Leaving out as many of the sordid details as possible, I tell them about what happened on that back road when Rachael was seventeen. Because the investigation is ongoing, I forgo speculation and anything not yet confirmed. It’s not easy. But they deserve the truth even when I know it will break their hearts all over again.
“I’m sorry,” I say when I’ve finished. “I know that was difficult to hear. But I thought you’d want to know.”
Rhoda looks down at the knitting in her lap as if she doesn’t quite remember why it’s there. “She never told us,” she whispers.
“She was baptized that summer,” Ben says quietly.
“Left us in the spring,” Rhoda adds. “April, I think.”
I don’t know what to say to any of that. I’m not big on the whole closure thing. When you lose a loved one to violence, the closing of the case does little in terms of easing the pain. As I stare into the Amish woman’s eyes and see the silent scroll of agony, I curse Dane Fletcher.
“The investigation is still open, and the sheriff’s office has stepped in to help, but we’ll likely close it soon.”
“Rachael is with God now.” Dan’s eyes remain glued to the floor. “At peace with the Lord.”
“We’ve made all the notifications already,” Rhoda tells me, referring to the Amish tradition of personally notifying those who will be invited to the funeral.
She raises shimmering eyes to mine. “We didn’t see her much anymore. But we’re going to miss her. And of course we take comfort in knowing that she’s in good hands, and that one day we will join her.”
“A man should not grieve overmuch,” Dan says, “for that is a complaint against God.”
Rhoda swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “Last time we talked, Katie, you asked me when we saw Rachael last. I realized this morning that I told you wrong. She came to see us after Christmas, not before, and we had such a nice visit.” The chuckle that follows rings false. “I remembered because she’d been over to Loretta’s that morning and mentioned the cast on little Fannie’s arm.”
I nod, listening more out of politeness than interest.
Rhoda uses her fingers to squeegee tears from her cheeks. “That girl. Christmas day. Broke her arm in two places. Fell off that old windmill over to the Cooper farm next door. Had to get some kind of pin put in to fix it.”
Forcing a smile, she looks down at the knitting in her lap. “She’s not the first girl we’ve known who’s in love with adventure, now, is she? Should have been born a boy, that one.”
The image of Fannie astride the horse and loping across the pasture plays in my mind’s eye. “She must keep Loretta and Ben on their toes.”
“She’s a handful, with all the climbing and horses and such.” She shrugs. “Poor Loretta was just beside herself. Dotes on that girl like she’s newborn.” Rhoda sighs, her face softening. “Anyway, that was the last time I saw my Rachael. After Christmas, not before. I don’t know if that’s even important now, but I wanted you to know.”
She picks up the needles and resumes her knitting.
* * *
Something I can’t put my finger on nags at me as I head toward the Bontrager farm. A kink in my gut that wasn’t there before my conversation with Rhoda and Dan. I try to work it out, but nothing comes to me. I set it aside as I make the turn into the lane.
I’m on my way to the front door when voices from the side yard draw my attention. I head that way to find Loretta and Fannie painting a picnic table.
“You two look busy,” I say by way of greeting.
Loretta, paintbrush in hand, looks at me over her shoulder and grins. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I like the teal,” I tell her.
Stepping back, she puts her hands on her hips and studies the table. “I wasn’t too sure at first, but I think I like it, too.”
Fannie, a smaller brush in hand, peeks out at me from around the side of the table. “I picked out the color.”
Despite the purpose of my visit, the sight of the girl makes me smile. She’s got a smudge of paint on her chin. A perfect drop of it on her kapp. Someone will likely be scrubbing it with a toothbrush tonight.
I cross to her, offer her a high five. “Nice job.”
A grin overtakes the girl’s face. There’s a space between her front teeth. A nose tinged pink from the sun. That odd sensation waggles at the back of my brain again, but I shove it aside to deal with later.
“We’ve got an extra paintbrush if you want to help.”
