Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  Something pings in the back of my brain. “I was under the impression that he had a standing appointment here at the clinic.”

  “Mattie was the one who usually brought in the kids. Every week like clockwork. For bloodwork, mostly. The children were on medication offered for free as part of a clinical trial. I like to keep a handle on the levels in the bloodstream. And the neutrophils, of course. We also discussed nutritional needs. Every month or so, I had a psychologist come down from Wooster and we did some problem solving and IQ testing.” He gives a nod. “Mattie was great with them. Attentive. Gentle with discipline. Good instincts. Patient.”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “Well enough to know those kids were her life. ‘Gifts from God’ is the way she referred to them. I can’t imagine what this did to her.”

  We fall silent, and for a moment the only sound comes from the chatter of sparrows from the canopy of the maple tree. “Did either of them mention any disagreements or problems? With other family members or neighbors? Friends or acquaintances?”

  “Neither of them ever mentioned any conflicts of any kind. They were the type of folks who seemed to get along with everyone.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about the family, Dr. Armitage? Any insights you can offer? Or general observations you can share?”

  He takes a moment to consider the question, then shakes his head. “Not that I recall. But they were very private people. Not the type to confide. Our relationship was of a doctor-patient nature. When they were here, it was all about the children.” Then he gives me a candid look. “I’m reading between the lines, Chief Burkholder, but it sounds as if there’s something going on here that I haven’t read about.”

  “I hate to leave you in the dark, Dr. Armitage, but since it’s an open investigation, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet.”

  “I understand.” He sits back in his chair and huffs out a sigh. “It’s such a senseless, unimaginable tragedy. Frankly, it pisses me off.”

  My smile feels wan on my face as I rise. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me, Dr. Armitage.”

  “I wish I could do more.” He gets to his feet and we shake hands again. “If you need anything else, Chief, please come see me.” His mouth twists into an ironic smile. “I’m usually here working until ten or eleven p.m.”

  I’m midway to the door when he calls out my name.

  I stop and turn to see him striding toward me, his expression troubled. “One more thing,” he says, and stops a few feet away. “This may or may not be relevant to the case, Chief Burkholder, but you asked, so I’m going to skate uncomfortably close to stepping over the physician-patient privilege line and tell you about an observation I made early in my relationship with the Borntragers.”

  I feel myself go still inside, silencing my thoughts and the clutter in my brain, the way you do when you know you’re about to hear something important and you don’t want to miss a single word or gesture or the manner in which it’s delivered.

  “Let me preface by saying that Paul and Mattie are good and loving parents. Of that, I’m certain.” He sighs, looks down at the floor as if he’s debating how to broach the subject at all. “The first time I examined David, I found a handprint on his behind. A red welt in the shape of a hand with some bruising beneath the skin. It was evident someone had spanked bare skin with a good bit of vigor. When I asked David about it, he said his datt smacked him for stealing a pie and then lying about eating it. As you know, David is overweight, which is typical of children suffering with Cohen syndrome. I must admit, I was a little taken aback. I know corporal punishment is an acceptable form of discipline in many households. But the fact that this spanking left a bruise gave me pause. I’m sure you know that, as a physician, I’m mandated by state law to report any indication of child abuse.”

  “I’m aware of the statute,” I say.

  “I debated whether to file an official report. In the end, however, I elected not to. After much personal deliberation, I drew the conclusion that the discipline was administered in a manner consistent with the Amish culture. In addition, I surmised the bruising was probably a result of the neutropenia, that’s a common attribute of Cohen syndrome.” He offers a grim smile. “You’re not going to tell me I did the wrong thing, are you? Because let me tell you, I lost sleep over it.”

  “My gut tells me your judgment didn’t steer you wrong.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  “I used to be Amish,” I say.

  He doesn’t quite manage to hide his surprise. “Wow. I didn’t know. That’s quite fascinating, actually.”

  “I don’t know if fascinating is exactly the right word.” I give him a smile. “But I received my fair share of ‘smackings’ as a kid. You’re correct in that in many Amish households, spanking is a common form of discipline. Some of the stricter parents have been known to use a belt or even the old-fashioned willow switch.”

  “If it had been welts or bruising from either of those things, I probably would have filed the report.”

  Knowing it’s time for me to move on, I extend my hand again and we shake. “I’ll let you get back to your patients.”

  “Good luck with the case, Chief Burkholder.”

  I start toward the door.

  *

  Back in the Explorer, I call Glock and recap my conversation with Armitage.

  “So what’s your take on the bruising?” he asks.

  “It’s troubling,” I tell him. “Whether you approve or disapprove of spanking as a form of punishment—and most Amish fall into the former category—this particular situation is unfortunate because he’s special needs.”

  “Did the doc say which parent did the spanking?”

  “Paul Borntrager.”

  “Do you think it’s relevant?” he asks. “I mean, to the case?”

  “No.”

  “It’s interesting that Mattie’s the one who had the standing appointment,” he says.

  “I think that’s the bigger issue.”

  “If this hit-and-run was planned, do you think she might have been a target? Or do you think this was random? What?”

