After the Storm (28 page)

“It’ll look good on my dining room table.”

“Look good anywhere.” She’s got dimpled cheeks and a gumdrop nose spattered with freckles.

I pull out my badge and identify myself. “I’m looking for Sally Burris.”

“You found her.” She gives me an exaggerated look of surprise. “What did I do?”

“I’m working on a cold case and ran across an old police report from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s Office from 1985. Your mother had filed a complaint—”

“Oh! This must be about our old neighbors! Those Amish people, the Kaufmans.”

“So you remember?”

“Heck, yeah, I remember.” She gives a hearty belly laugh. “Gave me nightmares for a month. Nine-year-old kid doesn’t forget something like that.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She chuckles as if at herself, then looks at me from beneath her lashes. “Well, I used to sneak over to their farm. It was dumb, I know, but when you’re nine and bored…” Rolling her eyes, she shrugs. “Anyhoo, I sneaked over there one afternoon. That old bank barn in the back. I climbed through the hay chute and I’m poking around on the second level, when these three Amish guys came out.” She sobers and I can see the memories taking her back to a place that’s not quite comfortable. “They were speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, so I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I could tell they were arguing.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“I was down the hay chute with the hatch open a few inches, so I couldn’t see their faces. All I could see was their legs and feet.”

“What exactly did you see?”

Her mouth tightens. “At first the men were just talking. Then things got loud. They started yelling and there was some scuffling, and, oh boy, my heart was pounding like a drum. Then things got really weird. I mean, I always thought of the Amish as gentle and religious, you know? Well, let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder, that day they were neither. They were yelling like a bunch of drunken bikers. I heard cursing. There was some pushing and shoving and hitting. Then I swear I saw a guy fall out that big hay door in the back and into the hogpen below.” She shivers. “I’ll never forget the way his body sounded when it hit the pipe fence, then the concrete below. I’ll tell you this: He didn’t get up, and I swear all those pigs ran over to him and started crowding and squealing and God only knows what else. The whole thing scared me something awful.”

“Did you see the face of the man who fell?”

“Just a glimpse.”

“Can you ID him?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What did you do?”

“I got the heck out of there. Ran home as fast as I could and told my mom. She called the sheriff. They came out to the house, asked me a few questions and wrote everything down. My mom told me later that Mr. Kaufman told the police that he was slaughtering hogs and that must have been what traumatized me.”

“Is that what happened?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, ma’am, it’s not. He lied to the cops. Those men were fighting. I saw someone fall into that pen, and I’m pretty sure he was pushed.” She hugs herself as if against a chill. “And all those big hogs? I saw blood, Chief Burkholder. Either he cut himself in the fall or those hogs went after him.” She huffs out a laugh, but it’s a grim sound. “I never sneaked over there again, and to this day I can’t drive past that old farm without breaking out in a cold sweat.”

CHAPTER 21

In the course of a homicide investigation, one of the most important components a cop must establish is motive. Once he understands the
why,
he can usually come up with the
who,
and the rest of the case will eventually fall into place. The question of motive has been forefront in my mind since speaking with Sally Burris earlier in the day. Since, I’ve locked myself in my office, filled half a legal pad with supposition, and, after a lot of thought, drafted an affidavit for Judge Seibenthaler in the hope of getting a search warrant for Reuben and Naomi Kaufman’s farm.

Is it possible that as a teenager Abigail Kaufman (Kline), a Swartzentruber Amish, became involved with Leroy Nolt, a New Order Mennonite? Is it feasible that their illicit affair educed the wrath of her father? I know from experience that some Amish are rigid in their belief systems and intolerant of those who differ. Some can be quite cruel to the fallen. But murder?

No one wants to believe a member of a group he or she admires and respects is capable of something so heinous. But as I gaze through the window and watch the Main Street merchants close up shop for the day, I realize that’s exactly where my mind has gone—into that murky, dank place where fanaticism overrides religion, where hatred trumps tolerance, and something as sacred as the
Ordnung
is twisted into an unrecognizable and hideous command.

Rising, I leave my desk and stride to the reception area. My dispatcher, Lois, glances up from her computer screen when I enter. “You look troubled,” she tells me.

