Nodding, I offer my hand to the woman and introduce myself. “I hear your dogs made an interesting discovery.”
“I almost didn’t stop,” she tells me. “But they wouldn’t come when I called and they’re usually so obedient.” She motions in the general direction of the cone. “I stopped and walked over there for a look. I thought maybe an animal had been hit by a car and needed help. But it was a baseball bat. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. But it’s a perfectly fine bat, right?” She hefts a laugh. “I was going to take it home for my kids. Then I saw the blood. I remembered hearing about that woman who was killed, and it freaked me out.” She pats the cell phone strapped to her hip. “So I called you guys.”
“We’re glad you did,” I tell her. “How long ago did you find it?”
“Twenty minutes?” she says.
“Did you see anyone else out here?” I ask. “Any vehicles or buggies on the road?”
“Not a soul. That’s why I run on this stretch. There’s no traffic and I don’t have to worry about the dogs.”
I’m ever cognizant of the possibility of evidence as we speak. Tire-tread marks or footwear imprints. If we’re lucky, we might be able to extract fingerprints or DNA.
“Officer Maddox will take your contact info in case we have any more questions.”
“Glad to help.”
While Glock takes her information, I walk toward the cone sticking out of the grass in the ditch. Avoiding the gravel shoulder, I wade through ankle-high grass. Sure enough, next to the cone—twenty feet from the road—a wooden baseball bat is tucked into the grass, hidden from sight. It’s a full-size Louisville Slugger. Well used, the logo worn by time and use. Benign looking except for the copious amount of blood smeared on the business end of it.
I think about Rachael Schwartz, the damage done to her body, and I know in my gut this is no coincidence. Keeping a prudent distance from the bat, I squat, pull out my reading glasses, and lean as close as I dare. Even without magnification, I discern several long hairs, small chunks of blood and tissue, all of it smeared and dry.
Pulling out my cell phone, I call Tomasetti.
He picks up on the first ring with a growl of his name.
“I think we found the murder weapon,” I tell him.
“Well, it’s about damn time someone called with some good news. What do you have?”
I tell him. “I need a CSU. Can you expedite?”
“I’ll have someone there inside an hour.”
I give him the location. “We’ll protect the scene. I haven’t looked around much, but there’s a gravel shoulder. Might be able to pick up tread.”
“I’ll make sure they have plaster,” he says. “Keep me posted, will you?”
“You, too.”
I’m clipping my cell back onto my belt when Glock approaches, his eyes on the bat.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“Definitely blood. If we can extract DNA or prints.” I shrug. “Could be a break.”
He looks around. “What are we? Three miles from the motel?”
“Thereabouts.” I look around. Half a mile down the road, I see the woman and her dogs walking away. “So, if we’re right and this is the murder weapon, the killer left the motel and came this way.”
“Heading away from Painters Mill.” Glock looks left and right. “So where the hell was he going?”
“There’s not much traffic out this way. Farms mostly.”
“So he might live out this way. Or he might’ve simply been looking for a place to ditch the bat. Grass is tall enough so that he probably figured no one would find it.”
“Did you happen to notice any tire-tread marks?” I ask. “Footwear?”
“I did a cursory search when I arrived. I can take a more thorough look around if you want.” He sighs. “Sure would like to find this prick.”
While Glock walks the road, searching the gravel shoulder for marks, I pull out my cell and take photos of the bat. The CSU will do the same. They’ll protect the blood evidence and then courier the bat to the BCI lab in London, Ohio, where any fingerprints, blood type, and DNA will be extracted. If we’re lucky, there will be some identifying mark to indicate where the bat was manufactured and sold. If we can find the merchant, we might be able to find out who purchased it. DNA will take some time—a few days, depending on how busy the lab is and how hard Tomasetti can push for priority—but even if the lab can match the blood type we’ll have a little more to go on, especially if any of the blood belongs to the killer.
“I got nothing, Chief.”
