A glance at the clock above the stove tells me it’s nearly eight P.M. Alaska is in the Alaskan Time Zone, which is four hours earlier. I google the Fairbanks PD for a phone number and dial. After being transferred twice, I’m told Detective George “Gus” Ogusawara retired seven years ago. I ask if he knows where Gus is living. He refuses to give me a number, but tells me to try Portland or Seattle.
I go back to the Internet. Lucky for me, Ogusawara isn’t a common name. I start dialing and get the right man on my second try. “Is this George Ogusawara?” I begin.
“Who want to know?” A tenor voice with a strong Asian accent.
Quickly, I identify myself as chief of police. “Were you an investigator in Fairbanks?”
“I was a detective in Fairbanks, ma’am. I retire as Detective Lieutenant seven years ago. Now that you know you have the right fellow, what you want to know?”
“I’m investigating a series of murders similar to the ones that happened in Fairbanks back in the early 1980s.”
“Bad medicine, those murders. Give everyone nightmares, including me. What you want to know?”
“I understand the killer carved something on each victim’s abdomen.”
“Before he torture and kill them, yes. Guy a sick motherfucker, let me tell you.”
“The report I’m looking at doesn’t say what he carved. I was wondering if you recall what it was.”
“Even a hard-assed cop like me don’t forget something like that. He carve numbers. You know. Roman numerals. One. Two. Three. Like that.”
“Was the killer caught?”
“He the only reason I don’t retire until I’m too old to enjoy myself.” He pauses. “You think you got him down there?”
I don’t want to tell him too much. Already, I’ve crossed a line by telling him I’m chief of police. “I’m not sure. Is there anything else you can tell me about these murders?”
“They the worse thing I ever see. Real bad guy, this killer.”
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
He starts to say something, but I hang up. My mind races with the information I’ve just been given. Three similar murders in Alaska, over three thousand miles away. Is there a connection? Could it be the same killer? If so, what took the killer from Ohio to Alaska and then back to Ohio?
I go back to the search engine and pull up everything I can find on the Tanana River Killer. I’m reading a small article from the Tanana Leader when a name stops me cold.
Nate Detrick, a guide for Yukon Hunting Tours, discovered the
body and contacted police . . .
I almost can’t believe my eyes. What are the odds of similar murders that happened thousands of miles apart touching the same man’s life twice? In some small corner of my mind, a memory pings my brain. A statement Glock made earlier.
Detrick used to be some big-shot hunting guide in Alaska.
That’s when I remember this isn’t the only place the sheriff’s name has come up in the course of my research. Curious, I go to the Holmes County Auditor’s Web site. An honest-to-God chill sweeps through me when I see that in September 1994, Nathan Detrick and his wife, Grace, sold their 2,500 square foot home in Millersburg.
I don’t dare acknowledge the connection my mind has just made. This has to be a coincidence. Nathan Detrick is a cop. To suspect him would go beyond ridiculous. He’s above reproach. Above suspicion.
Or is he?
Detrick is one of a handful of people who moved away from Painters Mill during the sixteen-year period. I now know he lived in Alaska where three similar murders occurred. I’ve been a cop long enough to realize this warrants follow-up.
I look down at my hands to find them shaking. I know I’m wrong about this. Coincidences do occur, and I’m an idiot for looking at Detrick. But the sheriff fits the profile far better than Jonas. My cop’s gut tells me to keep digging.
Remembering the list of snowmobile registrations I asked Pickles for yesterday, I quickly rifle through the papers on the table until I find it. It’s a typed list of names of people who own blue or silver snowmobiles registered in Coshocton and Holmes Counties. Midway down, Detrick’s name appears. He owns a blue Yamaha.
“No way,” I whisper. “No way.”