“Call Judge Seibenthaler and tell him I’m on my way over.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let everyone know there’s a briefing in an hour.” I glance at the clock on the wall and sigh. “And while you’re at it, if you could throw in a little bit of good luck, I’d really appreciate it.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later I’m standing outside the chambers of the honorable Judge Harry Seibenthaler at the courthouse in Millersburg. It’s just after five o’clock, so he doesn’t keep me waiting. His administrative assistant ushers me through her office and into his inner sanctum.

“Chief Burkholder! What a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?”

The judge is a corpulent man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, a mottled complexion, and a gourdlike nose shot with broken capillaries. He weighs in at about 250, but he’s not much taller than me. He’s got a jovial personality and an appreciation for humor, but I know from experience he’s a tough son of a bitch in his courtroom, and not only with regard to those who break the law. I’ve seen him take more than one cocky young lawyer down a notch. In the years I’ve been chief, he’s denied more warrants than he’s signed, and I have a sinking feeling this one won’t make the cut.

“Thanks for seeing me, Judge.”

“You caught me walking out the door. My granddaughter has a piano recital up in Wooster in an hour.”

“In that case, I’ll make this quick.” I pass him the affidavit. It includes the highlights of the case, the information I gleaned from Sally Burris earlier, the location and reason for the search, and what I’m looking for—in this case the titanium plate missing from the remains of Leroy Nolt. I also give him a copy of the original crime report.

Slipping glasses onto his nose, he looks down at the affidavit, skimming, and then looks at me over the rims of his glasses. “Naomi and Reuben Kaufman, Kate? Seriously?”

Argument prepared, I launch into everything I know about the case. “I have a witness that saw a man fall into the hogpen. I have remains with marks consistent with the tooth marks of domestic swine.”

“The Kaufmans are pillars of the community! The
Amish
community, which happens to be the bread and butter of this town. For God’s sake, Kate, my wife buys stuff from them all the time.”

“I’m aware they’re Amish.”

Frowning, he turns to the second sheet of paper and then looks at me. “You’re looking for a titanium orthopedic plate? What the hell is that?”

“It’s an orthopedic implant,” I tell him. “The decedent sustained a broken arm in which both the radius and ulna were broken. Two plates were surgically implanted. Only one was found with the remains.”

“So you think this second missing plate is at the Kaufman farm?”

“I do.”

Taking off his glasses, he sets down the paper. His leather chair protests when he leans back. “You don’t have enough here for a warrant. You know that, right?”

“Abigail Kline—Reuben and Naomi’s daughter—made the quilt Leroy Nolt gave his mother. When I asked her about it, she lied to me. She was involved with Leroy Nolt. Judge, I know there’s something there.”

“Have these bones even been confirmed as Nolt’s? I mean, via DNA?”

“Not with DNA yet, but the surgeon who did the surgery on Leroy Nolt matched the serial number with the plate we found.”

“Hmmm.”

“Judge, Leroy Nolt went missing at about the same time Sally Burris saw a man fall into the pigpen in the course of an argument at the Kaufman farm.”

“It says here she was nine years old! I don’t believe that’s a reliable age, especially when it’s been thirty years since the incident.”

“She’s reliable.”

He removes his glasses. “Kaufman said he’d been butchering hogs. That’s enough to upset any nine-year-old little girl.” Spitting out a sound of skepticism, he taps on my notes with a stubby index finger. “And she didn’t see their faces. She can’t even identify anyone. Come on. You know that’s not enough for a damn warrant.”

“All I need is a few hours in the barn and pens with a metal detector.”

“If you’re wrong, do you have any idea what this will do to relations between the Amish and the rest of us? Things are already strained. We’ve already got them selling out and moving to Upstate New York. You go out there and start searching for body parts, and all hell is going to break loose.”

“Judge Seibenthaler, with all due respect—”

He chops the air with his hand. “Not going to happen, Kate.”

“What do you need?”

“For starters you can produce DNA that proves those bones are Nolt’s. Until then, I’m not going to approve a search warrant for their farm or anyone else’s. Without a positive ID, I just can’t do it.”