I turn to see Glock approach. “Zero traffic out this way,” he says. “He probably just stopped the car, got out, flung the bat into the grass.”
I nod in agreement, but my mind has already taken me back to the situation with my brother. “I’ve got to drive down to Killbuck,” I tell him. “Can you hang out here until the CSU arrives?”
“Yep.” He cocks his head, slants me a look that’s a little too concerned for comfort. “Want some company? That Gingerich dude is weird as hell.”
“I expect some of these people might be more apt to open up if I’m alone.”
“Gotcha.” He grins. “I guess I do kind of have that whole outsider vibe going on.”
I smile back. “Call if you need anything.”
As I leave Holtzmuller Road and head east, it isn’t the thought of Amos Gingerich that claws at my brain, but a brother I haven’t seen for six months, a past I’m loath to revisit, and a terrible suspicion that if I’m not careful I could sever ties I’ve cherished my entire life.
CHAPTER 17
A sense of nostalgia grips me as I pull into the long gravel lane of my brother’s farm. I take my time as I drive toward the house, trying to remember the last time I was here. Too long, my conscience reminds. Last month, I missed my nephew’s birthday. I have no idea what’s going on in their lives.
The apple trees in the orchard on my right are in full, brilliant bloom. It seems like yesterday when Datt and my grandfather planted those trees. It never ceases to shock me to see that they’re fully mature and have been bearing fruit for decades now.
The house is plain and looks exactly the same as when I was a kid. There are no flower beds or landscaping, just a small garden in the side yard with ruler-straight rows of tiny corn and tomatoes. I idle around to the rear of the house and park next to a hitching post that wasn’t there last time I was here. I sit for a moment, taking all of it in, and in that instant the longing for something I can’t quite identify grips me with an almost physical pain. This farm and the people who’ve lived here are my history. The house where I grew up. Where so much happened. The barn and outbuildings where my sister, Sarah, and Jacob and I played hide-and-seek. The fields and pasture where I ran free without a care in the world. It speaks of a time when I never questioned the wisdom of my parents or the rules set forth by the Amish leadership. This small farm with its ramshackle outbuildings and old German bank barn was my world. My family was the center of my universe, vast and unblemished. I had been painfully innocent, never lonely or alone, and my perceptions had not yet been skewed or scarred by the injustices of life.
I get out of the Explorer and take the narrow sidewalk to house. A blue jay scolds me from his perch in the cherry tree in the yard as I step onto the porch, and I’m reminded that I’m an outsider here, not only to the land, but to my own family. I’m about to knock when my sister-in-law, Irene, pushes open the screen door.
“Katie!” She does a double take, her eyes wide. “My goodness. What a nice surprise!”
Irene is pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way, with flawless skin sprinkled with freckles and clear hazel eyes. She’s wearing a blue dress with a white apron that’s stained with what looks like grape juice, and an organdy kapp, black oxfords.
“Hi.” I manage a smile that doesn’t feel genuine. “Is Jacob around?”
“He’s in the barn, replacing a wheel on that old manure spreader. It con
ked out yesterday. Fourth time this spring.” Frowning, she motions toward the barn. “He’ll be there a while, Katie. Kumma inseid. Witt du kaffi?” Come inside. Would you like coffee?
Amish decorum urges me to take her up on the offer. Spend a few minutes chatting and getting caught up on things. I should ask about my niece and nephews and all the things happening in their lives. I should make an effort to know her, find some common ground and put an end to the discomfort I experience every time I’m here. Of course, I don’t.
“Nay, dank,” I say.
Had I been one of her Amish brethren, I’d likely get an argument. Or else she’d step onto the porch, take my hand, and usher me inside for a piece of pie that’ll only be good one more day, or the coffee she just made. Not so for me. In all the years that I’ve known her, Irene has never uttered a cross word to me, but we have an understanding. She invites only because she knows I will decline. I don’t know if my brother told her what happened that summer when I was fourteen, but she’s never been comfortable around me and despite her best efforts, it shows.
