After the Storm (22 page)

“So it’s not unreasonable to believe someone has something to hide,” Rasmussen says.

Tomasetti looks at me. “As usual, Kate’s been poking the bees’ nest with a short stick.”

I frown at him.

“Clarence Underwood was recently released from prison,” Glock adds. “Former meth head.”

“See if he has an alibi,” I tell him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tomasetti levels his gaze on me. “Might be a good idea for you to take a few days off.”

“Probably not a bad idea,” Rasmussen agrees.

Glock is smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

I sit up straighter, annoyed that they’re ganging up on me. “I can’t put this John Doe thing on hold—”

“Chief Burkholder?”

I look past my counterparts, relieved to see the ER doc approach. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“As long as you’re here to spring me,” I grumble.

“In about two minutes.” He looks at the men. “I need to have a word with the chief, if you’re finished.”

“I think we’ve annoyed her enough.” Grinning, Rasmussen offers his hand, and we shake. “Glad you’re okay, Chief. Let me know if you need anything or if you think of something else that might help us figure out who did this.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Same goes, Chief.” Glock gives me a small salute and heads for the door.

The doc and I look at Tomasetti. For an instant, he looks uncertain, as if he isn’t sure if he should stay or go. When the moment gets awkward, the doc tosses me a questioning look.

I address the doc. “It’s okay, Doc. We’re … together.”

“Oh. I see. All right then.” He saunters to my bed and glances down at the clipboard. “We got the results back on your tests,” he tells me. “CAT scan looks good. Blood work is within normal ranges.” He grins at me. “I also had the lab run a qualitative hCG test. It’s routine in case we need to do X-rays. You know you’re pregnant, right?”

“I do now.”

He grins stupidly at Tomasetti, who’s standing beside him looking shell-shocked. “Congratulations. To both of you.”

I mutter a thank-you. But my mind is reeling. I’d been harboring the hope that the pregnancy test was a fluke. That this whole thing was a blip in the radar and everything would get back to normal in a day or two.

“Any idea how far along?” I manage.

“You’ll need to see your ob/gyn for that.”

He’s still speaking, but at some point I stopped hearing the words. I can’t stop looking at Tomasetti, who’s looking everywhere except at me.

CHAPTER 16

I’m certain I set my alarm clock for my usual 5:30
A.M.
I’m just as certain that at some point after I fell asleep, Tomasetti turned it off. When I awoke in a panic at a little after eight, I wasn’t sure whether to be pissed or pleased. He persuaded me to go with the latter, because I walked into the kitchen to find an omelet, toast, and juice waiting for me.

We didn’t talk about my pregnancy last night. Instead, and in usual Tomasetti fashion, he grilled me about my personal safety and possible suspects. For once, I was happy to oblige. I’m not sure what it says about us as a couple that it’s easier to talk about my near-death experience than the fact that I’m going to have a baby.

Over breakfast, he informed me that Rasmussen called earlier with news that Paula and Nick Kester, as well as her father, have alibis for the time of the shooting. Of course, that doesn’t mean they didn’t hire someone. They’re not the hiring types, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility that any one of them could have traded drugs for a favor. Tomasetti also confirmed that because of our personal relationship, he won’t be assigned the case. But he reiterated that he will have access to information and will be able to expedite things that might otherwise take a while.

I didn’t feel all that banged up last night; I didn’t think I hit the tree that hard, but then adrenaline and anger can be effective analgesics. This morning, a headache the size of a
T. rex
rages between my eyes. Every muscle in my body feels as if it’s been twisted into a knot. I down a couple of Tylenols with breakfast. A hot shower, and I’m feeling almost human.

Tomasetti puts up a valiant fight about my going to work, telling me I need to stay home to recuperate and give Rasmussen and my guys at least a day to get a handle on whoever might be behind the shooting. But he knows me well enough to know I’m not going to hide out. When I don’t acquiesce, he moves on to plan B and suggests I take the .22 mini Magnum in my ankle holster as a backup weapon. I’m no fan of getting shot at, so I take his advice without argument.

He drops me off at the station at 10:00
A.M.,
before going to work in Richfield. I look like the walking dead. The bridge of my nose is bruised, and I’m pretty sure both eyes will be fully black by the end of the day.

