After a moment, she shrugs. “I didn’t think it was important.”
I let the statement hang. Both of us know it’s not true. She’s doing her best not to look uncomfortable, but she’s not pulling it off.
“How well do you know Ruth?” I ask.
“I’ve known her since I was a kid, but we were never close.”
“You rode together the night of the singing at the Schwartz place?”
“Yes.”
“Did anything unusual happen that evening, Neva?”
She concentrates on the candy bar in her hands, takes a moment to peel off the wrapper. “Not that I know of.”
“Who did Ruth ride home with?”
A too-long pause and then Neva raises her gaze to mine. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t lie, Chief Burkholder. I just didn’t realize it was important.”
“It’s called lying by omission, Neva. I asked you specifically about Daniel Gingerich and you didn’t see fit to tell me about that night?”
She narrows her eyes, cocks her head. “Did something happen to Ruthie?”
“You tell me.”
She stares at me for a long time and then shakes her head. “If something happened to her, she never mentioned it. That’s the truth.”
“Did you hear any rumors? Anything like that?”
She shakes her head. “If I’d heard something, I would have told you. Especially after what happened to Emma. I’ve no reason to hold anything back.”
I stare at her, looking for a lie or half truth, some sign of deception. I see none of those things.
“Is there anything else I need to know about?” I ask.
Her brows go together and she considers the question for the span of several heartbeats. Finally, as if she’s come to some important conclusion, she gives a firm nod. “I think that’s about it.”
CHAPTER 18
After leaving The Mercantile, I head north toward Wilmot. I’ve just pulled onto the highway when my cell phone chimes. I glance at the display to see HOLMES CNTY SHERIFF and I snatch it up before the second ring.
“Kate, it’s Mike Rasmussen. How’s the arm?”
“An ID on the shooter would go a long way toward easing the pain,” I tell him.
“Wish I could oblige. I figured you’d want an update, good or bad. I got a little of both.”
“Lay it on me.”
“We retrieved four cartridges at the scene.”
“You get prints?”
“We did. A couple of good ones, in fact. Tomasetti expedited, got everything run through AFIS. Unfortunately, we didn’t get a match.”
“So he’s not in the system.” I sigh. “Apparently, that’s the theme I’m keeping with the Gingerich case.” I think about that a moment. “Caliber?”
“Caliber is three-oh-eight. Common hunting rifle.”
“Bullet?”
“Too destroyed to get striations.”
“Were you guys able to pick up tire tread imprints?”
“We got a partial. Lab’s looking at it now.”
“You’re making my day with all this good news.”
He doesn’t laugh. “You still think it’s related to the Gingerich thing?”
“I do.”
A thoughtful silence and then, “Do me a favor and be careful out there, will you?”
“You got it.”
* * *
I’m mulling my conversation with the sheriff when I drive by the Amish Door restaurant and pull around to the corner where Mark Petersheim was working last time I was here. But the fence is complete and there’s no one there.
I continue into Wilmot proper, make a right on Milton, and park in front of the Petersheim house. I’m thinking about the note and the questions I need to ask as I take the narrow sidewalk to the front door. I knock and wait, but no one answers. I knock a second time, this time tapping with my key fob. When no one comes to the door, I go around to the back and knock on the screen door, but there’s no reply.
Since the Petersheims don’t have a phone, I tape a note to the door, asking Mark to call me as soon as possible. That’s when I hear the baby crying. I stand on the porch, listening. The cries are definitely coming from inside. Not merely cries, but screaming. What the hell?
I knock again, this time using the heel of my hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim? It’s Kate Burkholder,” I call out.
I wait but there’s no response. No sound of footsteps. Just the continuous screaming of an unhappy infant. I remind myself Ruth could be in the shower or taking a nap. But there’s something in the tone of that cry that’s worrisome. Last time I was here Ruth was attentive and caring. I walk to the window that looks out over the front yard, but the curtains are drawn. I knock one more time and head back around to the rear of the house.