Relief flashes in her eyes. “Next time then.”
I nod. “Tell the kids hi.”
“I will!” A too-bright smile. “Bye, Katie!”
The screen door slams as I start toward the barn and I shove aside a small pang of hurt. Ahead, the big sliding door stands open a couple of feet. I sidle through, give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior. The clank and pop of metal against metal takes me to a workshop off the main room. I enter to find my brother at the workbench, pounding a piece of steel into submission.
He’s so intent on his work that he doesn’t notice me. His mouth is pulled into a frown, partly from the exertion of the task, partly from what looks like frustration because the steel is refusing to bend to his will.
After a moment, as if sensing my presence, he glances up and does a quick double take. The small sledgehammer in his hand freezes in midair; then he lets go with a final, satisfying blow. Clang!
I put my hands on my hips, present a smile. “Are you beating that piece of steel? Or is the steel beating you?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
I catch the hint of a smile in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s happy to see me. I wonder if he remembers how things were between us when we were kids. How much I’d looked up to him. If he misses it. I wonder if he realizes he’d once looked at me with affection instead of the standoffishness I see today.
He sets down the hammer. “It’s been a while.”
“I know,” I say. “Too long.”
We stare at each other, sizing each other up, slipping into our respective suits of armor, putting up the defenses we need to get through this. He’s too polite to ask why I’m here, but he knows me too well to assume it’s for a friendly visit.
“I need to talk to you about Rachael Schwartz,” I say.
Jacob is a stoic man. He’s difficult to read and tends to internalize his thoughts and feelings. But I see the impact of the name. A minute quiver runs the length of his body. Suddenly, and uncharacteristically, he can’t meet my gaze. Instead, he looks down at the length of steel, picks it up, puts it back down.
“I heard about what happened to her,” he says.
“I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“I didn’t, really.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
Raising his gaze to mine, he picks up the piece of steel, turns it over, and clangs the hammer against it three times. I watch him work, wait for him to stop, to respond.
After a few minutes, he looks at the steel, gives a small nod and sets it down. “You talked to Bishop Troyer.” It’s a statement, not a question. And it tells me that whatever it was that happened between him and Rachael, he told no one else.
“I’m trying to find out who did that to her, so I went to the bishop.” I pause, struggling to get the words right, failing. “I was surprised to hear your name. I had no idea your paths had ever crossed.” If my revealing my source causes a problem between the two men, they’ll just have to work it out.
“It was a long time ago.” He tosses the piece of steel into an old-fashioned slatted wood crate. “I can tell you it has no bearing on what happened to her.”
“I need to make that judgment, Jacob.”
Taking his time, he lifts a baton-size bolt from another box, uses pliers to pry the nut that’s fused to it with rust. “I confessed.”
“To what?”
He twists the pliers and the nut snaps loose. “It was a private thing.”
I wait.
When he raises his gaze to mine, I see anger in his eyes. “Dich sinn mei shveshtah.” You’re my sister. “Dich du net halda glawva.” You do not hold the faith. “I’ll not speak of it.”
Irritation snaps through me, but I tamp it down. “I’m not here as your sister, Jacob. I’m here as a cop with a job to do. If something happened between you and Rachael Schwartz, you need to tell me. Right now.”
“You think I did that to her?” he asks incredulously.
“No,” I say, meaning it. My brother may be a lot of things, but being capable of beating a woman to death is not one of them. “But sometimes there are … patterns in a person’s life. The more I know about Rachael Schwartz, the more likely I’ll find her killer.”
After a moment, he rounds the workbench, brushes past me, and goes to the door of the workshop. He glances out as if to make sure there’s no one there, closes the door, and returns to the workbench. There, he sets both hands against the surface, and shakes his head.
“Rachael Schwartz was…” He looks around as if he’s lost something, as if his surroundings will somehow help him find the right word. “Narrisch.” Insane.
I wait, let the silence work.
