“We’re going to need a DNA sample,” Tomasetti tells her. “Prints too.”
Her eyes narrow, so I add, “We need to rule you out so we don’t waste anyone’s time.”
“Sure. Whatever.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Tomasetti taps the screen of his cell phone. “Where can we reach you if we need to get in touch?”
She rattles off a cell phone number and I punch it into my phone.
“If you go back to Cleveland, you need to keep yourself available in case we need to talk to you again,” I say.
Her mouth tightens again. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers. How’s that for guilty?”
“That’ll do just fine,” Tomasetti says.
CHAPTER 10
It’s fully dark by the time the scene is cleared and the BCI crime scene truck pulls out. The motel manager called in a professional crew to clean the room, but they won’t start until morning. According to Tomasetti, the agents retrieved a plethora of potential evidence, including DNA, fibers, blood evidence, hair, fingerprints, and footwear marks. They were able to cast a single decent tire imprint in the parking lot, ostensibly from a vehicle that had parked next to Rachael Schwartz’s Lexus at some point. Everything was couriered to the police lab in London, Ohio. Fingerprint data should come back quickly. And while we won’t get DNA results right away, we will likely find out soon if any of the blood is secondary—which could indicate the killer injured himself in the course of the attack. Conceivably, we could have a second set of DNA.
Tomasetti left for Cleveland to question Jared Moskowski. I’m standing at the doorway to room 9, procrastinating going inside. From where I stand, I can still discern the faint smell of blood. I can’t help but think that last night at this time, Rachael Schwartz was enmeshed in the mundane of everyday life. What she would have for dinner. If she had time for a manicure. Wondering what to wear. She had a future and dreams and people who loved her. People she loved in return. Who saw fit to take all of that away?
Every light in the room burns, illuminating a still-macabre scene. As usual, the CSU left behind quite a mess. Many of the surfaces are covered with fingerprint powder. Drawers have been left open or pulled out and set on the floor. The bedsheets are gone. Bloodstains on the mattress and the single remaining pillow. Several squares have been cut out of the carpet and removed, likely to retrieve blood evidence. One of the curtains has been removed, probably for the same reason.
I think about Rachael as I enter the room. I take in the carnage and try to imagine a scene I don’t want in my head. Rachael Schwartz may have been raised Amish, but she’d been English long enough to be well versed in the ways of the world. Not the kind of woman who would leave her door unlocked at night, even in a town like Painters Mill. More than likely, a knock sounded, after hours. Had she been sleeping? Surfing the internet on her cell? I look at the door, spot the peephole. Did she make use of it? Recognize the person on the other side? Or was she half asleep and simply opened the door?
I walk to the bathroom and look around. A high-tech curling iron sits on the counter. Her blow dryer. Her overnight case and handbag were transported to the lab to be gone through. Eventually, all of it will be released to her family. I leave the bathroom and cross to the bed. A small square of material has been cut out of the mattress. The hole is surrounded by blood that’s soaked into the fabric. More blood on the wall, small droplets the color of red brick.
From all indications, Rachael was in bed and heard a knock at the door. She got up to answer. She greeted him. Words were exchanged. An argument? She turned away, and he struck her from behind. Midway to the night table, she fell as her killer struck her repeatedly in a frenzied, violent attack. She made it to the night table. Scrambled across the bed. Fell to the floor on the other side. Tried to crawl to the door. But the assault kept coming.…
“You knew him, didn’t you?” I whisper.
She’d fought her attacker. Fought for her life. I think about the position of her body. Facing the door. Arm outstretched, fingers clutching. And I suspect in the final minutes of her life, she’d known her life was going to end.
“Why did he do this to you?” I say aloud.
The only answer is the buzzing of the lamp and the strum of a hundred more unanswered questions running through my brain.
* * *
It’s ten P.M. when I pull out of the gravel lot of the Willowdell Motel and head toward home. I’m beyond tired, in need of a shower and food and a few hours of sleep. With a killer on the loose and the unanswered questions coming at me like rapid fire, I don’t think I’ll get much in the way of shut-eye.
Why was Rachael Schwartz in Painters Mill? According to the people who knew her—Loretta Bontrager and her parents—she hadn’t been back in months. No one knew she was in town. Who was she here to see? I think about the note with the scrawled address in her car. The farm where Tomasetti and I live is just south of Wooster. Too wired to sleep, I figure my time might be better spent stopping by the bar to see if anyone remembers seeing Rachael Schwartz. I drive past the township road that will take me home and continue north on Ohio 83. On the outskirts of Wooster, I pull over at Fisher Auditorium, punch the address into my GPS, and I head that way.
The Pub is located on the northwest side of town. It’s a freestanding redbrick building set in a gravel lot littered with potholes and mud puddles. The no-name gas station next door is brightly lit, its green and white neon sign touting cigarettes, beer, and diesel. Farther down the street, the railroad-crossing lights flash red, the arms coming down to block traffic. It’s prime time for a semirural dive bar like this one, but there are only four vehicles in the lot. I drive around to the rear. A Ford Escort is parked a few yards from the door. A blue dumpster sits at a cockeyed angle in the side lot, trash bags overflowing, a couple of cats scrounging for food.