I go back to the computer and start looking at Detrick in earnest. Half an hour into my search, I discover a newspaper story in the Dayton Daily News from June 1986 about a bright young police officer who recently relocated from Fairbanks, Alaska, to join the Dayton Police Department. Donning full dress uniform, flanked by his wife, a handsome young Detrick smiles for the camera. The story is dated two months after the last murder in Alaska.
I begin looking for similar murders in and around Dayton during the time Detrick was there. I hit a dozen Web sites, one leading to the other—newspaper, television and radio Web sites, a few nonrestricted law enforcement sites, even a Crime Stoppers—but I find nothing. Only when I expand my search to the surrounding states do I hit pay dirt. A story in the archive section of The Kentucky Post from March 1989 snags my eye.
BODY FOUND ON RIVERBANK IDENTIFIED
The nude body of a woman found last week by a jogger on the bank of the Ohio River has been identified as twenty-year-old Jessie Watkins. According to Kenton County Coroner Jim Magnus, the woman’s throat was cut. Covington Police and the Kenton County Sheriff’s Office are “aggressively seeking the perpetrator,” said an unnamed law enforcement source on Monday. Watkins, a known prostitute, was last seen leaving a bar in Cincinnati. Investigators have no suspects at this time.
I pull up a map Web site and plug in the cities of Dayton, Ohio, and Covington, Kentucky. Covington is about an hour’s drive from Dayton. Doable in one evening with time to spare.
Next, I do a random search for similar crimes in Michigan, but I strike out. Undeterred, I try Indiana. For an hour, I go from site to site to site. Just when I’m about to give up, I find a buried story on the murder of a young migrant worker, whose body was found in a cornfield between Indianapolis and Richmond.
MIGRANT WORKER FOUND MURDERED
Police have few clues in the murder of thirty-one-year-old Lucinda Ramos, whose body was found in a cornfield not far from Interstate 70 near New Castle on Monday. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,” said Dick Welbaum, the farmer who nearly ran over the body with his tractor. An anonymous source with the Henry County Coroner’s office said there were “ritualistic carvings” on the victim’s body. When asked about the possibility of a cult, Mick Barber with the Henry County Sheriff’s Office offered no comment. He did say that the sheriff’s office is working in conjunction with the New Castle PD as well as the State Police to find the person or persons responsible.
The term ritualistic carving sticks in my mind. A check of the map site tells me New Castle, Indiana, is an hour and twenty minutes from Dayton. I pull up the Indiana State Police Web site and dial the main number. Within minutes I’m on the phone with Ronald Duff in the Criminal Investigation Division.
I identify myself as the chief of police and cut right to the chase. “I’m wondering about a murder you investigated back in 1988. Vic’s name was Lucinda Ramos.”
“I’ve killed a lot of brain cells since then. Let me pull the file.”
He could have refused to talk to me because I’m using my home phone. Sometimes if a cop isn’t certain of who he’s talking to, he’ll call them back at the police department. I’m guessing it was the fact that I’m looking at a cold case that prompts him to speak to me without verifying my credentials.
He comes back on the line a few minutes later. “You think you got a lead on this case?” he asks.
“We’ve had three murders here in Painters Mill. I’m looking at cold cases in surrounding states for a signature match.”
“Anything I can do to help. What do you need specifically?”
“The report I’m looking at mentions a ritualistic carving on the victim. I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about the
carving.”
Papers rattle on the other end. “I’ve got the coroner’s report here. Says, and I quote ‘carving in the skin is superficial and is located eight centimeters above the navel.’ ”
“What is the carving of?”
More papers rattle. “I don’t see any notes, but I got a crime scene photo here. Let me get my glasses.” He pauses. “It kinda looks like a capital I and a V.”
“Like a Roman numeral?”
“Could be.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Was there any reason this data wasn’t entered into VICAP?”
“We didn’t start using VICAP here until 2001. Nothing in the archive has been entered yet. Lack of manpower and budget. You know how that goes.”
“Can you scan and e-mail that photo to me?”
“Sure thing. What’s your e-mail address there?”
