After the Storm

by Linda Castillo

  “You got here fast,” I say.

  “One of the agents heard the call and recognized the address, then called me straightaway.” He glances from me to the deputy and back to me. “They get him?”

  I shake my head. “We’ve got three agencies looking. Glock and Holmes County went to talk to Paula Kester’s father, but he says he hasn’t seen them for almost twenty-four hours. Wayne County SO set up a perimeter. Skid and a bunch of deputies are searching those woods.”

  “Vehicle?”

  “No.”

  “We think he got out before the perimeter was set up,” the deputy interjects. “Nick Kester is the RO of a white 2008 Toyota Tacoma, so we added that to the BOLO.”

  Tomasetti glances toward the door, his eyes taking in the broken pane and beyond, the glass on the floor. “What happened?”

  I tell him everything, hating the way it sounds, because a little voice inside my head keeps reminding me that I’m a cop and I should have been able to stop him. “It happened fast, Tomasetti. I just … walked up on him, in the living room. My radio and sidearm were upstairs. I couldn’t do anything, so I chucked the cell at him and ran.”

  I can tell by the way he’s looking at the door that he wants to go inside to see everything for himself. But until the CSU arrives and processes the scene, neither of us can risk contaminating any possible evidence.

  “You didn’t hear anything?” he asks.

  “Nothing.” But we both know I’ve been sleeping like the dead.

  “Any idea how long he was in the house?”

  “No.”

  He looks away, and I know he’s wondering how much time elapsed between his leaving and Kester making entry and about all the things that could have happened in between.

  As if realizing we need some privacy, the deputy slides his smartphone from his pocket. “Excuse me,” he says and leaves the porch.

  I watch him walk down the steps and stroll over to his cruiser to make his call.

  “He fired one shot?” Tomasetti asks.

  I nod. “It went into the wall. Upstairs hallway. CSU should be able to dig out the slug.”

  “Goddamn it, Kate.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Shooting at a cop? This guy’s fucking nuts.”

  “I know.”

  “Any idea how he found out where we live?”

  I shrug. “You can dig up just about anything online these days.”

  “Kester doesn’t seem like the digging type.” He thinks about that a moment. “You think he could have followed you home?”

  I should have thought of that, but I didn’t, and a creeping sense of dread slinks up my back. “Tomasetti, I’ve been careful. I mean, I’m a cop. I would have noticed.” But even as I say the words, I silently acknowledge that I’ve been distracted and probably not as cautious as I think.

  Neither of us mentions my pregnancy, but the fact is as glaring and palpable as a physical presence.

  I tell him about Doc Coblentz’s assertion that Lucy Kester’s injuries were more than likely a result of shaken baby syndrome. “He was going to get a second opinion, but that was his finding.”

  Tomasetti grinds his teeth. “That fucking Kester doesn’t want to go down for that.”

  “He tried to blame me. His wife blames me.…”

  “She probably doesn’t know he abused the child, and he wants to keep it that way. It’s a damn farce.”

  I try to smile. To let him know I’m okay. That I can handle this. All I manage is a twisting of my lips and a smile that feels like a lie.

  CHAPTER 25

  It takes five hours for the CSU to process the scene, which basically consists of the kitchen, living room, hallway, stairs, and bedroom. The largest piece of evidence recovered was the slug he dug out of the wall, which will be sent to the lab in London and analyzed. During a search of the woods at the rear of our property, Skid found a man’s boot print in a muddy area. A Wayne County deputy discovered tire tracks in the dirt near a gravel pullover on the road just north of our property. The CSU successfully captured impressions of both. All the evidence will be analyzed and, if the case goes to trial, used in conjunction with my testimony to put Nick Kester behind bars. Of course, we have to find him first.…

  Despite the efforts of every law enforcement agency in the three-county area, Nick and Paula Kester have been eerily elusive. I suspect that after the shooting at the farm, Kester hightailed it to his vehicle and fled the scene before roadblocks could be set up. Some in law enforcement believe they fled the state. Tomasetti isn’t buying into that theory; neither am I. I think they’ve found a safe haven and are hiding out nearby. Sooner or later they’ll turn up. The question is when and whether anyone will get hurt.