I idle back around to the front lot and park next to an older F-150. The distant whistle of the train sounds as I head toward the front door.
There are two kinds of bars, in my mind. There’s the kind where a police uniform will garner you a free cup of coffee and, if you’re lucky, a burger. And then there’s the kind where the sight of a cop clears the room. I know the instant I walk in that this one falls into the former group.
An old Traffic song “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” thrums from sleek speakers mounted on the beadboard ceiling. Two men in coveralls and caps sit at the bar, beer mugs sweating in front of them. Neither of them pays me any heed when I pass. A third man with a beard and camo jacket sits alone at the end of the bar, watching the Cavaliers trounce the Golden State Warriors on a TV mounted on the wall. Two women wearing tight jeans and equally tight shirts alternate between checking their phones and shooting pool. The bartender is a burly man in his forties, checked shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white apron tied at his waist, hair pulled into a ponytail at his nape. His eyes latch on to mine as I sidle up to the bar.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“You have any decaf made?” I ask.
“Naw,” he says. “Got a Keurig in the back, though. Makes a pretty decent cup. Cream? Sugar?”
“Black,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
He returns a short while later, cup and saucer in hand. “We don’t get too many cops in here. They prefer the sports bar down on the south side.” He tilts his head, reading the emblem on my uniform jacket. “You’re a ways from home.”
I pick up the coffee and sip. It’s strong with a nice kick of bitter. “Good coffee.”
“I like it.”
I introduce myself. His name is Jack Boucher. He’s owned the place for nine months. Turned his first profit last week.
“I’m working on a case.” I pull the photo of Rachael Schwartz from my pocket and set it on the bar between us. “Have you seen her?”
He pulls reading glasses from his shirt pocket and squints at the photo. “She missing or som
ething?”
“Actually, this is a murder investigation.”
“Holy shit. Wow.” He looks harder at the photo. “Pretty girl. Kind of classy looking.” He shakes his head. “She ain’t been in here that I know of. I would have remembered her.”
He’s still looking at the photo, so I leave it on the bar top. “Is it possible she came in when you were off?”
“I’m here seven days a week. Came in early for the lunch shift a couple times, so I could have missed her, if she came in later.”
“Anyone else here I can talk to?” I ask.
“I got a gal bartends nights when I’m not here,” he tells me. “Got a part-time cook, too. They both went home a couple hours ago.”
“Will they be here tomorrow?”
“Dixie comes in around eleven. She’s my cook. Rona, my bartender, gets here about four o’clock.”
I nod. “You got a business card?”
“Yup.” He snags a napkin off the bar and a pen from his breast pocket. “Right here.” Grinning, he jots a number. “That’s the landline. Whoever’s running the place will pick up.”
I take another sip of coffee. “You guys have security cameras?”
“I got one on the rear door. We were broken into a couple months ago.” He shakes his head. “Damn camera’s on the fritz, though.”
I look around at the patrons. “Are any of these folks regulars?”
“Most of them are in here just about every night,” he tells me. “’Cept them girls playing pool. We get a regular lunch rush, too. People who work in the area mostly. You’re more than welcome to talk to anyone you want.”
“If you remember anything about this woman, will you give me a call?” I hand him my card.
“You know it.”
I pick up the photo. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Good luck with your case, Chief Burkholder. I hope you find the cretin that done it.”
CHAPTER 11
The nights tormented him. The endless hours of darkness and sleeplessness, when the not-knowing and the fear were a cancer eating him from the inside out and he could do nothing but ponder what he now knew was inevitable. It was no longer a matter of if he would be found out, but when, by whom, and how much it would cost him. Worst of all, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.
And so tonight, like the night before and the one before that, he sat at the desk in his dimly lit office and worked through every possible scenario. He thought about everything that had happened. Everything he’d done—both past and present. Most of all he thought about what he hadn’t done, and he wondered if it was too late to remedy any of it now.
Rachael Schwartz had destroyed a lot of lives in the short time she’d been on this earth. She was a user and a taker with a streak of nasty that ran right down the center of her back. She loved herself above all else and had no compunction about slicing the throat of anyone who crossed her. And then she’d laugh as she watched them bleed out.
How ironic that she would ruin his life after she was dead.
He hadn’t spared her so much as a passing thought in over a decade. Then out of the blue came the phone call that brought all of those old mistakes rushing back. I have proof, she’d claimed. With a few words, she took his carefully constructed life apart, left it in pieces at his feet. After all this time, she wanted a piece of him. She wanted what she believed was rightfully hers and goddamn anyone who got in her way, including him. Especially him. She’d threatened his marriage. His career. The well-being of his children. Any semblance of a future. Probably even his freedom. She did all of it with a vicious glee and a cold proficiency the years had honed to a razor’s edge.
Now she was gone. He should be relieved, her memory nothing more than a black stain on his past. But he knew this wasn’t over. In fact, the nightmare was just beginning and he was right in the center of it. How many people had she confided in over the years? Who else could potentially come forward? Had she been bluffing when she bragged about having put together some kind of “insurance policy” in case something happened to her? Even dead, the rotten bitch would see to it that he paid a price for what he’d done.