I rattle off my e-mail address and hang up. My first impulse is to call John, but I hesitate. All I have are some vaguely suspicious circumstances. My looking at Detrick as a suspect could be perceived as an embittered and disgruntled former chief lashing out at the person who took her case. I need more before I involve anyone else. I’m not even convinced I’m right about Detrick. If I move prematurely, the whole thing could blow up in my face like a stick of dynamite.
Back at my laptop, I pull up a spreadsheet and start a timeline, filling in the blanks with information gleaned by phone or the Internet. Detrick was a wilderness guide for Yukon Hunting Tours from February 1980 to December 1985. All three Fairbanks murders occurred during that period. In early 1986 he moved to Dayton, Ohio, where he began his law enforcement career with the police department, working as a patrol officer until 1990. The murders in Kentucky and Indiana happened while he lived in Dayton. If I’m correct, Lucinda Ramos was victim four. Jessie Watkins was victim number five. In 1990, he landed a job with the Holmes County Sheriff’s office as a deputy and moved to Millersburg, which is when the Slaughterhouse Murders began. He killed four women during that time, victims six through nine. He sold his house in 1994 and moved to Columbus where he made detective and stayed until 2005. No similar murders that I know of occurred during that time frame, but then I haven’t researched it thoroughly. He returned to Painters Mill in 2006, ran for sheriff and won by a landslide. The most recent murders began with victim number twenty-two. I’m missing ten victims during the time he lived and worked in Columbus. Other than that discrepancy, the timeline fits like O.J.’s glove.
I jump when the phone rings. “Hello?”
“Chief.” Mona whispers my name with urgency. “You better get down here.”
It’s nearly midnight. Judging from her tone, I know the news isn’t good. “What happened?”
“Jonas Hershberger just tried to hang himself.”
CHAPTER 32
The worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched.
Or so says the Bible with regard to hell.
Had I not had those conservative moral values branded into my brain at a young age, I might have believed Jonas Hershberger tried to commit suicide. But I don’t. The Amish believe in living their lives the way Jesus lived His life. Forgiveness and humility are part of that undertaking. Suicide happens, but it is rare. And it is the one sin for which no forgiveness is granted.
My wipers wage a losing war with the snow as I park next to Mona’s Escort. I spot Pickles’s old Chrysler along with a city car. Glock’s vehicle is glaringly absent. I hit the ground running and enter the reception area with a swirl of snow. Mona stands near the switchboard with her headset on. “What happened?” I ask.
“Jonas tried to hang himself. Detrick and Pickles are in the basement with him now.”
“He okay?”
“I think so. He’s conscious.”
“Call an ambulance.” I rush to the rear hall, and take the steps two at a time to the basement. The jail is outdated and small with two six-by-six cells and a tiny jailer area. I emerge from the staircase to see both Detrick and Pickles standing over Jonas, who is sitting on the bench.
“What happened?” I ask.
Both men swing around to look at me, obviously surprised by my presence. “You are not authorized to be here, Burkholder.” Detrick’s face is red. His bald head gleams with a sheen of sweat.
I step closer for a better look at Jonas. His hands are cuffed behind his back. Shoestrings from his boots are tangled around his neck. I see bright red abrasions just below his jaw line.
“Idiot tried to hang hisself,” Pickles says between pants. “Sheriff got here just in time to stop it.”
Considering what I’ve discovered recently about Detrick, I have a terrible feeling that’s not the way things really went down.
The sheriff starts toward me. “What are you doing here?”
A ripple of uneasiness goes through me. I have a sinking suspicion he’s going to throw me out. I look at Jonas. “What happened?” I ask quickly in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Jonas looks at me, his expression shaken and afraid. “I was sleeping and the English policeman attacked me.” He motions toward Detrick. “He choked me with the shoestrings from my boots.”
Detrick reaches me, moving in close enough to invade my space. “I asked you a question.”
