The burning, p.15
The Burning, page 15
“Maybe I will.” Bending, he snaps the unused cuff around the wire, trapping me. “Time will tell.”
“You murdered Milan Swanz,” I say.
Black jacket.
Black trousers.
Giving me only part of his attention, he snaps open the cylinder of my .38, empties the ammo into his palm, and flings all of it into the woods. He drops the .38 into the snow.
“Tell me why,” I say.
He gives me a final look, his expression inscrutable, and then he turns away and walks to the sedan.
Blue BMW.
Four-door.
Gray interior.
“Stop!” I yank at the handcuff. “Stop!”
The wire holds. Though the fence is old and rusty, it’ll take wire cutters to get me free.
Damn it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him slide into the sedan.
“Who are you?” I call out. “Why did you kill Swanz?”
Without looking at me, he starts the engine and pulls onto the road.
* * *
No matter how vigorously you train, or adhere to the policies and procedures set forth by your department, no matter how fervently you exercise your God-given good judgment, if you’re a cop, there will come a time when you encounter a situation that goes south. Tonight is a case in point.
It’s midnight. I’m handcuffed to a barbed-wire fence on a little-traveled rural road. My radio, service weapon, and cell phone are out of reach. I’m freezing my ass off. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it. It was over an hour ago that I informed my dispatcher I’d “arrived on scene.” I didn’t, however, follow up with an “assignment completed” call. My best hope is that she’ll notice and dispatch my graveyard-shift officer.
The ambush replays in my mind’s eye for the hundredth time as I work the handcuff against the barbed wire, back and forth, in an effort to snap it.
Milan Swanz was a deviant.
He walked in step with the devil.
My attacker spoke with an accent that wasn’t Holmes County Amish, but similar. His words contained an undeniable religious element that I recognized. An old Amish saying tickles the back of my mind.
Walk in step with the devil, and you’ll hear the flap of his wings.
“The son of a bitch is Amish,” I whisper, my breath puffing out in front of me.
It’s not a perfect fit. Far from it. For one thing, the Amish are pacifistic; violence is prohibited. They will not defend themselves or their property and view themselves as “defenseless Christians.” In times of war, they are conscientious objectors. How, then, could this man who all but admitted he’d murdered Milan Swanz, and threatened to kill me, be Amish?
He’s formerly Amish, a little voice adds.
I’m hunkered over the spot where handcuff meets steel, working on the wire, when I spot approaching headlights through the trees. For an instant, I wonder if my attacker has come back to kill me. But I recognize the silhouette of the police cruiser the moment it comes into view.
I get to my feet, bent slightly because the cuff won’t allow me to straighten, and I wave my free hand. “Skid! I’m here!”
The cruiser rolls to a stop behind the Explorer. The spotlight comes on, the beam skimming over my vehicle, the ditch, and finally washes over me. An instant later, the red and blue overheads light up and Skid gets out.
“Chief?” His Maglite flicks on.
“I’m here. Cuffed to the fence.”
“What the hell?” Keeping his eyes on me, he jogs around to the trunk, pops it, and digs into his equipment box. Then he’s striding toward me, fence tool in hand. “What happened?” he says. “You okay?”
“I was ambushed,” I tell him. “Male suspect at large. Skid, get the sheriff’s department out here.”
He reaches me, blinks once at the sight of my face, and for the umpteenth time in the last hour, I feel like a fool. “Uh, Chief, you’re bleeding pretty good. You need an ambulance?”
“Just get the sheriff’s department.”
Without speaking, Skid goes down on one knee.
“Give me your cuff key,” I say.
He digs into the compartment on his utility belt, passes me the key. As I unlock the cuff, he tilts his head to his radio mike and requests assistance from the sheriff’s department.
CHAPTER 16
Two hours later, I’m sitting in the interview room at the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office, ostensibly for a “debriefing.” I know it’s more likely to be an all-hands-on-deck ass chewing. I spotted Chambers’s official vehicle parked outside. Right next to Mayor Auggie Brock’s Cadillac.