I tamp down annoyance, keep my voice level. “Judge, I believe Leroy Nolt was murdered. Someone has gotten away with it for thirty years. I think Jeramy Kline and Abram Kaufman are involved.”

“You
think
? Kate, that’s not good enough. For God’s sake, we can’t go around shaking down Amish families. Bring me some proof. Bring me something more concrete than a theory based on something a nine-year-old girl may or may not have seen thirty years ago. Otherwise, I can’t help you.” He looks at his watch. “Now I have to go.”

*   *   *

Despite my best efforts, I’m still frustrated when I arrive back at the station. I make a conscious effort not to slam the door when I walk in.

“Everyone’s here, if you’re ready.” At her dispatch station, Lois stands, eyeing me cautiously as I stalk past. “I take it your meeting with Seibenthaler didn’t go well.”

“That would be an understatement.”

In my office, I snatch my notes off my desk, then make my way to the storage-room-turned-conference-room. My temper settles when I find my entire team assembled and waiting. I can’t help but smile when I see Pickles sitting at the end of the table, a large McDonald’s coffee steaming in front of him. I catch a whiff of English Leather when I walk past him. “Glad you could make it, Pickles.”

He grunts as if it’s business as usual for a seventy-six-year-old to be a cop. “Any word on who took a shot at you?” he asks.

“No.” I hand him the mug shot of a grinning Nick Kester. “We’re looking for this guy, though.”

“Nice teeth,” he mutters, passing it to Glock.

“For a meth head,” Glock puts in.

I bring the briefing to order. “Nick Kester is a person of interest,” I tell my team. “BOLO went out a few hours ago, but so far he’s slipping through the cracks. Sheriff’s office is running the investigation, but SHP as well as Coshocton and Wayne Counties are actively involved, too.”

“Anything on the slug?” T.J. asks.

“It’s a .22 cal,” I reply. “Judging from the distance of the shot, probably from a rifle. Working in conjunction with the SO, we executed a warrant and searched the home of Kester’s father-in-law, but it didn’t produce a rifle or anything else of interest.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have it with him,” Glock says.

“Holmes County has stepped up patrols,” Skid announces.

I nod, but I’d already known that was the case. When someone takes a shot at a police officer, it’s serious business. Every cop in every jurisdiction in the three-county area is champing at the bit to find him.

I take my place behind the half podium set up at the head of the table. “Until this shooter is apprehended, I want everyone in vests.” I look at Pickles. “That means school crosswalk patrol, too.”

He nods, looking a little too pleased at the prospect of vesting up.

I glance toward the door, where Lois is standing, listening for the phone. “Can you make sure we have inventory for that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If we don’t have enough vests for everyone, see if you can get whatever we need on loan from the sheriff’s office, Holmes or Wayne.”

“Gotcha.”

But all of us are well aware that a Kevlar vest won’t protect anyone from a head shot.

“We do not have proof that Kester is our shooter. But he is a suspect. He’s a known meth user and he’s made threats against me personally and the Painters Mill PD.” I pause. “I’m not going to get into the details, but you already know the Kesters have filed a lawsuit against me, the department, and the township of Painters Mill. That’s something to keep in mind.”

“So Kester’s a man on a mission,” Skid says.

“If this is about the kid, he might feel as if he has nothing left to lose,” Glock puts in.

“Wouldn’t be the first bozo wanting to go out in a blaze of glory,” Pickles says.

I nod, making eye contact with each of my officers and, finally, Lois. “Effective immediately, I want an armed officer here at the station at all times. Mandatory overtime until Kester is either eliminated as a suspect or taken into custody.”

I hear a couple of well-timed, exaggerated sighs, but not a smidgen of serious diatribe; every one of these officers would work around the clock without complaint if asked.

“I also want to brief you on some new developments on those remains found out on Gellerman Road,” I say. “We were able to match the serial number of the titanium plate found at the scene to the plate surgically implanted in Leroy Nolt’s arm. We don’t have DNA yet, but I can say with certainty that those bones do indeed belong to Nolt.”