“How long will the latent comps take?”
“Twenty-four hours. Thirty-six max. We’ll get Petersheim’s prints right away. We’ll compare the latents picked up off the cartridges. Should be a pretty quick process.”
I think about that a moment, trying to get a handle on what isn’t settling in my gut. “I never figured Petersheim for killing Gingerich.”
His eyes find mine. “The person who killed Gingerich may not be the person who took a shot at you last night.”
I toss him a frown. “I thought of that.”
“Who else are you looking at?”
“Elam Schlabach.”
“The dead girl’s boyfriend.”
I nod. “And Milo Hershberger. The best friend.”
“I don’t have to tell you to keep those eyes in the back of your head open, do I?”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to be looking over my shoulder for a long time.”
* * *
I’m standing in the middle of a narrow and deserted road I don’t recognize. It’s nighttime. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a baby crying. Fog billows all around, and I get the sense that there’s something unseen nearby, but I don’t know what.
When I look down, I see blood on the asphalt. It’s fresh. The night air is cold. Steam rises from the puddle and somehow I know this is the place where Ruth Petersheim was dragged from the car and raped.
God doesn’t let things like that happen to good girls.
I glance over my shoulder to see a hideous version of Daniel Gingerich. Not the happy-go-lucky young man in the photos, but the monstrous thing lying on the gurney at the morgue. Black flesh. Hands burned off, bones protruding from the stumps. His arms are bent at the wrists and elbows into that terrible pugilistic posture. Though he’s standing, his legs are severely bent at the knee.
“Who did that to you?” I ask.
Cloudy white eyes stare at me from within a charred face. The skin has burned away from his mouth and I can see his teeth.
“You did.” He begins to chant. “You did. You did…”
“Kate. Kate.”
I open my eyes to see Tomasetti’s face. Mussed hair. Concern sharp in his expression. Looking at me as if he isn’t sure who I am.
I’m lying on the sofa in our living room. He’s on his knees, leaning over me, hand on my shoulder, pressing me down. The dream lingers; the stench of burned flesh still in my nostrils, the sound of little William’s screams ringing.
“I’m sorry.” I try to sit up but he holds me down.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “Just … lie still a moment. Catch your breath.”
I relax back into the cushions, but I’m shaking, my skin slicked with sweat. I know he can feel all of those things. I don’t know why it embarrasses me. Why it makes me feel vulnerable in a way I detest.
“What are you doing out here on the sofa?” He growls the words—an attempt to divert my attention from the nightmare—and I appreciate it more than I can express.
“Arm was hurting. I couldn’t sleep.” I offer up a reproachful look. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s not buying it. I see him looking at the countless pages of notes and reports and photographs spread out on the coffee table. “Evidently, you do some of your best detecting after hours.”
“I guess I’m found out.” Setting my hand over his, I push myself to a sitting position. I’m wearing panties and one of his Cleveland Division of Police T-shirts. I catch him stealing a look at my bare legs and it makes me smile. “This is getting old, huh?”
“Nothing about you will ever get old.”
I look away, a thought flashing that he deserves better than this, but I shove it away. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” I look around; the windows are still dark. “What time is it?”
“About five, I think.”
I nod, look away.
He notices, tilts his head to snag my gaze. When I don’t look at him, he reaches out, sets his hand beneath my chin, draws my face toward him. “What’s this all about, Kate?”
“You mean the dream? Or the fact that I’m…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence, so I let the words trail.
In typical Tomasetti fashion, he waits.
“All those parallels.” I whisper the words, feeling stripped bare by them. “I don’t like what’s in my head. I don’t want the past to get in the way.”
“As much as we cops like to deny it, some of the cases we work are about us. Not in the way you think, but … It’s about our experiences, good and bad, and everything we bring to the table.”
“I guess I’ve brought a lot to the table with this case.”
He sighs, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he’s annoyed. “So use it,” he says. “Use what you know. Put it to work. Use your insights. Maybe it’s time you started thinking about this case with your whole brain and not just the part that fits your cop’s sensibilities.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid to look that deep,” I say.
“That past can’t hurt you now. If it’s got something to tell you, listen to it.”
“Tomasetti, the truth about what happened to me never came out. I was never punished for it.”
“You killed a man in self-defense,” he growls.
“Did I?”
His eyes narrow on mine.
“I never told you. Because I was ashamed. Because I hated myself. Tomasetti, I wanted his attention that summer. I was stupid and naive and—”
“Cut it out. You had no way of knowing what he was. You were a fourteen-year-old kid, for God’s sake. You were Amish. Your parents didn’t teach you about that kind of shit.”
He’s right, but somehow it doesn’t make any of this any easier. “I thought I’d dealt with all of this. I thought I’d moved past it. But this case…” I shrug.
“Some things never go away, Kate. You know that. The key is learning to live with it in a way that doesn’t tear you apart. If you’re smart—and I know you are—you’ll use it to your advantage.”
He gives the words a moment to penetrate. “I know it’s painful. But you have a unique perspective. You can think about this case like a cop. But you can also think about it from a victim’s perspective. Use that. It’ll make you a better cop.”