I meet his gaze. “I thought I might be able to help with the language barrier.”
“If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
All I can think is that Jonas is in danger. “He needs to go to the hospital. Get checked out.”
“Looks fine to me.” Detrick’s eyes narrow. I see cunning and wariness in their depths. He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t know why. “You need to leave, Kate. Now.”
Leaning close, he makes a show of sniffing me. “Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“You’re lying. I smell it on your breath.” He gives Pickles an incredulous look, but he addresses me. “She’s drunk. What the hell are you thinking, drinking and driving on a night like this? Coming over here when we already have enough to deal with?”
“I haven’t been drinking.” I have, but I’m not going to admit it. Detrick is trying to discredit me in front of Pickles.
“Burkholder, you need to go home,” he says. “Right now.”
“Make sure Jonas gets to the hospital,” I say to Pickles.
Detrick grabs my arm. “I’ll escort you out myself.”
Pickles comes out of the cell. “Get your hands off her.”
Detrick jabs a finger at him. “Shut the fuck up, old man.”
Pickles holds his ground, but looks at me. “Maybe you ought to just go, Chief.”
“Don’t let anything happen to—” The next thing I know, Detrick’s hand clamps around the back of my neck. He shoves me hard against the bars. “Give me your hands.”
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“You had your chance. Now give me your goddamn hands!”
Every instinct in my body screams for me to resist. Knowing that will only escalate the situation, I offer my wrists. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You’re drunk and disorderly.” He tugs handcuffs from the compartment on his belt. He’s breathing hard. His palms are slick with sweat as he pulls my hands behind my back and snaps the cuffs onto my wrists, cranking them down hard enough to hurt.
Pickles crosses to us. “Sheriff, that’s not necessary.”
Ignoring him, Detrick glares at me as if he wants to take me apart with his bare hands. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you just bought yourself a lot of trouble.”
“I was trying to help. That’s all.”
“Bullshit. You got juiced up and came here to start problems.”
My heart is beating so hard I can barely catch my breath. I try not to think of the murders this man may have committed. I’m handcuffed and defenseless. If he decided to pull out his sidearm and kill all of us, there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do to stop him.
“I thought Jonas might respond to someone who
speaks Pennsylvania Dutch,” I say. “That’s all.”
“In the middle of a blizzard? After midnight? You’re half drunk and you decide to mosey down here to help? Burkholder, I wasn’t born yesterday!”
“Mona called her,” Pickles puts in, obviously trying to defuse the situation. “That’s why she came. Come on. She’s a cop. Cut her some slack.”
Detrick jams his finger at Jonas, but addresses Pickles. “Do you realize her talking to this suspect could cost us this case! She’s not a cop! Some lawyer gets ahold of this, and that piece of shit in there could get off. Is that what you want?”
For the first time, Pickles looks uncertain.
“Let me go or I swear you’ll find yourself in court.” I try to make my voice strong, but it’s breathless and high.
“You are in no position to threaten me.” Grabbing my arm, he shoves me toward the staircase.
When we enter the reception area, Mona gasps and stands, gaping at me as if I’m on my way to the gallows. “What happened?”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“But why did he—”
“She’s drunk.” Detrick forces me to the desk, then spins me roughly around so he can unlock the cuffs.
I look at Mona. “I’m not drunk.”
Detrick sighs. “I’m going to do you a big favor, Burkholder, and cut you loose. But if you show up again drunk or sober or in a fuckin’ spaceship, you’re going to jail. You got it?”
The cuffs snap open. “I understand.”
“Chief, what’s going on?” Mona asks.
“I’ll explain later,” I say, rubbing my wrists.
Detrick points at the door, as if I’m a stray dog that’s wandered in off the street. “Get out before I change my mind and throw you in the drunk tank the rest of the night.”
“Keep an eye on Jonas,” I say to Mona.
“I called an ambulance,” she says.
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