Rummel grimaced, put on the face of a man owning up to a painful mistake. “Try to put yourself in my position, John. You went through a terrible ordeal. Nobody’s blaming you, and you’re not being punished for that. We’ve got a vested interest in your well-being. We want you well and back at work. But you’ve got to do this.”
“I’m glad everyone has my best interest at heart,” Tomasetti said, but the cynicism in his voice was unmistakable.
Rummel shot a pointed look at the personnel file in front of Bogart.
The human resources director opened the file and removed a sheet of paper and a form and slid both across the table to Tomasetti. “We’ll need for you to sign the form. For the file, of course. The other sheet contains a list of doctors. You choose which doctor and call them at your convenience.”
When Tomasetti made no move to pick up the papers, she added: “All of this will be kept in the strictest of confidence, John. You know that.”
What he knew was that they had him backed into a corner. His reputation and career were on the line. As badly as he wanted to tell them to go to hell, he knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to salvage what was left of his life.
He reached for the papers. The single sheet contained the names and contact information of six accredited psychiatrists located in the greater Columbus area printed neatly on BCI letterhead. The form was a human resource application for leave filled with legalese, already signed and approved by Jason Rummel.
“It’s a good deal,” Denny said.
Tomasetti picked up the pen.
Bogart leaned forward, put a red nail on the line at the bottom. “Sign right there,” she said. “Press hard. It’s in quadruplicate.”
John Tomasetti signed his name on the dotted line.
CHAPTER 7
The October sun has burned through the clouds by the time Glock and I leave the Zook place. As I speed down the lane, I glance toward the Plank farm a mile to the north. The barn roof and the top of the grain silo are visible, but the hedge apple trees growing along the fence line block my view of the yard, house and outbuildings.
“Witness would have been nice,” Glock says.
“Murder’s never that easy.”
He looks around. “We going back to the Plank place?”
“I thought we’d swing by David Troyer’s farm first.”
“Neighbor?”
“Bishop.”
Glock arches a brow.
“Amish version of a priest.”
“Gotcha.” He pauses. “You think he might know something?”
“The Amish talk to their bishops. They confess. If there was something going on with the Planks—some kind of problem or crisis—there’s a good chance he knows about it.”
“Let’s hope he’s a good bishop.”
“He is.” I know this because he was my family’s bishop. He was instrumental in placing me under the bann when I refused to confess my sins, but I never held it against him.
We find Troyer in the cornfield in front of his house, astride an antique corn thresher, driving his team of gray Percheron geldings. The thresher is an awkward-looking contraption that cuts and bundles cornstalks. A few yards behind the binder, the bishop’s three grown sons stack the bundles into neat rows. Farther back, dozens of bundles of dry yellow cornstalks litter the field, and I know they’ve been at it since the wee hours of morning.
“They’re trying to beat the rain,” I say.
Glock looks up at the cloudless sky. “How do you know it’s going to rain?”
“Checked the weather online this morning.”
“For a second I thought you were going to reveal some ancient Amish secret for weather predicting.”
We both grin. It’s the first semblance of humor I’ve felt all morning, and it’s a welcome diversion.
I park on the shoulder and we traverse the bar ditch. Standing at the fence, we watch the men work. Autumn harvest is a busy time for an Amish farmer. The days are long and the work is backbreaking. Though female chores most often take place inside the house—canning, cleaning, sewing and baking—I always managed to end up outside with my datt. I never told anyone, but I secretly enjoyed the sweat and dirt and physical labor. It was one of many ways I didn’t fit in.
Spotting us, Bishop Troyer waves, letting us know he’ll hand the reins over to one of his sons and stop to speak to us next time around.
“Is he bound by any kind of confidentiality?” Glock asks after a moment. “I mean like a priest and the confessional?”
I shake my head. “If he knows something, he’ll talk.”
It takes fifteen minutes for the team of horses to round the field. The second time around, Troyer hands the reins to his son and starts toward us.
Bishop Troyer is one of those people who always looks the same no matter how many years pass. He has a full head of thick gray hair, blunt cut above heavy brows and a full salt-and-pepper beard. He has the rounded belly of a well-fed man. As a kid, I remember asking my datt why his legs were so bowed. Datt replied that Bishop Troyer spent many hours as a young man training and riding horses. In hindsight, I think my datt was just trying to keep me off our old plow horse.
“Weigeth’s alleweil?” How goes it today? Removing his flat-brimmed hat, the bishop wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Ich bin Zimmlich gut,” I respond.
He looks up at the sky. “ We are trying to beat the storms.”
“Looks like a good harvest.”
“Best we’ve had in six years.” His gaze slides to Glock and then back to me. His expression sobers. “Reuben Zimmerman came by an hour ago. He told me about the Plank family.”
Word of a death spreads quickly in the Amish community. Word of murder travels even faster. Not for the sake of gossip, but because other families will drop everything and descend upon the injured or bereaved to help. In the case of the Planks, there’s no one left to help. I tell the bishop what happened, leaving out as many of the details as I can.
He places his hand over his chest. I see the veins standing out on his temple. Sweat forming on his brow. For a moment I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.