“Or maybe my perspective is skewed.”
“I don’t buy that. You know right from wrong.”
“And all those gray areas in between.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.”
I close my eyes. “Is a homicide ever justified?” The words tumble around in my mind, the wrongness of them, that I’d had the audacity to say them aloud.
“Self-defense is justified,” he says. “You have the right to protect yourself. You have the right to protect your family. Your children.”
Our gazes lock. We stare at each other, unspoken words passing between us.
“There are a lot of motivations tangled up in this case,” I say. “A lot of emotion. Rage. Shame. A need for revenge. Someone knew what Daniel Gingerich was. They knew he wouldn’t stop so they took it upon themselves to stop him. Where does that fall?”
“Daniel Gingerich wasn’t killed in self-defense,” he says. “He wasn’t killed by someone trying to protect themselves or their family. His murder was premeditated. It required forethought. Planning. Execution. Black and white.”
He’s got me thinking about the case in a slightly different light and I feel myself begin to calm down. The darkness and uncertainty that’s been dogging me since the start loosens its grip.
Before I realize I’m going to move, I raise my hand and set it against his face. “Not bad for a BCI guy.”
“Every now and then I get it right.”
Nodding, I let my hand fall away from his face and take his hand in mine. “What time do you have to be at work?”
“Heading to the shower now.”
“Want some company?”
CHAPTER 19
Aside fr
om a loose-hog incident out at the Stutz farm in which Skid and I spent two hours chasing a three-hundred-pound boar down Dogleg Road, it’s been an uneventful morning. I finished my report on the Petersheims. When I spoke with the chief deputy, he told me all indications pointed to a clear-cut case of murder-suicide. I also called the social worker to check on little William and learned he will be placed with family members later today. I’m a big fan of good news, especially in the face of tragedy.
Yesterday’s events placed Mark Petersheim squarely at the top of my suspect list in the murder of Daniel Gingerich. If his prints or his wife’s match the latents found on the mason jar, I’ll close the case. Mark Petersheim had motive. He had means and opportunity. Chances are, he’s also the person who tried to kill me. He owned a rifle, which was sent to the lab; he also drove a pickup truck. He knew he would be caught; he knew his darkest secrets would come pouring out, so he murdered his young wife and ended it.
So why aren’t I convinced he’s my killer?
“Because I don’t think he did it,” I whisper, glad there’s no one around to hear me talking to myself.
I spent the last hour filling a legal pad with theories and motives and connections. So far none of it has panned out. As I page through the Gingerich file for the hundredth time, I can’t help but recall the statistics Tomasetti laid out at the start of the case. In the state of Ohio only about twenty-six percent of arson cases result in an arrest.… The numbers are daunting and make for a frustrating and wearisome undertaking—with a prospective outcome that’s worse than bleak.
I stare down at the autopsy photos of Daniel Gingerich, the blackened remains of what had once been an eighteen-year-old Amish boy with his own set of secrets. “Did Mark Petersheim do that to you?” I whisper.
“Chief?”
I look up to see Lois standing in the doorway of my office. “Everyone’s here,” she tells me.
“Thanks.” I close the file, shift gears.
Just this morning the mayor came through, authorizing me to hire an additional patrol officer. I didn’t waste any time; I called Mona into my office and promoted her on the spot. It’s the first time I’ve seen her speechless. The first time I’ve seen her cry.
“You got the card?” I ask.
Lois presents a yellow envelope containing the congratulations card all of us signed for Mona. I take it out and scribble my name.
“I’ve never seen her this nervous,” Lois says under her breath.
“In that case,” I say as I rise, “let’s not keep her waiting.” Grabbing my notebook, I follow her to our meeting room.
One of the things I love most about my job as chief is the opportunity to work with such a great group of officers. In the years I’ve been here in Painters Mill, they’ve become my surrogate family when my own wouldn’t speak to me. This small police department is the one place that has nothing to do with my being Amish or English. It’s the place where I am a cop, the one place where I’m comfortable, and the one place I fit in without question.
I step into the meeting room to find my team already assembled. Glock sits at the head of the table, copying something from a notepad onto a form. Pickles sits across from him, talking to Glock, two cups of coffee from LaDonna’s Diner in front of him. Skid is sprawled in a chair to my right, thumbing something into his phone. T.J. is in the midst of telling a tall tale to my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, who’s buying into every word and is unabashedly impressed. She has a lot to learn about cops.
I catch Lois’s eye as I head toward the half podium. “Where’s Mona?” I whisper.
“Restroom.” She makes an exaggerated worried face. “Fourth time in twenty minutes.”
I take my place behind the podium, clear my throat. “Skid, did you tell Stutz to get that fence repaired?”
“I told him next time we have to chase one of his stinkin’ hogs, I’m going to cite him.”
I give a thumbs-up. “Pickles, I understand a couple of kids were smoking cigarettes on school property yesterday afternoon.”
“Willie Steele’s boy, Chief. He’s eleven and has the IQ of a two-year-old.”
“Nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” Glock murmurs.