I glance over to see Ben approach from the direction of the barn. He’s wearing a blue work shirt with suspenders, trousers, and a straw flat-brimmed hat.
“I’ll leave it to you professionals.” I sober, let my gaze fall to Fannie, and then I focus on the couple. “I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but I need to talk to you about Rachael Schwartz.”
“Oh.” Loretta tosses a look at her husband, then rounds the table and goes to her daughter. “Just look at that spot of paint on your kapp,” she says. “Why don’t you go in and take that old toothbrush to it before it dries? I’ll be in to help in a few minutes.”
The girl cocks her head, knowing the reason she’s being sent inside has nothing to do with the paint and everything to do with our pending conversation. But she’s too well behaved to balk.
“Use the laundry soap on the porch.” The Amish woman takes the girl’s brush and points her in the direction of the back door. “Go on now before it leaves a stain we won’t be able to get out.”
We watch the girl depart. When I hear the back door slam, I turn to the couple. “There’s been a development in the case. I thought you’d want to know.”
Ben nods. “We heard about the deputy,” he says.
Since Ben and Loretta aren’t family members, I give them a condensed version of the same set of facts I laid out for Dan and Rhoda Schwartz.
When I’m finished, tears shimmer in Loretta’s eyes. “My mamm always said, good deeds have echoes. Now I know that bad deeds do, too.”
I heard the adage a hundred times growing up and it’s one of the few I believe in with my whole heart. “We’ll probably close the case in the next few days.”
“So it’s over?” Ben asks.
“I think so,” I tell him.
“It will be a good thing to put this behind us.” The Amish man shoves his hands into his pockets. “Thank you for finding the truth, Kate Burkholder. I know the job put before you is a hard one and the Amish don’t always approve. That makes it no less worthy.”
I nod, a little more moved than I should be. Probably because it still matters to me what the Amish think.
Loretta and I watch him walk away. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the kuk-kuk-kuk of a woodpecker followed by the rapid drum of its beak against a tree.
I watch as Loretta walks to the gallon pail of paint and replaces the lid. I think about my conversation with Rhoda and Dan Schwartz. The final moments I spent with Dane Fletcher. The kink in my gut that won’t go away.
Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid.
I pick up the hammer from the stepladder she’s using as a table and hand it to her. “You spent a lot of time with Rachael that last summer she was here in Painters Mill,” I say.
“I did.” She taps down the lid to seal it. “It was one of the best summers of my life.”
“You mentioned before that she changed. In what way?”
She sets down the hammer and straightens. “As strange as it sounds, she became even more forward. It’s like she was in a rush to squeeze in every single experience she could before she became baptized.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Sometimes she was mad at the world. Not too much, but more than … before. Rachael was strong. She didn’t let what happened crush her.”
“Loretta, when exactly did it happen?” I ask. “I mean, with Dane Fletcher?”
“Late summer,” she tells me. “August, I think.”
She was baptized that summe
r.
Left us in the spring. April, I think.
“Do you know if Rachael was ever ime familye weg?” I ask.
Loretta blinks, her brows knitting as if the question has caught her off-guard. “I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “Rachael would have told me.”
“Would she have told you even if she terminated the pregnancy?”
The Amish woman looks down at the brush in her hand. “I wish I could tell you Rachael would never take the life of an unborn child.” The sigh that follows is saturated with grief. “But she had a way of rationalizing things. If she did something like that, she didn’t tell me. I think she’d have known I would disapprove.”
* * *
Typically, at this point in an investigation, once an arrest has been made, the pressure is off and life returns to normal. I spend a few days catching up on the things I neglected over the course of the case, including sleep.
The Schwartz case has been anything but typical.
