He sighs as he crosses to the table and takes the chair across from me. “Katie, the children are grieving. They have been through much already this day.”
“Solomon Slabaugh may have been murdered.”
“Murdered?” The bishop recoils as if I’d splashed hot coffee in his face. “Solly? But I thought he fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”
I tell him about the head trauma. “I need to talk to the kids, Bishop Troyer. Right now.”
The old man looks uncertain as he rises, as if he doesn’t know what to make of this new information I’ve just thrown at him. “The three youngsters are in their rooms, sleeping. Mose is outside in the workshop with the men.”
“Gather the younger kids for me.” I take a reluctant
last sip of coffee, then rise. “I’ll speak to Mose first.”
The bishop bows his head slightly, then disappears into the living room.
Leaving my coffee and the warmth of the kitchen, I go back outside. The wind penetrates my parka as I make my way down the sidewalk. Midway to the barn, I turn left toward a newish steel building, noticing for the first time the dull glow of lantern light in the windows. The sky is even darker now, the gray clouds to the west approaching like some vast army. There’s no snow yet, but I can smell it—that cold, thick scent that tells me we’re about to get dumped on.
I open the steel door of the workshop and find a single lantern burning atop a workbench. The air smells of kerosene and freshly sawed wood. Two Amish men sporting insulated coveralls and full beards stand in the circle of golden light, talking to Mose. The three males eye me with unconcealed suspicion as I approach.
“Hello,” I say, but my focus is on Mose. Even in the poor lighting, he looks pale and troubled and unbearably sad.
Looking away, he mumbles something I don’t quite hear.
I nod a greeting at the two men. I’ve met them both at some point, but I don’t recall their names. “Bishop Troyer said I’d find you here,” I say to Mose. “I need to ask you a few questions about what happened this morning.”
The boy glances at the other two men, as if hoping they’ll intervene and send me packing. Of course, neither man does. Looking at Mose, I realize that the reality of everything he and his siblings face in the coming days and weeks and months is starting to hit home. He’s apprehensive, sad, maybe a little scared.
“I know this is a tough time for you and your sister and brothers,” I begin, trying to put him at ease. “But I need to go over some things with you that we didn’t cover this morning.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Okay.”
I want to speak with him away from the men. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I know the Amish are as bad about spreading gossip as the English.
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