I gave my initial statement at the scene to the chief deputy of the sheriff’s office detective bureau. Skid recovered my radio, my .38, my knife, and my cell phone, which were dusted for prints and returned to me. An APB for the vehicle with a description of the suspect and the plate number was issued. The information was broadcast to all law enforcement agencies in the region, including the Ohio State Highway Patrol.
Now, it’s after one A.M. Sheriff Mike Rasmussen sits across from me, looking as if he was roused from a nightmare and didn’t get coffee before leaving his house. He’s doing his utmost not to make eye contact with me, which only adds to the butterflies wreaking havoc in my gut. Next to him, Chambers thumbs something into his cell phone with the speed of a high-school student. His satisfied expression reveals he’s pleased by my being back in the hot seat. Auggie Brock is sprawled in a chair next to the sheriff.
Of all the people in the room, Tomasetti is the most difficult to look at. He’s standing at the wall, next to the door, his arms crossed at his chest. I can tell by his expression he’s troubled, not only by the situation but by the cuts and bruises on my face. He’s a master at keeping all of those gnarly emotions out of the picture. I know him well enough to read between the lines.
Auggie’s staring at me. Not exactly making eye contact, but taking in my injuries. I try not to glare at him, but don’t quite succeed.
“Kate, did you get yourself checked out at the hospital?” he asks.
“EMT checked me out at the scene,” I tell him. “I’m fine.”
“Even so.” Tomasetti looks at his watch. “I’m sure the chief would appreciate it if you made this quick.”
“In that case, let’s get started.” Chambers hits a button on his cell, drops it on the table in front of him, and takes a moment to look around the room, letting us know he’s the man in charge, and we, his underlings, don’t quite measure up. “APB is out. Suspect description is out. Vehicle description.”
“Anything come back on the plate?” I ask.
“Fraudulent.” Chambers rubs his hands together as if he’s just sat down to his favorite meal, then looks at me. “Run us through what happened again.”
I spend fifteen minutes taking them through the incident from beginning to end, relaying all the details I put to memory.
“So you didn’t recognize him?” Chambers asked.
“No, but as I mentioned, the lower half of his face was covered with a scarf,” I say.
“He recognized you, though?”
“He called me by name.”
“What exactly did he ask of you?” Chambers continues, not because he doesn’t recall my earlier account, but because he wants the others—namely Auggie—to hear it again.
“He said something to the effect—and I’m paraphrasing—that my silence was my sacrifice to make.”
“That mean anything to you?” Rasmussen asks.
“Not a thing.”
“You mentioned before,” Rasmussen says, “that you think he’s Amish or formerly Amish?”
I nod. “The accent is Amish-like, but I don’t think he’s from this area.”
“Any idea where he might be from?” the sheriff asks.
“With the Pennsylvania plates, maybe Lancaster County,” I reply. “Hard to say.”
Chambers doesn’t do a very good job of hiding his smirk. “You’re certain this man wasn’t your brother?”
It’s not only a bad joke, but a personal dig designed to spur my temper. I keep my cool, but I know where he’s going to take this. I know why we’re here. I know why the mayor is here. I know why I’m being asked to repeat information no one needs to hear a second time.
“As I said before, I didn’t recognize him,” I say.
Looking smug, Chambers glances at Rasmussen.
The sheriff scowls. “Just so you know, we’re going to talk to your brother tomorrow, Kate.”
“That’s your prerogative.” Of course, their insistence upon doing something that I’ve already done makes a clear statement: They don’t trust me to do my job.
As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “We don’t have a choice, Kate. Your brother is now a person of interest. In light of the alleged argument, he has a motive for wanting Swanz dead.”
The urge to argue rattles its chain inside me, but I hold my tongue.