He wished to God he’d never laid eyes on her.
He’d never been the type of man to sit on the sidelines and let things play out, especially when there was so much at stake. There wasn’t much he could do to save himself. The time for damage control had long since passed. Soon, the wolves would be scratching at the door. It was only a matter of time before they got in and tore him to shreds.
Cursing beneath his breath, he picked up the tumbler of bourbon, swirled the ice, and he sipped. He thought about his life. How far he’d come. The things he’d accomplished. And he knew there was one thing he had going for him. The only thing that might keep the wolves at bay. Rachael Schwartz had deserved her fate—and he wasn’t the only one who thought so. She had a pattern of fucking people over, using people, abusing her friendships. People like her made a lot of enemies—and he sure as hell wasn’t the only one who’d benefited from her death. All he had to do was find them. Work them into the equation. At the very least, it would take some of the pressure off of him. Buy him some time. It was a starting point, anyway.
God only knew where it would go from there.
He was not going down for what he’d done. He sure as hell wasn’t going down for something he didn’t do. If that meant finding a scapegoat, then so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
Holding that thought, he turned off the lamp, rose from the desk, and headed for the door.
CHAPTER 12
Day 2
The one thing that’s always in short supply in the course of a homicide investigation is sleep. Not because there’s too much to do or too many things happening at once, but because any cop worth his salt knows how crucial those first forty-eight hours are in terms of a solve. The truth of the matter is nothing happens fast when you’re running against the clock. As Tomasetti is so fond of saying, “Hurry up and wait.”
After leaving the bar last night, I couldn’t sleep and spent the wee hours reading AMISH NIGHTMARE: How I Escaped the Clutches of Righteousness. I read with the goal of extracting some theory or motive or person of interest, but the tome was mostly sensationalistic bullshit. The one name that did rise above the rest was Amos Gingerich, the so called “bishop” of the Killbuck Amish. I don’t know if the conflict that was detailed in the book is fact or fiction, but at the very least, I need to pay Gingerich a visit.
It was after three AM when I finished and, even then, I couldn’t stop thinking about the case. I’m a seasoned cop; I’ve seen more than my share of violent crimes. The brutality of this one makes me shiver. Who hated Rachael Schwartz enough to beat her to death with such viciousness that bones were broken and her eye was dislodged from its socket? And why?
For every question answered, a dozen more emerge. One question rises above the rest. No one could tell me why she was in Painters Mill. Her parents didn’t know. Loretta Bontrager didn’t know. Neither did her business partner and self-proclaimed best friend.
Someone knew.
Rachael Schwartz was just thirty years old. She was a daughter. A best friend. A businesswoman. A lover. She made people laugh. Made them cry. From all indications, she made them angry, too. According to the people closest to her, she was a firebrand with a vindictive streak and thrived on making waves. Somewhere along the line, did she overstep some boundary that sent someone over the edge?
I think about my own knowledge of her. While that connection gives me some insight into her life, it’s a little too close for comfort—and could lead me astray if I’m not careful. I knew her at a time in my life when I, too, was disgruntled with the Amish. I secretly admired that outspoken little tomboy. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I cared for her because I understood a part of her others did not.
The mores an Amish person lives by are deeply ingrained at a young age. Close to
eighty percent of Amish youths join the church after rumspringa. The vast majority never leave. One of the main differences between Rachael and me is that I left the fold of my own accord. Rachael Schwartz was ousted. And for the first time I realize I don’t know exactly why.
It doesn’t seem likely that there’s an Amish connection to the murder. They are a pacifistic society, after all, and the way Rachael Schwartz was killed was incredibly violent. That said, the Amish are also human—prone to all the same weaknesses and frailties as the rest of us—so I make a mental note to find out why Rachael was excommunicated and who was involved.
The first hints of sunrise tinge the eastern sky purple as I leave the farm. I call Tomasetti as I make the turn onto Ohio 83 and head south.
“How did things go with Moskowski?” I ask.
“Cleveland PD detained him until I arrived. He claims he was home the night of the murder. Alone.”
“No alibi,” I murmur.
“None.”
“What’s your impression?”
“He’s a slick son of a bitch. A player. Kept his cool with just the right amount of indignation that a bunch of dumb cops could pick him up and hold him against his will.”
“How did he react to news of her death?”
“He seemed shocked. Interestingly, he didn’t seem too broken up about the murder of a woman he claims to love. That said, he asked all the right questions, but then he’s no dummy. He lawyered up.”
“Of course he did,” I mutter. “Do you know anything about the domestic she was arrested for? According to LEADS he was the RP.”
“According to the report, Schwartz was highly intoxicated and slapped Moskowski in the course of an argument. He called the cops. She was arrested, spent the night in jail, but the charge was later dropped.”
“Any idea what the argument was about?”
“Moskowski says she accused him of sleeping with someone else. He claims Schwartz was jealous and said it was a pattern with her.” He rattles off a name I don’t recognize. “The alleged other woman lives here in Cleveland, so I’m on my way to talk to her now. See if everything checks out.”
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