I take the narrow dirt path to the small garage in the alley. I tug open the door. Sure enough, the truck I’d seen at the Amish Door Village, where Mark Petersheim had been working on the fence, is parked inside. Leaving the door open, I cross to it, set my hand on the hood. Cold.
Turning, I leave the garage and jog to the back porch. I open the screen door and rap on the glass. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim! Kate Burkholder! Can you open the door please!”
I wait, but the only sound I hear is the howling cries of the child. Sheer yellow curtains cover the window. I look inside, see a small table and chairs, a refrigerator against the wall. A gas stove in the corner. On impulse, I try the knob, but the door is locked.
“Shit,” I mutter.
There’s a small window to my left. The curtains are parted; it’s probably above the kitchen sink. I leave the porch and approach it, stand on my tiptoes to see inside. At first, all I see is a typical kitchen. There’s a clay pot on the sill where a basil plant flourishes. Yellow countertops. White cabinets. A doorway that leads to the front of the house. No sign of anyone, but the baby continues to cry frantically.
Since I’m no longer in Holmes County, I tug out my cell and dial 911. When the dispatcher answers, I quickly identify myself as a police officer and explain the situation. “There may be an unattended infant inside the home,” I tell her. “I need a welfare check.” I relay the address.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a cat in the window. A fat orange tabby, looking at me through the glass. I don’t pay much attention. Then the cat raises its paw and leaves a red smear on the glass. The hairs on my nape stand on end.
“I got blood,” I tell the dispatcher. “I’m going to make entry.”
I hit END, scramble around to the porch. Grabbing a terra-cotta pot from the step, I go to the door, avert my face, and break the glass. I reach through the opening, unlock the door, yank it open.
Then I’m in the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the smell. A combination of dirty diapers and an unflushed toilet. “Ruth Petersheim! Mark! Police!”
Sunlight spills in through the window. The scream of the baby echoes throughout the house. In my peripheral vision I see the cat dart out the door. The counters are mottled with … something. I look closer, realize with burgeoning concern that the counters are covered with bloody paw prints.
I go through the doorway, enter the same small living room where Mona and I spoke with Ruth Petersheim days ago. There’s a sofa. Coffee table. Nothing out of place. I follow the sound of the baby’s cries, down a dimly lit hall.
“Mark! Ruth! Are you okay? It’s Kate Burkholder!”
The last thing any cop wants to do is walk into a house and surprise the homeowner. I always make it a point to shout out my location, and identify myself multiple times. Ever present in the back of my mind is the shooting last night, and that the shooter has yet to be apprehended.
I tug my .38 from my holster. Ahead, two doors stand open. A small bathroom. A bedroom. A third door is cracked open a few inches. The hardwood floors are mottled with bloody paw prints. The smell is worse here. Rotten eggs and sewage.
It’s a stench I’ve smelled before, one I don’t want to identify, and I pray to God I’m wrong. All the while the baby screams. His little voice has gone hoarse. He screams with such ferocity that he’s run out of breath.
“Mark? Ruth?” Pistol leading the way, I sidle to the end of the hall, push open the door with my left hand. The room is darkened. I see a window, curtains drawn. A closet door standing open. An oak headboard.
A gasp escapes me when I see them. Mark and Ruth Petersheim lie side by side atop a cream-colored quilt. I see pale faces and staring eyes. All of it surrounded by an ocean of blood, shocking and red. I know immediately they’re dead.
Ruth lies prone, her head turned toward me. One eye closed, the other rolled back white. She’s wearing a blue dress with a white apron, the bodice soaked with blood that’s gone black in the center. She’s still wearing her kapp. Tights. One shoe missing.