“It’s late,” Tomasetti says from his place at the door. “We’re tired. I think we’re done here.”
“One more thing.” Chambers clears his throat, then sends a pointed look to the mayor. “Mayor Brock?”
For the first time, I realize all of them—minus Tomasetti—have already discussed how this is going to end, and I experience a twinge of anxiety.
When Auggie only continues to stare back at him, Chambers sits up a little straighter. “Mayor Brock,” he says. “I’ve made my recommendation to you. That’s all I can do at this point. The rest is up to you. In all fairness, I think taking the actions we discussed is the most equitable way to handle this.”
Looking uncomfortable, Auggie scoots his chair forward, folds his hands in front of him, and finally meets my gaze. “I’d like to preface by saying none of this is a reflection on Chief Burkholder’s competence, her leadership, or her character.”
“What are you talking about, Auggie?” My voice comes out surprisingly strong and crisp and I have no idea how I managed because I’m shaking inside.
The mayor looks around as if hoping for approving nods from everyone in the room. The only one he gets comes from Chambers. “We think it’s best for the investigation and the township if you took a break from this case, Kate.”
“Take a break?” I repeat dumbly. “What the hell does that mean?”
The mayor raises his hand, trying to look as if he’s in command. He only manages to look ridiculous and weak and everyone in the room knows he doesn’t have the balls to say what he’s been asked to say.
“This isn’t about you personally or professionally,” Auggie continues. “This is about perceptions. The citizens of Painters Mill are uneasy about this murder and understandably so. Because of your brother’s possible involvement and your connection to the Amish—”
“It hasn’t been determined that my brother is involved,” I say.
He cuts me off. “Like I said, this is about public perception. Not you or your capabilities.”
“Kate’s record and reputation speak for themselves,” Tomasetti interjects. “She’s a good cop. A damn good investigator. And she’s the one person the Amish will talk to. They trust her. That makes her the most valuable resource we’ve got.”
Chambers swivels his head around. “You’re not exactly impartial yourself.”
Tomasetti’s face darkens. It’s subtle, but I see his fingers twitch as if he’s trying not to clench his hands into fists. “If this is about the case—and that’s a big fucking if at this point—Chief Burkholder is the best person for the job and everyone in this room knows it.”
Auggie Brock swallows hard. “We don’t ask any of this lightly, Agent Tomasetti.”
Arms folded across his chest, Tomasetti stares back at him, saying nothing.
Auggie clears his throat and looks at me. “This is just a temporary thing, Kate. When things settle down, I’m sure we’ll need you back to help us out. But until we get a better handle on this, I’d like you to take a step back.”
I fight to maintain self-control. “How big a step are you suggesting, Auggie?” I ask, my voice taut.
“All the way,” Chambers cuts in.
“Limited duty,” Auggie clarifies. “Of course, you’ll still be paid,” he adds hastily. “We just want you to sit things out for a few days. You know, handle the administrative side of things until we can figure out how or if your brother is involved. You understand, don’t you?”
For several minutes, I don’t move. Then I nod. “I understand perfectly,” I say.
Taking my time, I make eye contact with each man in the room. I get to my feet, walk to the door, and go through, not bothering to close it in my wake.
* * *
It’s three A.M. and I’m sitting at the table in my quaint farmhouse kitchen, trying not to feel sorry for myself—and failing miserably. This farm—this house—has always been the one place where I don’t allow the pressures of my job to intrude. It is my refuge, my escape, and I try very hard to leave the demons of my job at the door.
I left the station without waiting for Tomasetti. As I pulled away, I saw him emerge from the building, and watch me pass. Though I know I have his support, I was too upset to talk to him. The last thing I want to do is lash out. Or, God forbid, cry.
I’ve just poured two fingers of bourbon into a tumbler when the back door opens. Tomasetti enters with a puff of cold air, his eyes on me, his expression impassive.
His eyes flick to the glass in front of me as he hangs his coat on the rack and he frowns. “Just one glass?”