  Being a stickler for personal safety—especially mine—Tomasetti suggests we spend the night at the Marriott in Canton. We leave the farm at just after 4:00 P.M. and end up having a nice dinner at a steakhouse not too far from the hotel. After a stressful, frustrating, do-nothing day, it’s a nice break.

  * * *

  This morning, however, it’s back to reality. I’m a day behind on everything—no closer to determining the whereabouts of Nick Kester, solving the mystery of Jeramy Kline’s death, or determining what might’ve happened to Leroy Nolt.

  My third-shift dispatcher greets me with an animated “Chief!” as I come through the front door at just after 7:00 A.M.

  “Hey, Mona.”

  She rises as I approach her station. “I heard what happened yesterday.” I don’t miss the hint of misplaced adoration in her eyes. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  I feel myself stiffen slightly when she throws her arms around me. “Thank you.” Awkwardly, I hug her back. “I’m fine.”

  Pulling away, I pluck messages from my slot, trying not to notice the two-inch-wide streak of blue in her hair and the shadow of a reentry stamp from a bar in Akron on her left hand. She’s wearing a black skirt that’s a couple of inches too short and has paired it with a red bolero jacket. Despite her dubious wardrobe—and that unexpected show of affection—she is, as usual, all business this morning.

  “Anything on Kester come in overnight?” I ask.

  “Several people called the hotline with sightings, but nothing panned out.”

  I’m disappointed but not surprised. He’s dug in somewhere, and sniffing him out isn’t going to be easy. “I want you to send a message to the team. Make sure everyone is still wearing vests. Pickles, too.”

  “Roger that.”

  I glance over at the officers’ cubicles. “You here by yourself?”

  “Sorry, Chief. T.J.’s wrapping up an accident over on County Line Road.”

  But I sigh because my small department is perpetually undermanned. “If we don’t have an armed officer here, I want you to keep the front door locked. Until further notice. If people want inside, they can knock and you’ll have to let them in.”

  “No problem.”

  “Get T.J. on the radio and tell him I need him when he’s finished.”

  “Okay.”

  I grab coffee on the way to my office and pull the file on the Nolt case. There’s a message from the coroner, so I call him while my computer boots.

  “I heard there was some excitement up at your place in Wooster yesterday,” Doc Coblentz begins. “Everyone okay?”

  “We’re fine, but I’ve still got a suspect at large.” Not for the first time I’m reminded of how fast word gets around.

  “I just wanted to let you know I’ve got the Kline autopsy on the schedule for this afternoon.”

  I tell him about finding the pokeweed at the Kline farm and about my conversation with Chuck Gary. “Some Amish cook and eat pokeweed, but if it’s incorrectly cooked, it can be toxic.”

  “That’s why you were asking about toxicology.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interestingly, a few years ago, a young mother brought in a toddler that was critically ill with vomiting and respiratory distress. One of the first things I noticed was
that the child’s hands were stained red. After questioning the parent, I learned the child had wandered from the yard and into a weed-infested lot next door. The mother thought the child may have ingested some purple berries. She brought them in and I immediately couriered them to the lab, and they turned out to be American nightshade.”

  “So you have some experience with this particular plant.”

  “If memory serves me, the toxic components lie with the saponins. There’s more to it than that, and I don’t recall the specifics off the top of my head, but I’ll look it up. Of course, the actual testing will be done at the BCI lab. Now that I know what to ask them to look for, they’ll run an organic tox screen. If there’s something there, they’ll find it.”

  I think about my conversation with Chuck Gary. “I’ll follow up with a call, too.”

  “Kate, it occurs to me that even if Jeramy Kline did indeed ingest some type of plant-based toxin, it may have been accidental.”