Lois is at the switchboard with her headset on when I walk in. She gives me a double take, and gets to her feet. “Oh my.”

Her expression makes me smile, which causes the bridge of my nose to hurt. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything funny.”

“I’ll try not to.” Her expression sobers. “I figured you’d take the day off.”

“I thought this place might get kind of boring without me around to liven things up.”

Lois hefts a laugh. “You guys have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet.” I reach the dispatch station and pluck messages from my slot. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I want you to keep a close eye on the door for suspicious visitors, will you?”

“You bet I will.”

I go to the coffee station and find a mug. I feel her eyes on me as I pour.

“You need an ice pack, Chief? I think there’s a bag of frozen peas in the fridge.”

“That would be great.” I touch the bridge of my nose. “I could use a loaner car, too, while the Explorer is in the shop.”

“I’ll call the garage and have them send one over.”

*   *   *

I spend the morning rereading the file I’ve amassed on my John Doe aka Leroy Nolt case. An e-mail from Skid tells me Jeramy Kline’s parents are deceased. Abigail Kline’s parents, Naomi and Reuben Kaufman, sixty-four and sixty-seven years of age respectively, live on a county road outside of Charm. Neither has a record, although Reuben was cited multiple times for failure to display a slow-moving-vehicle sign on his buggy. The last ticket was issued three years ago. Either he’s stopped driving the buggy or he’s decided the slow-moving-vehicle sign isn’t too ornamental after all.

Abigail has two sisters, both of whom are now married and living in Upstate New York. Her brother, Abram, still lives in the area. I make a mental note to pay him a visit, too, to see if he came into contact with Leroy Nolt.

I’ve just shut down my computer, when my phone buzzes. I glance down to see
SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT
pop up on the display.

“How’re you feeling today, Chief?” Sheriff Rasmussen begins.

“Like the train conductor didn’t see me standing on the tracks.”

He chuckles. “I thought you’d want to know … that brass we found last night is, indeed, .22 caliber. Considering the distance, probably from a rifle. Crime-scene guy dug a slug out of your dash. Unfortunately, it’s fragmented, so we’re not going to be able to do anything with striations.”

“Lots of people have .22 rifles around here.”
Including the Amish,
a little voice reminds me.

“We may have gotten lucky, Kate. There’s a partial print on the casing. We don’t know if it’s enough, but they’re going to run it through AFIS and see if there’s a match. Tomasetti’s expediting everything for us.”

AFIS is the acronym for the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. I feel a little swell of pride in my chest at the mention of Tomasetti. “Thanks.”

“We stepped up patrols in all of Holmes County as well as Painters Mill proper. I’ve got my guys on mandatory OT.”

“I appreciate that, Mike. Keep me posted, will you?”

“You know it. Take it easy today.”

“I’ll do my best.”

*   *   *

Reuben and Naomi Kaufman live on a farm several miles south of Charm just off of County Road 600. It’s a huge place with two big bank-style barns and a white silo in dire need of fresh paint. In the field that runs alongside the frontage road, two aging draft horses nibble overgrazed grass next to a mossy pond. I turn into the gravel driveway and park my borrowed unmarked Crown Vic beneath the shade of an elm tree and take the sidewalk to the front porch. The two-story farmhouse is plain with tall windows covered on the inside with dark fabric. Two rocking chairs sit on a porch that’s been recently swept, but there are no flowerpots or hanging planters. Some Amish plant elaborate gardens, row after row of vegetables bordered by hundreds of beautiful flowers—petunias and daisies and geraniums. This garden is as plain as the house, with a dozen or more rows of tomatoes, corn, and green beans.

In light of the shooting last night, I’d considered bringing Glock with me, but Reuben and Naomi Kaufman are Swartzentruber, and I suspect they’ll be more inclined to talk to me if I’m alone. That’s not to say my being formerly Amish will open any doors. My fluency in Pennsylvania Dutch may help. But I’ve found that when dealing with Old Order Amish, especially with my being a cop, the fact that I left the fold trumps my heritage every time.