Next to her, Mark Petersheim lies supine. He’s wearing dark trousers, a blue shirt, suspenders. Right arm slung over the side of the bed. His head is against the headboard, his neck bent at a severe angle. His mouth is a bloody, gaping hole. Copious amounts of blood and tissue and specks of bone spatter on the headboard. More blood on his shirt. A single tooth rests on his chest. There’s a straw hat and a rifle on the floor next to the bed.
For a moment, my feet are cemented to the floor. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can barely think. All sound leaches from the room. The light fades. My vision tunnels on the two bodies. It’s as if the house has been submerged in water, and it’s slowly sinking to the dark, cold depths of the ocean.
The crying of the baby snaps me back. I look to my left, see the crib. The infant inside is wriggling, little blanket tangled, tiny face red and wet with tears and spittle and a runny nose. He senses my gaze on his and falls silent. Mouth quivering, blue eyes watching, watching …
Giving myself a hard mental shake, I step away from the bed and go to the child. Something breaks loose inside of me at the sight of him. Hungry and dirty, frightened and alone. Dear God, the things he must have seen.
“Poor sweet baby.” I hear the words, actually look around the room because it’s as if they were spoken by someone else. There’s no one there but me.
I go to the crib and scoop the child into my arms. He’s wearing his little onesie. A T-shirt with Amish suspenders. I barely notice the smell of his dirty diaper as I lift him and pull him against me. I look down at his angel’s face. I see tears in eyes the color of a summer sky and I want to cry for him.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I whisper. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Little William looks up at me and begins to wail.
* * *
It takes the Stark County sheriff’s deputy six minutes to arrive on scene. While waiting, I called 911 again and let the sheriff’s department know Mark and Ruth Petersheim are deceased. I let them know they need to notify a social worker from Children Services to care for William until a family member or foster parents can be located.
I’m standing next to my Explorer, holding William against me, when the first deputy rolls up. I show him my ID, tell him what happened, and he goes inside. Less than a minute later, he walks stiffly onto the porch, bends over, and throws up in the bushes. He goes back to his cruiser without speaking to me.
The next hours are a blur of questions from a flurry of law enforcement. I tell my story half a dozen times to several deputies. I spend most of that first hour trying to balance my need to know what happened to the Petersheims and caring for a hungry and dirty infant whose future has been forever altered.
I watch the Stark County Coroner’s van arrive on scene. A fire truck with Wilmot Fire and Rescue. An ambulance from Stark County EMS. It takes an hour for the social worker from Children Services to arrive. A red Camry parks on the street two cars down from mine. A thirtysomething woman in a maroon suit and sensible heels gets out. She’s watchful and harried, speaking into her phone as she starts toward me. I see her eyes taking in the scene. I know it the moment she spots me and William. Finishing her call, she starts toward us.
“Chief Burkholder?” She’s walking fast, her heels clacking against the sidewalk. She’s got brown hair and blue eyes, coiffed hair, and earrings the size of hen eggs dangling from her ears. “I’m Deb Cooke with Children Services.”
“Hi.” I cross to her and, shifting William, offer my hand.
We shake and then she reaches into her bag for her identification. I take my time, look at it closely. “Glad you’re here,” I tell her.
She looks at the baby sleeping in my arms, and her expression softens. “What a cutie.”
“Yes, he is.” I send a nod toward the house. “I think he’s been alone for some time. I think he’s hungry. Needs a clean diaper. His parents are inside, deceased.”
Sighing, she shakes her head. “I’ve got a car seat in my car. No diaper or bottle, but I’ve been in contact with a foster family. They’re a sweet couple, about fifteen minutes away.”
“His parents were Amish,” I tell her.
“We’ll get it figured out, Chief. If we can place him with a family member, we will as quickly as possible.” She pauses. “But for now…”
William’s body is warm and soft against me as I carry him to the social worker’s car. She strides ahead of me, opens the door to the backseat, prepares the car seat. When she turns to me, an awkward moment descends. She’s waiting for me to hand off the baby. All I can think is that he’s sleeping. I don’t want to wake him. I don’t like the idea of this poor little guy spending the night with strangers.