“Are you all right, Bishop Troyer?”
“It is the will of God.” He shakes his head, blinking away sweat. “Der Keenich muss mer erhehe.” One must exalt the King.
We spend the next ten minutes rehashing the same things Glock and I went over with the Zook family. The conversation shifts into new territory when I ask him if any of the Planks had come to him with a problem.
A shadow I can’t quite read passes over his expression. “Ja.” Wiping his face with the kerchief, he meets my gaze. “Bonnie approached me after worship with concerns about Mary.”
“The younger of the two girls?”
The bishop nods, his brows knitting. “Bonnie did not want to speak to me with her husband present.”
An uneasy ping sounds in my brain. The Amish are generally a patriarch-cal society. Secrets between a husband and wife are rare. What was Bonnie keeping from her husband? And what did that have to do with Mary?
“Do you know what she wanted to speak to you about?” I ask.
The bishop shakes his head. “We never got the chance to speak privately. I tried several times but Amos was always present.” He shrugs. “I took the buggy to the house last week, but she said it was not a good time. I even met her at the shop in town where Mary worked part-time.”
I didn’t know Mary had an outside job. “Which shop?”
“The Carriage Stop.”
One of Councilwoman Janine Fourman’s shops. I make a mental note to swing by and speak to the manager. “Do you know why Bonnie wouldn’t speak to you in front of her husband?”
“I do not know. Perhaps Amos is—was—a private man.”
Or he was into something he didn’t want anyone to know about. It’s a powerful, uncomfortable thought. I know being suspicious of Amos is cynical, especially since he is among the dead. Bu
t as a cop, I know sometimes victims play an unintended role in their own deaths. I’ve seen more than one innocent person get in over his head. And I’ve seen them pay the consequences, too.
“So you have no idea why Bonnie wanted to speak to you about Mary?”
“No.”
Beside me, Glock leans closer. “Did Bonnie or any of the Plank family seem upset lately?”
He considers the words and then nods. “Bonnie seemed upset sometimes, but she was a nervous woman.”
“Did she ever seem afraid?”
He shakes his head. “I had planned to pay them another visit, but with the harvest . . .” He looks down at his boots.
The bishop and I have had our moments of disagreement over the years. He can be a hard, judgmental man. But he can also be kind and fair and generous. At this moment, looking into his eyes, I know he blames himself for not forcing the issue with Bonnie.
“What can you tell us about Mary?” I ask.
“I did not know the family well, Katie. They were new to the area. They kept to themselves more than most. Mary seemed like a kind, happy girl. Generous. Smart in school. She helped care for her younger siblings.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.
“I do not know.”
“Do they have family in Lancaster?” Glock asks.
“I do not know.” His face darkens, and I realize he feels guilty for his lack of knowledge. “Will you let me know if they left behind family in Lancaster County, Katie? Perhaps I can be of some comfort to them.”
I touch his shoulder. “Of course.”
As I drive away, I feel as if I know even less than when I started. Who were the Planks? Why did they leave Lancaster County? Why was Bonnie worried about her daughter?
The questions taunt me, but I have no answers. The one thing of which I’m fairly certain is that the Plank family left behind secrets. Where there is a secret, there will be a revelation.
I drop Glock at the Plank farm with instructions to assist the crime scene unit from BCI. The CSU will process the scene, dust for latent prints, collect blood evidence and footwear imprints, bag any hair and fibers and whatever else they can find. I know it’s petty in light of the loss of life, but I find myself watching for John Tomasetti’s Tahoe. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t show. In my current frame of mind, I’m probably better off not analyzing my feelings too closely.
On my way to the police station, I call Lois, my first shift dispatcher, and ask her to let all of my officers know there will be a briefing at the station in an hour so I can bring them up to speed on the case.
As I drive through downtown Painters Mill, life goes on as usual. I pass by the Carriage Stop Country Store where Mary Plank worked part time. I’m tempted to pull in, but I know the store isn’t open for another twenty minutes, so I keep going. On the steps of the City Building, Mayor Auggie Brock and Councilman Norm Johnston are in the midst of some gesticulation-inducing exchange. Auggie spots me and waves; Norm pretends not to see me, which makes me sigh. His daughter was the victim of a serial killer last January. He didn’t agree with the way I was investigating the case, and to this day he blames me for her death. One more demon riding my back, spurring and whipping, keeping all the others company.
Down the street, Tom Skanks, owner of the Butterhorn Bakery, squeegees the front display window with the verve of a New York City high-rise window washer. The elderly Farmer brothers sit in steel chairs on the sidewalk in front of the hardware store and argue over their morning chess game.
I should be comforted by the constancy of our existence. The routine of small town life. The prettiness of the town. The friendliness of the people I’ve sworn to protect and serve. Instead, I feel strangely indignant that life continues on with so little interruption when just down the road a family of seven has been wiped off the face of the earth.
The predator inside me has been roused. I look upon every man, woman and child with hard-edged suspicion. Maybe because I know the possibility exists that hidden somewhere behind all this normalcy, a monster roams.