  “I don’t know. None of it makes any sense.”

  Another stretch of silence, then he says, “You don’t think this has anything to do with those special-needs kids, do you?”

  The words creep over me like a stench and linger. “That paints a pretty ugly picture. I can’t fathom a motive.”

  “Me, either. Something to consider, though.”

  I pause, the possibilities running through my head. “I’d feel better if we could keep an eye on things out there until we get a handle on this.”

  “You mean around the clock?”

  “Ideally.”

  “Going to require some O.T.” He whistles. “Or a miracle.”

  “Never underestimate the power of groveling.”

  He guffaws. “There is that.”

  “If Rasmussen can spare a deputy, we might be able to cover it between our two departments.”

  “Rasmussen can’t spare the toilet paper to wipe his ass.”

  But the words have already passed between us. I know if my request is denied, we’ll find another way. I know I’ll be able to count on Glock.

  “I’m on my way to the funerals,” I tell him. “Will you let the rest of the team know about all of this?”

  “You bet.”

  *

  I’d wanted to arrive at the Borntrager farm to speak with Mattie well before the funerals. I’d wanted to accompany her to the graabhof—not as the chief of police, but as her friend—to bury her husband and children. Instead, I got caught behind a procession of buggies and ended up issuing a citation to an impatient tourist for passing on a double yellow line. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t happy about the ticket. I told him no one driving to the cemetery was particularly happy either, so he’s in good company. Have a nice day.

&nbs
p; By the time I arrive, dozens of black buggies, each numbered with white chalk so they know the order in which they belong in the convoy, are parked in the gravel lot. The smells of horses and leather and fresh-cut grass float on a light breeze. The lot is filled to capacity and many of the remaining buggy drivers have begun to park alongside the road. Using my emergency lights to alert traffic to the slow-moving and stopped vehicles, I park on the shoulder well out of the way, grab a few flares and toss them onto the road to make sure passing drivers slow down.

  The graveyard exists as the Amish have existed for over two centuries: plainly. Hundreds of small, uniform headstones form razor-straight rows in a field that had once flourished with soybeans and corn. Unlike English cemeteries where the headstones vary from massive works of sculpted granite to tiny crosses, the Amish graabhof is an ocean of white markers etched with a simple cross, the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death.

  The cemetery is a somber yet peaceful place and pretty in its own way. My mamm and datt are buried fifty yards from where I stand. The reality of that sends a wash of guilt over me. I haven’t been here since I worked the Plank case last fall and attended the funerals of five members of an Amish family slain in their farmhouse. I tell myself I’m too busy to spend my time mingling with the dead. The truth of the matter is that, despite its bucolic beauty, this is the one place in Painters Mill that scares me.

  I pass through the gate and start toward the gravesite. Dozens of families, young couples, the elderly, scads of children, and mothers with babies stand in the cool afternoon air. As is usually the case, the Amish community has come out in force to mourn the Borntrager family and support Mattie and young David. Grief hovers in the air like a pall.

  Because I’m no longer Amish—and not necessarily welcome here—I hang back from the mourners, an outsider even in death. Once everyone is in place, the crowd falls silent. Bishop Troyer reads a hymn in Pennsylvania Dutch as the pallbearers lower each of the three plain pine coffins into hand-dug graves. When he finishes, heads are bowed, and I know the mourners are silently reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Instead of fighting the words that come with such ease, I lower my head and join them, something I haven’t done in a very long time.

  When the ceremony is over and the Amish start toward their buggies to return to their farms, I thread my way through the crowd toward the gravesites. I nod my respect to everyone who makes eye contact with me. Some nod back. A few offer grim smiles. Some of the older Amish, the ones who know I left the fold, give me a wide berth.

  It takes me a few minutes to find Mattie. She’s standing next to Bishop Troyer, David, and her parents while several young men shovel dirt into the graves. Her face is red and wet from crying. But she doesn’t make a sound. Her datt, Andy Erb, looks nearly as shaken as his daughter and grips her hand so tightly his knuckles are white. Her mamm, stoic-faced and tense, holds David’s hand just as tightly.

  This isn’t the time or place to speak with Mattie about the information I learned from Armitage earlier; I can tell from her expression she’s barely holding it together. But I can’t delay much longer, because if someone tried to kill her and failed, the possibility exists they’ll try again.

  CHAPTER 15

  Anyone who’s ever worked in law enforcement—or watched crime TV—knows the first forty-eight hours after a crime is committed are the most important in terms of solving it. Most cops work around the clock those first vital days, when the clock is ticking and their chances of achieving a solve diminish with every minute that passes. My tactic on this case is no different. I’ve been chasing the clock all day, and despite my best efforts, there’s no way I’m going to make dinner with Tomasetti. A law enforcement veteran himself, he’ll understand. That doesn’t mean he won’t be disappointed. It won’t alleviate my own disappointment. It will, however, give me a little more time to decide how to respond if he pushes the issue of my moving in with him.

  I call him on my way to the Borntrager farm and break the news.

  He takes it like a man. “I guess I’m going to have to drink this bottle of wine all by myself.”