I’m in my office at the police station; it’s long past time to go home and I’ve done little with regard to putting the case to rest. Instead, I’ve spent the last three hours grinding through the file, reading the dozens of reports and statements, and the like. I’ve been staring at paper for so long I’m no longer even sure what I’m looking for. I’ve scrutinized every crime scene photo and sketch. Viewed the videos. I’ve reread every statement, dismantled every word. Gone over the forensic reports with a fine-tooth comb. I’ve picked through the autopsy report so many times I’m seeing double. My neck hurts. My eyes feel like someone has tossed a handful of ground glass into them. All the while the little voice of reason sits on my shoulder, telling me I’m chasing ghosts.
Indeed.
The wall clock glares at me, reminding me that it’s nine P.M. and I should have been home hours ago. Tomasetti is probably wondering where I am.
“What the hell are you doing, Burkholder?” I mutter.
I look down at my handwritten notes spread out on my desk and I frown.
… likely knew her killer …
… a fair amount of conflict in her life …
Setting my chin in my hand, I flip the page and come to my statement on the death of Dane Fletcher. Doc Coblentz ruled on the cause and manner of death. Suicide caused by a single gunshot wound to the head. According to Sheriff Rasmussen, Fletcher’s wife and kids left Painters Mill to stay with her parents in Pittsburgh. Last I heard, they won’t be coming back.
I skim my incident report, not wanting to revisit the moment he pulled the trigger. Instead, I focus on the section that recounts my final conversation with Fletcher.
Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid.
Of all the things he told me the night he died, that’s the one that stops me cold. Was Rachael Schwartz provoking him? Trying to inflame him? To what end? Make him suffer? Pay him back for what he did to her? Did Fletcher reach his limit? Follow her to that motel and proceed to bludgeon her to death?
In all likelihood, that’s exactly what happened.
Even if Rachael did become pregnant, does it change the dynamics of the case? The answer is a resounding no.
The last thing I’ll ever do is defend the likes of Dane Fletcher. What he did to a young Amish girl—and possibly others—is indefensible. He was a dirty cop. A liar. A phony. A danger to the community he’d sworn to serve and protect.
But was he a killer?
You want the truth?… keep looking.
Gathering the contents of the file, I stuff everything into the folder, drop it into my laptop case, and head for the door.
CHAPTER 34
I call Tomasetti from the Explorer as I back out of my parking spot in front of the station. He picks up on the first ring. “I was about to send out a search party,” he says. “But I don’t think anyone would have a difficult time finding you these days.”
“I guess I’m officially busted,” I say, keeping my voice light despite my mood. “If it’s any consolation, I’m on my way home.”
“The day is looking up.”
In that moment, I’m unduly happy that I have him in my life, to keep me grounded. Remind me of what’s important. “I was wondering if you had a chance to talk with Jennifer Fletcher,” I say. “About the bat.”
“I did,” he tells me. “Two of their boys are in Little League. She bought two Rawlings aluminum-alloy bats in the last couple of years. They still have those bats; they still use them, and they have never owned a wood Louisville Slugger.”
“Would have been nice to tie that up.” I reach the edge of town and head north on US 62, toward home.
“Sometimes even the most open-and-closed cases don’t tidy up the way we’d like them to.” He pauses. “Wood bat like that one is common. Fletcher could have picked it up at a thrift store. Something like that.”
I’m northbound on US 62, running a few miles per hour over the speed limit, headlights illuminating the blur of asphalt. Tall trees rise from a berm on my right. Left, through a veil of new-growth trees, I see the black expanse of a field.
“Not like you to get sidetracked by something like that,” he says, fishing.
“This is one of those times when I don’t want to be right.”
“So you’re still having doubts about Fletcher?”
“Yeah.”
I’m just past Township Road 92 and closing in on Millersburg, fifteen minutes from home and concentrating on the call, when the steering wheel yanks hard to the right. The Explorer shudders. Something thumps hard against the undercarriage. Out of the corner of my eye I see a dark chunk fly past the passenger window. Tire, I think, and I stomp the brake.
“Shit.”