“I thought two might be overkill,” I tell him.
He doesn’t quite smile as he crosses to the counter, grabs a tumbler from the shelf, and pours. It’s incredibly quiet here at the farm. Tonight, that quiet is so complete I can hear the patter-patter of snowflakes against the window above the sink.
Glass in hand, Tomasetti comes to the table and takes the chair across from me. “Do you want me to pull that knife out of your back?”
“You’re the only person in the world who can make me laugh when I’m completely immersed in agony.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Neil Chambers is an asshole.”
“I noticed.” I shake my head. “The problem is, he makes a valid point.”
“Yes, he does.”
I lift my glass and sip. “I guess I expected more from Auggie and Rasmussen.”
“Don’t be too hard on Auggie,” he says, and frowns. “Chambers recommended he place you on administrative leave.”
“Of course he did,” I mutter, not liking the bitter taste the words leave on my tongue.
“Auggie and Rasmussen were against that and held their ground.”
“Some of it, anyway.”
He shrugs. “So, you’re not officially off the case.”
“Just relegated to desk duty.”
We fall silent, listen to the wind push against the door. The hum of the refrigerator. The hiss and ting of heated air through the HVAC vents.
Grimacing, he swirls the bourbon in his glass. “Did Milan Swanz molest your nephew?”
Just like that the conversation shifts.
I look at him, think about tossing back the bourbon and pouring another. I don’t. “Jacob didn’t murder Swanz.”
“They’re going to pick him up first light. They’re going to take him to the station and they’re going to question him hard.”
“He won’t talk to them. Not about his son,” I say. “About what happened.”
“That’s going to be a problem. For Jacob.”
“I know. Damn it.” I smack my hand against the tabletop because I hate the idea of my brother being subjected to that.
“If Jacob doesn’t cooperate, they’ll assume he’s lying.”
“I know.” I tell him what transpired between Swanz and my nephew. “Jacob interrupted before anything happened.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” He turns thoughtful. “On the bright side, it might do Rasmussen and Chambers good to get a taste of that Amish wall of silence.”
I’m not feeling quite so optimistic, so I say nothing.
Tomasetti shrugs. “Who knows what you might uncover in the interim.”
I feel myself go still, look at him. “What’s your point?”
“My point is, it’s four o’clock in the morning and fortunately for us insomniacs, the Amish are early risers.”
The exhaustion that had been pressing down on me shifts and lightens. I look at the glass of bourbon, sigh, push it aside. “I don’t think we should talk to Jacob.”
“I agree,” he says. “Let Chambers and Rasmussen beat their heads against that brick wall for a few hours.” He pauses. “Who else?”
Something that feels vaguely like hope jumps in my chest. “The bishop may be able to tell us something.”
He arches a brow.
I tell him about my conversation with Bertha Swanz. “Milan Swanz and Clarence Raber drove to the Troyer farm, forced their way inside, and assaulted the bishop and his wife. When I initially made contact with the bishop, he didn’t mention it.”
His eyes narrow. “The bishop is well thought of among the Amish.”
“Surly as he is,” I say, “Bishop Troyer is revered.”
“Sounds like Swanz has crossed a lot of people.”
“And a lot of lines.” I think about that for a moment. “If someone found out Swanz assaulted the bishop. If they found out Swanz had acted inappropriately with a young boy.”
“The bishop knew about both of those things?” Tomasetti says.
I nod. “Who’s to say someone didn’t take it upon themselves to mete out a little justice.”
“Sounds like the bishop and his wife are a good place to start.”
“I don’t think he’ll talk to us.”
“You underestimate your powers of persuasion.”
My smile feels halfhearted.
“Keep your chin up, Chief. We’ve got a couple of things going for us.”
“For the life of me I can’t imagine what they might be.”
He shrugs. “For one thing, you can probably count on the Amish to not tattle on you to the English police.”