That conjures a round of laughter. I’m obliged to ignore it. “The parents called the mayor and complained,” I tell him. “Said you were too rough on him.”
“I confiscated the smokes, Chief. Kid wasn’t happy about it.”
“I’ll let Auggie know. Keep up the good work.”
Movement at the door draws my attention. I glance up to see Mona enter. Something goes soft in my chest at the sight of her. Navy jacket. Pale pink blouse. Pencil skirt that falls below her knees. I’ve seen her in everything from miniskirts to knee boots to burgundy-streaked hair. And I’m reminded that this is probably one of the most important days of her professional life.
“Glad you could join us,” I say to her, using the same tone I’d use for Skid or Glock if they were late for a meeting.
“Sorry, Chief.”
I pick up my mug and use my pen to ding it bell style. “As most of you know, our department is understaffed and has been for quite some time. I’m pleased to report Mayor Brock has increased our budget and as of this morning Mona Kurtz is Painters Mill’s first female officer.”
Some of the guys let fly with comments, so I raise my voice and speak over them. “Mona brings with her an associate’s degree in criminal justice, over three years of dispatch experience, knowledge of our ten-code system, the Ohio Revised Code, and of course familiarity with Painters Mill.”
Everyone in the room had already known about the promotion; they signed the card for her, after all. Still, the official announcement is a formality I felt was important.
“Mona will continue in her position as dispatcher until I can hire a replacement. During that time, I’ll be asking her to ride with each of you on occasion.”
I leave the podium and stride toward Mona, my hand extended. “Congratulations, Officer Kurtz.”
We shake and I can’t help but notice how incredibly happy she looks, despite the sheen of tears. “Thanks, Chief,” she whispers, and then pulls me into an embrace.
Next to her, Skid rises and high-fives her. “Hell yeah!”
“About damn time,” Pickles mutters.
From the door, Jodie squeals. “Oh my God! I’m so happy for you!” Joining hands, she and Lois dance in a circle.
Glock smacks Mona on the back before wrapping her in a bear hug. “Welcome aboard, rookie.”
T.J. snaps a couple of photos with his phone and crosses to her. “I guess this means I’m off graveyard shift.”
I pause at the doorway and watch the scene, taking it in, putting it to memory, knowing it’s one of those moments that will stay with me.
* * *
It’s nearly five P.M. when I get the call from Tomasetti. “What are you up to, Chief?”
“Chasing shadows mostly. How about you?”
“Chasing chickens.”
I laugh, unduly pleased by the sound of his voice.
“The lab supervisor of the latent print unit just called. The latent on the casing left at the scene the night you were shot belongs to Mark Petersheim. He was your shooter.”
I let out a breath. I hadn’t realized until this moment how heavily the not knowing had been weighing on my shoulders. “Do his prints match the latent lifted off the key found at the Gingerich scene?”
“It’s not a match,” he tells me. “We’ve fingerprinted everyone in the Gingerich family. Those comps should be done soon.”
“Okay.”
“Interestingly, the latent on the mason jar found at Chris Martino’s house doesn’t belong to Petersheim either.”
“So my arsonist is still out there.”
“This is where the plot thickens. The print found on the key retrieved from the Gingerich scene matches the print found on the mason jar.”
“So whoever handled the key at the Gingerich farm also ha
ndled the mason jars found in Martino’s garage.” The information swirls in my head, a leaf caught in an eddy. “What about the tire tread imprint?” I ask, referring to the one taken the night of the shooting.
“Still working on the comp. Probably going to match the tires on Petersheim’s truck.” He sighs. “Wish I had better news. I know you were hoping to close the case.”
“At least the shooter was identified.”
“One threat down.” He pauses. “You coming home anytime soon?”
“I thought I might talk to Elam Schlabach before I call it a day.”
“The Amish boyfriend of the girl who killed herself.”
I give him my impressions of Schlabach. “He’s twenty-three years old and newly married with a baby on the way. And yet the only emotion I got out of him when I talked to him is rage.”
“Give me a call if you need anything.”
“Bet on it.”
* * *
It’s nearly five P.M. when I swing by Buckeye Woodworks and Cabinetry on Fourth Street only to be told that Elam Schlabach has already left for the day. I drive out to his home on Dogleg Road. His wife tells me he’s working late.
I stand in the driveway, my hands on my hips, and wonder. “Where the hell are you?”
In a small town like Painters Mill, that question isn’t always difficult to answer, especially when there’s a young male and a certain level of discontent involved. There are three drinking establishments in the area. The Brass Rail is too rowdy and too far away for Schlabach to reach via buggy. McNarie’s is too … bikerish. That leaves Miller’s Tavern. It’s a dark, quiet drinking establishment that favors pop music over chain-saw rock and German beer over eighty-proof rotgut. There’s an old-fashioned jukebox next to the bar, a decent menu replete with sliders and stuffed jalapeños, and ice cream soft-serve for the kids. Most of the patrons are local business owners and shopkeepers who stop in after hours for a beer or cocktail before calling it a day. Just the kind of place a young Amish man might frequent when he doesn’t want to go home.
Back in the Explorer, I head toward town.
A Gathering of Secrets Page 21