  I think about the wicker basket I’d discovered on the porch at the Kline farm. The one Abigail Kline used to gather dandelion greens and, evidently, pokeweed. “This might be one of those cases in which the cause of death is going to be a hell of a lot easier to prove than the manner of death.”

  * * *

  I’m still thinking about the wicker basket when I hang up. Though it was in plain view and I had every right to be standing on Abigail Kline’s doorstep, I couldn’t confiscate it without possibly adversely affecting a potential case. Pokeweed is not illegal to possess. Had I appropriated the basket without first obtaining a warrant, it could have been rendered inadmissible in court and jeopardized the case, so I take the time to get my ducks in a row.

  It takes me an hour to write up an affidavit and another forty-five minutes to obtain a search warrant from Judge Seibenthaler, which entails a call to Sheriff Redmon in Coshocton County and the stipulation that at least one deputy from his department accompany me to the Kline farm.

  Once I have the warrant in hand, I swing by the station and pick up T.J. “Where are we going?” he asks.

  “We’re going to search Abigail Kline’s farm.”

  “We looking for something in particular?”

  I tell him about the wicker basket. “Pokeweed is poisonous when prepared incorrectly. The BCI lab is going to run an organic tox on Jeramy Kline to see if that particular toxin was in his bloodstream when he died. I think they’ll find it.”

  “Damn.” Shaking his head, he whistles. “Never would have pegged her for murdering her husband. I mean with her being Amish and all.”

  “The Amish have all the same weaknesses as the rest of us,” I say. “Including the human capacity for violence.”

  * * *

  T.J. and I arrive at the Kline farm to find the place bustling with activity and a Coshocton County sheriff’s cruiser parked on the shoulder a few yards from the driveway. I recognize the deputy immediately as Fowler Hodges and pull up next to his car.

  “Hi, Folly.”

  “Hey, Chief. I just got dispatched. Sheriff said you’ve got a search warrant?”

  I tell him about finding pokeweed in the wicker basket.

  “So you think Mrs. Kline offed her old man?” he asks.

  “I think it’s a possibility.”

  “Well that’d be a shocker.” His eyes slide toward the house. “You expect any trouble from these people?”

  “No.” I sigh. “Might be best if I serve the warrant, though. I’ll keep it as low-key as possible.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.” He motions toward the gravel lane. “After you.”

  Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull into the driveway. Ahead, four black, windowless buggies are parked in a row on the shoulder. The horses stand with their rear legs cocked and their heads down, grabbing a snooze while they have the chance. The teenage Amish boy tending them eyes me suspiciously as I park behind the buggies. I get out and give him a nod, but he looks away. I glance to my side to see Folly get out of his cruiser. He doesn’t approach the house but saunters to the front of the vehicle and leans against the hood.

  T.J. and I start toward the house. Four young children play on the tractor tire hanging from a tree branch in the side yard. On the other side of the front porch, two twenty-something Amish women kneel, chattering and tossing freshly pulled weeds onto a growing pile of compost. Two Amish men stand at the barn door, one with a pitchfork in hand, the other puffing a pipe, gray smoke curling into the air. Their eyes are in shadow from their flat-brimmed hats, but I feel their gazes follow us as we take the sidewalk to the house.

  On the porch, I find a tiny elderly woman vigorously sweeping dirt into a dustpan. Her hands are misshapen with arthritis, her knuckles a mass of purple and white knots.

  “Guder mariye.” I wish her a good morning as I ascend the steps.

  The old woman straightens and gives T.J. and me an unhurried once over. “Guder mariye.”

  I spot the wicker basket beneath the chair. The pokeweed is still inside. I try not to look at it as I address the woman. “Is Abigail home?”

  She looks at me as if I’m dense. “What do the English police want with her at a time like this?”

  “I need to speak with her. It’s important.”

  The woman stops sweeping and, giving me a stern look, sets the broom against the siding and shuffles to the door. “Wait.”