The police station is housed in a century-old red brick building that had once been a dancehall. It’s sweltering in the summer and cold as a meat locker in winter. But it’s my second home; the people who work for me are my family. At this moment, I’m unduly thankful for them.
I enter to find both my day- and night-shift dispatchers at the window that faces the street. Lois Monroe is about fifty years old with pretty blue eyes and a disposition as prickly as her overprocessed hair. She might look like someone’s mom, but I’ve seen her put more than one cocky young cop in his place. Mona Kurtz, on the other hand, is twenty-four going on sixteen with a head full of wild red ringlets and a personality that matches her hair to a T. Working on an associate’s degree in criminology, she’s totally enamored with all facets of law enforcement—and doesn’t mind working third shift. Neither woman is perfect, but they keep the police station up and running.
Mona is kneeling at the window, braced, with her hands on the sill, straining to open it. Lois is using the heel of her practical shoe to tap on the seal, trying to break it loose.
“I’m afraid to ask what you’re doing,” I say as I pass the dispatch station.
Both women turn at the sound of my voice.
“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona grins. “We’re trying to get the window open.”
“It’s hot in here,” Lois adds.
“She’s having another hot flash.”
Lois wipes her forehead. “If I don’t get cooled off I’m going to have to call the fire department.”
I steer clear of the hot flash comment. “You look like a couple of inmates trying to break out of jail.” Reaching over the top of the desk, I grab messages from my slot. “Mona, did you hear back from Lancaster County?”
She crosses to me, and I try not to notice the black tights, red miniskirt and little black boots. “The sheriff’s office checked the names over the phone and sent a couple of deputies to some of the Amish farms. I haven’t heard back.”
“Call them again. The Planks have got to have relatives somewhere.” Notifying NOK is one of the most difficult aspects of my job. There’s nothing I’d hate more than for someone to find out about a family member’s death from the six o’clock news.
“Any media inquiries?” I ask.
“Steve Ressler,” Mona replies. “Channel eighty-two in Columbus. Radio station in Wooster. The usual suspects.”
Lois sighs. “I swear the gossips in this town are the best informed people in the world. Everyone’s got everyone else on speed dial.”
“Text messaging.” Sliding behind her desk, Mona pulls the headset over her head. “It’s faster.”
“Our official response is ‘no comment,’ ” I tell them.
Mona puts her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. “What’s your unofficial response?”
“We don’t know shit.”
She gives me a smile.
“I’ll have a press release ready this afternoon.” I turn my attention to Lois. “Glock’ll get that window for you.”
“If he can’t get it open, I guess he can always shoot it.” She gives the window a final whack, then gives me a sage look. “You guys have any idea who killed that poor family?”
“The devil himself, more than likely,” I say and head toward my office.
An hour later, I’m sitting behind my desk thinking about murder. Ten months ago, I faced my first truly unfathomable case. The Slaughterhouse Killer investigation tested me to my limits, both professionally and personally. But while the case was a tough one, the fact that we were dealing with a serial murderer made him predictable to a degree. I knew his motive. His modus operandi. I knew he couldn’t stop. And I knew that eventually his dark compulsion would lead him to make a mistake. The case nearly cost me my life, but in the end, I got him.
This case promises to be different. I don’t have any parameters to guide me. No motive. No
suspect. All I have to work with is a slaughtered family, a crime scene that has been stingy with evidence, and a jumble of unanswered questions.
“You look like you could use this.”
I start at the sound of Glock’s voice and look up to see him standing just inside my office, holding a brown paper bag from the diner. “If you’re angling for a raise, you’re on the right track,” I say.
“Being married has taught me two things, Chief.”
I smile. “Just two?”
He smiles back. “Understanding a woman begins with knowing what she wants even before she asks.”
“Not bad.” I take the bag from him. “What’s the second thing?”
“When in doubt, bring food.”
“You’re a wise man, Glock.”
“My wife thinks so.” He takes one of two visitor chairs. “Some of the time, anyway.”
I smell chili as I unpack the Styrofoam bowl, paper napkin and plastic spoon. The rest of my team shuffles in. Skid looks like he hasn’t slept for two days. I know third shift has been hard on him. It was the only way I could think of to discipline him for mishandling a drunk-and-disorderly case a couple of months back. Pickles smells like cigarette smoke and looks as content as a sixth grader at recess as he drags in a chair. T.J. brings up the rear. He’s my youngest officer and the only one of us who’s had any decent sleep.
I address him first. “You up to speed on this?”
“Skid filled me in.” He whistles. “Unbelievable.”
I speak to all of them now. “On the chance the killer is an outsider, someone passing through town, I contacted the State Highway Patrol.”
“You think that’s the case?” Glock asks. “Or do you think he’s local?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh, frustrated by the lack of leads. “We have to assume he’s local for now.”
Four heads bob nearly in unison.
I turn my attention to Glock. “CSU find anything?”
Glock scoots his chair closer. “Tomasetti sent two technicians. They were still working the scene when I left. Found a slew of latents. Some could be from the family. Blood evidence was done. Got a partial off the bloody print on the door.” He looks down at his notes. “They found two slugs so far, including the one in the basement that went through the floor. Looks like the fucker who did it picked up his brass.”
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