  I chuckle. “Don’t get too close to the pond. I’d hate to find the empty bottle on the bank and you floating facedown in all that moss.”

  “Anyone ever accuse you of having a dark sense of humor?”

  “You’re the only one who appreciates it.”

  He pauses. “Any luck on the case?”

  I tell him about my meeting with Armitage and we cover the same ground Glock and I covered earlier. “Will you do me a favor?” I ask.

  “You know I will.”

  “Will you pull arrest records for hate crimes in the two-county area?”

  “I’m all over it.” In the background I hear a dull popping sound.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Breaking the seal. Going to let this breathe for a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make it.”

  “Me, too.”

  I turn onto the dead-end road that will take me to the Borntrager farm. I can just make out the silhouettes of two buggies moving down the lane toward the house.

  “If you can get away tomorrow,” Tomasetti begins, “I’ve got a nice cabernet from California in the pantry.”

  “I’ll be there,” I tell him. “Come hell or high water.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  I’m smiling when I disconnect.

  *

  The Borntrager farm seems hushed as I park off the sidewalk at the rear of the house. The two buggies sit adjacent the barn. The barn door is open and I presume her neighbors have arrived to take care of the chores. Bishop Troyer is gone, probably home to rest and take care of his own affairs. Another family or neighbor will be looking after Mattie and David tonight.

  I take the sidewalk to the back door and knock. A young woman wearing a gray dress with a white apron and prayer kapp answers. Her eyes widen when she spots my uniform. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Kate Burkholder.” I show her my badge. “I’m here to see Mattie.”

  Her mouth tightens with disapproval, and I wonder if people still talk about my abandoning my roots, or maybe someone has recently mentioned me in an unflattering light. “Mattie was very distraught after the funerals and is lying down upstairs.”

  She’s trying to find a way to deny my request without being openly rude. “I wouldn’t ask to see her at a time like this if it wasn’t important.”

  “Maybe you could come back later?”

  I look beyond her to see a stout older woman with a dish towel draped over her shoulder marching toward us, her practical shoes like jackhammers against the floor. Recognition flickers and I realize I knew her back when I was a preteen; she was an assistant teacher at the school I attended. Mattie used to call her Leih, the Pennsylvania Dutch word for cow, mainly because even though she was only a few years older than us, she was already a large woman and enjoyed bullying anyone smaller or younger or weaker.

  “Mattie is sleeping and asked not to be disturbed,” she informs me in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Hello, Miriam,” I begin. “Nice to see you.”

  She doesn’t smile. “Come back in the morning like a decent person.”

  I push open the door. Both women move back to avoid me when I step inside. The younger woman’s eyes widen as I brush past her. Miriam isn’t deterred and blocks my path. “You just hold your horses right there, Katie Burkholder.”

  “This is official police business,” I tell her. “I’m not leaving until I speak with Mattie.”

  “In that case I’ll bring you a pillow and you can sleep on the porch.”

  In the back of my mind, I know this is funny. Especially because she’s serious and I’m getting pissed. Under different circumstances I might have laughed, or at least enjoyed the comedy of it. But my sense of humor has shriveled to the size of a pea in the last couple of days and I’m tired of people making my job difficult.
“Get out of my way or I will arrest you. Do you understand?”

  “Where’s your sense of decency?” Miriam asks crossly. “Can’t you see the poor girl’s mourning?”

  “Katie?”

  I glance through the kitchen to see Mattie standing in the doorway, looking as pale as a ghost, as inanimate as a mannequin. She appears physically ill, depressed, and utterly lifeless.

  Miriam casts me an I-told-you-so look. Her eyes don’t soften when they fall on Mattie and I wonder if she remembers the name calling from when we were teenagers. “Back upstairs with you,” she says none-too-gently. “Go on now. You need your rest.”

  “It’s okay, Miriam.” A tremulous smile touches Mattie’s lips. “Katie and I are friends.”

  The woman shoots me a disapproving look, her eyes lingering on my uniform. “Sie hot net der glaawe.” She doesn’t keep the faith. Catching the eye of the younger woman, she motions toward the kitchen and then they leave us.

  For several seconds, Mattie and I contemplate each other. She looks too raw to partake in a long question-and-answer session, especially when none of it’s going to be pleasant. I don’t have the luxury of sparing her.

  “Leih,” I whisper. Cow.

  Mattie chokes out a laugh, but tears fill her eyes. “She’s only trying to help.”

  I nod, my temper fading. “I’m sorry to bother you so late and so soon after the funerals.”

  “It’s okay. I know you’re only doing your job.” She tilts her head. “Has something happened?”

  “I talked to Dr. Armitage at the Hope Clinic today. He told me you’re the one who usually takes the children to their appointments.”

  She seems confused by the statement, as if she doesn’t comprehend its significance. “Ja. That’s true.”

  “Is there a reason why you didn’t mention it?”

  “I guess I didn’t think of it. I didn’t know it was important.”

  “Mattie, the crash that killed Paul and your children wasn’t an accident. Someone did it on purpose. We thought Paul might have been targeted. That’s why we were looking at people who might’ve had a falling-out with him.”