The Explorer veers left. My police training kicks in; I turn in to the skid. No room for error. An instant to react. The guardrail slams into my left front quarter panel. A tremendous crash! sounds as I plow through. I’m flung against my safety harness. Jerked left and right. A dozen trees thrash the windshield and hood as I careen down the hill. The windshield shatters. Dirt and glass pelt my face and chest. The Explorer nosedives. Straight down. Too fast. Too steep. I’m slung violently against my shoulder harness.
The Explorer hits a trunk the size of a telephone pole. The airbag explodes as the vehicle jumps right, then rolls to a stop. The windshield has been punched in, draped over the dash like a crystal blanket. I hear spring peepers. Cool night air pouring in. In the periphery of my disjointed thoughts, I hear Tomasetti calling my name.
“Kate! What the hell…”
The engine is running. Bluetooth still working. I don’t know where my cell phone landed. “I’m okay,” I hear myself say.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouts. “What happened?”
“Tire blew. I … ran off the road. I’m okay.”
The Explorer sits at a steep angle, nose down, surrounded by trees. A branch the size of a fence post juts through the passenger window, two feet from my face. I’m covered with glass and dirt and mud. I’m shaking. Blood on the seat. I don’t know where it came from.
In the periphery of my vision I see movement ahead and to my right. Someone in the trees. A motorist coming to help …
“I’m a police officer!” I unfasten my seat belt, reach for the door handle. “I’m not hurt!”
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
The unmistakable sound of gunfire. Adrenaline kicks, followed by an electric zing of fear. I duck, shove open the door. It creaks, hits a tree. Simultaneously, I reach for my .38, yank it out. The door won’t open enough for me to squeeze through. I’m in an awkward position. Leaning right, I look around wildly. Too dark to see. Too many trees. No sign of the gunman. In the back of my mind I wonder why a motorist would brave the incline only to take a shot … The answer hovers. No time to ponder.
Another pop! Ping!
A bullet ricochets. So close I feel the concussion on the seatback. I raise the .38 and fire blindly. “I’m a police officer!” I scream. “Put down the weapon! Put it down
!”
Two more shots ring out.
I fall against the seat, hunker down as low as I can, gripping the .38. I’m blind here. A sitting duck. I hit my radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired!” I shout out my location. “Ten-thirty-one-E! Ten-thirty-three!” Shooting in progress. Officer in trouble. Emergency.
Pop! Pop!
“Police officer!” I scream. “Drop your weapon! Drop it now! Get on the fucking ground!”
Pop! Pop! Pop!
A slug tings against steel. Another slams into the shattered slab of windshield, sending a spray of glass onto me. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti shouting through my Bluetooth. Too scared to understand the words. My police radio crackling to life as my call for help goes out.
I’m on my side. Jammed between the steering wheel and the seat. Not enough room to maneuver. I have no idea where the shooter is. I can’t get to my Maglite. I raise my head. A single headlight illuminates an ocean of young trees. Ahead, a plowed field. No movement or sound.
Where the hell is the shooter?
If he were to approach from the side, I wouldn’t see him until he was right on top of me.…
“Shit. Shit.” Breaths coming like a piston in my lungs.
I swivel, reach for the passenger door handle, shove it open with my shoulder. The tree branch keeps it from opening all the way. Enough of a gap for me to slide through. Holding my weapon at the ready, I slither out. Shoulder sinking into mud. Cold penetrating my shirt. Then I’m on my knees, exposed, heart raging, looking around. No sign of the shooter.
Relief rushes through me when I hear the distant song of a siren. I hold my position, trying not to notice that my gun is shaking, that the butt is slick against my wet palms. I can’t quite catch my breath. I’m on my knees, using the passenger-side door for cover, when I see the red and blue lights flicker off the treetops.
“Sheriff’s Office! Drop the weapon! Show me your hands!”
I call out and identify myself. “I don’t know where the shooter is!”
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