It’s a beautiful day. The humidity adds a slight haze, but a breeze and the shade make the air feel good against my skin as I start toward the house. A mourning dove coos from the wind vane mounted atop the nearest barn. Sparrows chatter at me as I walk past a bird feeder filled with millet and crushed corn. I ascend the steps, open the storm door, and knock.

A moment later, the door opens and I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman in a dark gray dress that reaches nearly to her ankles. She’s wearing the traditional
kapp
over steel gray hair that’s thinning at her crown. “Can I help you?” Her inflection tells me she speaks Pennsylvania Dutch more often than English.

“Guder nammidaag.”
Good afternoon. “Mrs. Kaufman?”

“Ja.”
Her pale blue eyes sweep over me, taking in my uniform, and her nose wrinkles slightly, as if she’s breathed in some unpleasant odor. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine.” I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m working on a case, and if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“We’re Amish. I don’t see how we can help you with some
Englischer
case.”

“May I come inside, Mrs. Kaufman? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

After a moment of hesitation, she opens the door.

I step into a rectangular living room with rough-hewn plank floors covered with a knot rug that’s seen better days. The windows are covered with dark blue fabric, ushering in barely enough light for me to see a blue sofa against the wall, a rocking chair draped with an afghan, and a black potbellied stove in the corner.

I shove my sunglasses onto my crown. The woman’s eyes narrow when she notices my black eyes. Smiling, I tap my right temple with my finger. “I was in a car accident last night.”

“Oh.” She nods, her expression telling me I probably deserved it for driving a motorized vehicle in the first place. “Would you like iced tea, Chief Burkholder? It’s chamomile and mint, from the garden.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay,” I tell her.

The sound of the floor creaking draws my attention. I glance toward the kitchen to see an Amish man in a wheelchair rolling through the doorway. Reuben Kaufman, I think. He looks older than sixty-seven. He’s wearing a blue shirt over narrow, bony shoulders. Black trousers. Suspenders. A flat-brimmed summer hat.

He makes eye contact with me. When he opens his mouth, I see he’s missing a lower incisor. His face is slightly asymmetrical, with the left side sagging a little more than the right. His mouth quivers; I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

“This is my husband, Reuben,” Naomi tells me.

I cross to him. “Hello, Mr. Kaufman.” He raises a limp hand to mine. It feels cold and frail within my grip, and I shake it gently.

“Reuben has difficulty speaking sometimes,” the Amish woman says. “He had a stroke, you see. Going on three years now.” She looks at her husband. “Isn’t that right, Reuben?”

He gives a subtle nod, but his eyes never leave mine.

Naomi moves behind her husband’s wheelchair and sets her hands on the handgrips. “But we manage, don’t we?”

She seems completely at ease with her husband’s disability. They have their own unique mode of communication, and from the outside looking in, it seems as effective as words.

“Sis unvergleichlich hees dohin,”
she says. It’s terribly hot in here. “Let’s sit on the porch.”

I go to the door and hold it open while she wheels her husband outside. There, she sets the wheel lock and then lowers herself into a rocking chair.
“Sitz dich anne,”
she tells me. Sit yourself down.

“Danki.”
The rocking chair has a wicker seat and creaks slightly as I lower myself into it. “You and your husband have a beautiful farm.”

“Reuben’s
mamm
left it to us when she passed. Been in the Kaufman family for years.”

“I’ve driven by a few times. Didn’t she used to raise hogs out here?”

Her eyes narrow on mine. “Never raised hogs.”

“Have you and Mr. Kaufman ever raised hogs?”

“We’ve raised a few head of cattle over the years. Just enough to keep us in meat over the winter. Reuben prefers to work the land. Corn and soybeans, mostly. That’s what his
datt
taught him. That’s what he knows.” She pauses. “What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder?”

“I’m investigating a case involving some human remains that were uncovered by the tornado.”

“I read about it in the paper.” She shivers. “Such a horrible thing. Do you know who it is?”

“Not yet.” I watch them closely as I speak, looking for any sign of nervousness or discomfort. “We’re looking into the cases of several young men who went missing thirty or so years ago.”

She cocks her head. “What does this have to do with us? We’re not missing any family members.”