  A few minutes later an Amish man of about thirty emerges from inside the house. He’s dressed in black—trousers, suspenders, jacket, and hat—with a white shirt. His beard is the color of coal dust and reaches nearly to his belly. But it’s his face I can’t look away from. He’s the spitting image of Leroy Nolt.

  “You must be Abigail’s and Jeramy’s son,” I say.

  “I’m Levi Kline.” His eyes slide to T.J. and back to me. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to speak with your mother. Is she home?”

  “She’s grieving.” A pained look crosses his face. “Must you speak with her now?”

  “I’m afraid this won’t wait. I’m sorry.”

  His mouth tightens. For an instant, I think he’s going to refuse to get her, then he gives me a nod and goes back inside.

  When he’s out of earshot, I look at T.J. “Why don’t you go around to the back door in case someone decides to take a stroll?”

  He’s already midway down the steps. “Gotcha.”

  I wait several minutes, resisting the urge to pace. I’m about to knock again, when the screen door squeaks. Levi Kline steps onto the porch, looking slightly puzzled. “She’s not in her room.”

  I cross to him and look past him to see the old woman hovering just inside, looking at me. “Where is she?” I ask, posing the question to both of them.

  The woman turns away without answering.

  I look at Levi and raise my brows. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. I thought she was in her room, lying down. She’s not been sleeping well.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see her leave. But … we were in the kitchen earlier.” He looks perplexed. “Mrs. Beiler thinks she saw her go outside.…”

  The elderly woman, I realize. “How long ago?”

  “An hour or so.”

  “Is she somewhere on the property? Or did she leave?” I ask, the initial fingers of urgency pressing into me. I don’t believe Abigail poses any immediate danger—not to others, anyway—but she is a person of interest in a possible homicide, and I need to know where she is.

  “I can’t imagine her leaving at a time like this. Maybe she needed some quiet time to think. You know, to be alone, and walked down to the pond or something. Datt used to go down there.” Kline rubs his chin, shakes his head. “I’d like to take a walk down there to see if I can find her.”

  In the years I’ve been chief, I’ve worked hard to cultivate a positive rapport between the Amish community and the police department. While the relationship isn’t yet where I want it to be, we’
ve made headway. I’m loath to undo the progress, but I can’t walk away from this.

  I hand him the warrant. “I need to take a look around the premises. This warrant gives me permission to do so.”

  “What?” He stares down at the papers. “But … what is this? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a search warrant that grants us permission to search the premises. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Search my mother’s home?” His eyes widen. “But why? You think she did something wrong? You think she broke the law?”

  “The warrant explains everything, Mr. Kline. Please read it.” I hit my lapel mike and hail T.J. “Let’s execute the warrant.”

  “Roger that.”

  Levi’s eyes flick from me to Deputy Fowler, who’s coming up the steps. “I don’t like this,” he says. “I don’t think my mother would like it, either.”

  “We’ll try to finish as quickly as possible. In the interim, you should probably find your mother.”

  One of the Amish men that had been near the barn has evidently heard the exchange and come over. Two little girls of about six or seven years of age trail behind him. He stops at the foot of the steps and eyes me with unconcealed hostility. “Der siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard has just sipped too much.

  Ignoring him, I pull out the large garbage bag I’d tucked into my equipment belt and walk over to the wicker basket. While Levi Kline looks on, I pick up the wicker basket and place it inside the bag.

  “I don’t understand.” He motions toward the bag. “Why are you taking that? What is the purpose?”

  I hand the bag to Fowler, who tapes it closed and tags it with a label. I lower my voice and address the deputy. “The BCI lab is waiting for that. Will you have one of your guys courier it?”

  I give Levi a nod and then descend the steps. The older Amish man standing at the base of the steps glares at me as I walk past. I glance left and right and then head directly toward the boy charged with the buggy horses.

  “Guder mariya,” I tell him.

  He’s too polite to ignore my greeting but looks at me as if I’m some flesh-eating zombie with my sights set on him.