I think about Ruth and Mark Petersheim and I think, How could you do this to your son?
I press a kiss to the little boy’s cheek and set him in her arms. “Take care of yourself, little William.”
She lifts the child and, bending, places him in the car seat. I can tell by the way she buckles him in that she’s competent and experienced. I can tell by the way she looks at him that she cares. None of those things make me feel any better about leaving him.
William wakes up and begins to cry.
“It won’t be long now, sweetie,” she says cheerfully.
Straightening, she looks at me, tilts her head, and digs into her bag for a card. “If you want to check on him later, give me a call.”
“Thank you.” After taking the card, I watch her get into the car and drive away. For a moment, I feel … bereft.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I turn to see a man striding toward me. He’s about fifty years old with a receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and the beginnings of a paunch. He’s wearing khakis, a wrinkled white shirt, and a nicely coordinated tie. He’s got cop written all over him.
“I’m Jim Hawkins with the investigations unit.” He sticks out his hand and we shake. “Hell of a thing for you to walk into.”
I nod. “What’s your take?”
“Got all the hallmarks of a murder-suicide. Looks like there was somewhat of a struggle. He got her on the bed, shot her in the back. He got into the bed beside her, put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger with that rifle. Jesus Christ, I’m glad he didn’t take that baby with him.”
“Any idea how long they’ve been dead?” I ask.
“Coroner thinks eight to twelve hours. He’ll be able to narrow it down once he gets the bodies to the morgue.” His eyes narrow on mine. “Wilmot is a hike from Painters Mill. You know these people?”
I shake my head. “I talked to them a couple of times.” I give him the condensed version of the Gingerich case.
“Heard about all that.” But his mind is already poking into all those dark corners where cops’ minds tend to go. “You think Mark Petersheim set that fire?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“If he did, it could be a precursor to all this.” He motions toward the house and shrugs. “If he thought he was going to jail for what he did to Gingerich, he might’ve decided to just call
it a day.”
“Maybe.”
Another look, sharp and assessing. “In light of your ongoing case, we’ll take a real close look at this.”
“I appreciate it.” I hand him my card. “Let me know if I can help in any way.”
“Will do.”
* * *
It’s fully dark by the time I arrive home. I’m thinking about little William as I let myself in through the back door. I can still smell his baby-powder scent on my clothes. I set my laptop case on the floor inside the kitchen doorway. I find Tomasetti standing at the counter, eating ice cream from the carton.
“You are so busted,” I say as I cross to him.
He turns to me. “In that case I guess you’re probably going to need your cuffs.”
I pat the compartment on my belt and then go into his arms. “Sorry I’m late.”
I’d called him from Wilmot and told him about the Petersheims. I tried to get my cop face on during the drive back to Painters Mill. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that I didn’t quite succeed.
“You get that baby taken care of?” he asks.
“Handed him off to the social worker an hour ago.”
“Tough break for the kid.” He kisses the top of my head.
Over rum raisin, we discuss how the day’s developments might affect the Gingerich case. “I’ll get with Stark County and have them send Petersheim’s fingerprints,” he says. “We’ll do a comp and see if they match anything we got from the Gingerich scene.” His brows go together. “Petersheim had a rifle?”
My mind’s eye flashes back to the rifle lying on the bedroom floor. Mark Petersheim’s arm slung over the side of the bed. I’d been so shocked by the sight of the bodies, I didn’t note the details of the long gun. But I know where Tomasetti is going with this, and I realize I should have thought of it, too.
“You think he’s the one who shot at me?” I ask.
“Gingerich raped his wife. Got her pregnant. She didn’t tell Petersheim. She married him, and passed the baby off as his.” He shrugs. “If he didn’t want that coming to light…” His voice trails. “Sad as that is, it’s the kind of scenario that fits.”
A Gathering of Secrets Page 20