After a moment, he straightens, slides his hands into his pockets. “It happened right before she left. I was in the buggy, driving home. It was dark, nine or ten o’clock, I think. A summer storm had swept in.” He shrugs. “I didn’t see her. Almost ran over her. Out by the Tuscarawas Bridge. She was walking in the middle of the road, soaking wet. I knew Rhonda and Dan, so I stopped. I knew they wouldn’t want their daughter walking in the dark and rain all by herself, so I asked her if she needed a ride home.”
Jacob would have been twenty-eight years old and married. Rachael Schwartz left when she was seventeen.
“She got into the buggy … soaked to the skin and crying, shivering with cold.” Shaking his head, he turns away from me, pretends to look at something on the shelf behind him. “I didn’t know it at the time, but she was … ksoffa.” Intoxicated. “During the drive to her parents’ farm, she…” He ducks his head, struggles to find the words, fails. “One minute she was sitting there, crying. The next she … I don’t know what happened. She became unshiklich.” Improper.
It’s the last thing I expected my brother to say. The last kind of situation I would ever suspect him of getting caught up in. “She made a pass at you?” I ask.
My brother looks at me, but doesn’t hold my gaze. I see shame in his eyes. A hint of ruddiness in his cheeks. “She was … iemeschwarm.” Like a swarm of bees. “It was … unfitting. For a girl to act that way. It was crazy.”
Only then do I realize there’s more to the story. Jacob won’t meet my gaze. His discomfort—his shame—is tangible.
“I … was young. Weak. For a moment, the devil got ahold of me.” He sighs. “I pushed her out of the buggy. She … fell down. On the road. She was … furious and screaming. It was as if the devil had crawled into her head. I didn’t know this girl.”
Grimacing, he shakes his head. “I left her there. In the rain and dark. I went home. I told no one.” He sighs. “Only later did I find out she went to the bishop and told him … things that were not true.”
“What did she tell him?” I ask.
The ruddiness in his cheeks blooms. “She told the bishop that we were of one flesh.”
“Did you?”
“No.” He
forces his gaze to mine, his mouth pulled into a hard line. “Katie, I was married. I would not—” He cuts the sentence short, as if the final word is too forbidden to be spoken aloud. “She lied. To the bishop. To anyone who would listen. Caused many problems.”
“What did the bishop do?”
“He came to me. I told him the truth.” The color in his cheeks darkens and spreads. “I confessed to him. For … what I did. What I felt.”
“He believed you?”
He gives a barely discernable nod. “He did not believe her, and rightfully so.”
“Who else knows what happened?”
“No one.”
I think about that a moment. “Do you know why she was upset and out walking so late and in the rain?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Do you know if there were any other incidents? With anyone else? Other men?”
“All I can tell you is that I never looked at her again. I never spoke to her. And I never, ever let myself be alone with her.” He shakes his head. “A few months later, she was gone.”
CHAPTER 18
The story Jacob told me about Rachael Schwartz follows me as I head south on Highway 62 toward Killbuck. I recall the passage in the book she wrote that’s chillingly similar to the one Jacob just relayed. In the book, the man, whose name was not mentioned, refused to take no for an answer. He raped her in the back seat of his buggy and then threw her to the asphalt and left her. When she went to the bishop, he blamed her. None of the other Amish believed her because she was fallen. In the end, she was excommunicated.
Was that extract an embellishment of what occurred between her and Jacob? Or was there another incident in which she was sexually assaulted and no one believed her?
I’m not sure what to think. What to believe. About Rachael. Her motives. By sheer virtue that Jacob is my brother, I am biased. That said, as a cop—as a woman—I know there is no greater insult for a victim of sexual assault than to not be believed, to be dismissed or disparaged. But I know my brother. He’s a straight shooter. He follows the rules, not because he has to, but because he subscribes to basic Amish tenets. I always believed that’s one of the reasons he had such a difficult time dealing with what I did that summer.
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