After the Storm (29 page)

“You notified NOK?” Glock asks.

“I talked to them, so they are aware,” I tell him. “While I was cautious not to tell them something we don’t have definitive proof of, I think they were able to draw their own conclusions. I’m going to wait for DNA before I confirm with them. So we need to keep this under our hats for now.”

“Tough break for the parents,” Pickles mumbles. “Always hate that.”

“We have a person of interest with regard to the woman Nolt was seeing at the time of his death.” I tell them about the quilt with the initials embroidered into the fabric. “Abigail Kaufman. She’s Amish. Her last name is Kline now. She married Jeramy Kline a month after Leroy disappeared.”

Skid grins. “Damn, those Amish girls work fast.”

It’s an offhand comment but drives home the possibility that if she was indeed involved with Leroy Nolt and then married so quickly after his disappearance, she may have had a reason.

Glock’s eyes narrow on mine. “If there was some love-triangle thing going on between Jeramy Kline, Abigail Kaufman, and Leroy Nolt, there might be a motive there.”

“She has a brother living in the area, too,” I tell them. “Abram Kaufman. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I plan to.”

“So, is Jeramy Kline a suspect?” T.J. asks.

“He’s a person of interest.” I tell them about Kline’s having been rushed to the hospital.

“What’s wrong with him?” T.J. asks.

I shrug. “He got sick and had some kind of seizure.”

“Interesting timing,” Glock says.

“I think so, too,” I tell him.

“Any chance he OD’d on drugs?” Pickles asks.

I shrug. “We can’t rule it out, but at this point we have no evidence to support it.”

“Maybe he knows the cops are looking at him and he tried to off himself,” Skid offers.

“It’s possible,” I reply. “But I’ve talked with him and, honestly, he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“Maybe with the discovery of those remains, the wife added a little rat poison to his scrapple,” Glock puts in.

“Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Amish woman,” Skid mutters.

The statement earns a few chuckles, including one from me, but I don’t discount any theory this stage. “The ER doc ran a tox,” I tell him. “Results will take a week or so, but I’ll stay on top of it and keep you posted.”

I turn my attention to T.J. “You want to give them the rundown on that SO report you found?”

The young officer clears his throat and recounts the details of the thirty-year-old police report from the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. “According to the report, a deputy was called to the farm of Reuben Kaufman after a neighbor reported witnessing some kind of accident or fall into the hogpen.”

Simultaneously, Glock and Skid sit up straighter.

“The neighbor has passed away now,” I tell them, “but the little girl who witnessed the incident still lives in the area. I talked to her earlier. Name is Sally Burris. She was only nine years old at the time, and apparently she’d sneaked over to the farm without her parent’s knowledge. She didn’t have a clear view of the incident but claims there were three men present and they were arguing.”

“Was Kaufman raising hogs at the time?” Glock asks.

“He’s not on the list, and he’s denied it, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have hogs,” I reply.

Pickles leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “Now that you mention it, Chief, I swear I remember them having hogs out there. Back in those days, they used those low sheds and kept them out in the pasture.”

I look at Skid. “Lois and Mona and Jodie put together a list of large-animal veterinarians. Take a look at it, see who was practicing back then, and give them a call. Chances are at some point the Kaufmans had a vet come to their farm. For vaccinations. A sick animal. Castrations. A difficult birth. An injury.”

“You got it.”

“Chief,” Glock says. “Any chance we could get a warrant?” he asks. “Get out there and take a look around?”

“Judge Seibenthaler shot it down.”

“That old goat is more interested in tourism than crime solving,” Pickles grouses.

I remind them of Nolt’s broken arm and the missing titanium plate. “To put that into perspective: If Nolt was indeed one of the men Sally Burris saw and there was an argument, it’s possible he was either pushed or fell into the hogpen. It could be that the fall knocked him unconscious or otherwise incapacitated him, and the hogs—if they were hungry or aggressive or both—went after him.”

“Sounds like whoever he was with wasn’t too concerned about his health,” Glock finishes.

“And they let the hogs kill him,” I finish.

“That’s one way to get rid of evidence,” T.J. puts in.

“They put what was left into a garbage bag and buried it in the crawl space of that abandoned barn,” Pickles adds.

Skid shakes his head. “That shit gives me the willies.”

“What’s the setup out at the Kaufman place?” T.J. asks. “I mean, the barn?”

“They have two barns. According to Sally Burris, the incident occurred at the one farthest from the road. It’s a bank-style barn and built on a slope. In front, the door opens to the first level. The argument took place at the rear of the barn, on the second level.” I think about that a moment. “I haven’t seen the interior, but I know that a lot of those old bank barns have a hay door that looks out over the rear, for ease of feeding livestock, tossing hay, whatever.”

“So that back door is ten or twelve feet from the ground?” Skid asks.

I nod. “If someone fell or was pushed, there’s a decent possibility he’d be stunned or injured.”

“Or unconscious,” Glock says.

“If there were hogs below…” T.J. lets the words trail.

“Do pigs do that?” Skid’s voice is incredulous. “I mean, would they attack and consume a human being?”

I tell him about my conversation with wildlife biologist Nelson Woodburn. “Domestic swine aren’t as aggressive as their feral cousins or javelina, but if they’re starved, there’s no doubt they will attack and consume prey in order to survive. In this case, it’s just the hands and the feet that are missing.”

“That’s brutal,” T.J. whispers.

“Might be interesting to get out there with a metal detector,” Glock says.

“Unless someone found that titanium plate in his pork chop,” Skid mutters.

Pickles slurps coffee. “Shame about that warrant.”

“Permission from the owner would probably suffice,” Glock offers.

I give him my full attention. “That would be a best-case scenario.”

“Wouldn’t that be kind of like the fox asking the hens if he can come inside to borrow a cup of sugar?” asks Skid.

“According to Sally Burris,” I say, “there was no female present.”

“Not the kind of thing hubby mentions over shoofly pie,” Glock adds.

“So, if the wife doesn’t know what happened,” T.J. says, “she has nothing to hide from the police.”

I look at him and nod. “If she does and refuses us access to the farm, we’re going to have to find another way.”

CHAPTER 22

I arrive at the station early and spend two hours digging up everything I can find on Abram Kaufman. There’s not much; law-abiding citizens tend to lead boring lives, especially when it comes to law-enforcement databases. He’s married, never been arrested, pays his taxes on time, and he’s never been involved in a lawsuit. Aside from a slow-moving-vehicle citation two years ago, he’s kept his nose clean.

I find Skid in his cubicle, pecking at the keyboard of his desktop. “Any luck with veterinarians?” I ask.

“Not yet, but I’m only halfway through the list. Most of these guys are retired now. One has passed away.”

“You up to making a trip out to Kaufman’s place with me?”

“Which Kaufman?”

“Both,” I tell him. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

*   *   *

Abram and Frieda Kaufman live on a dirt road off of County Road 600, a mile or so from Reuben Kaufman’s farm, not far from Charm. A good portion of the area is a floodplain, where the pasture is lush and dotted with dark pools filled with lily pads and moss. Massive old-growth trees—maple, elm, and black walnut—crowd the road on either side, casting us into dusky shadows. We crest a hill, and the trees open to endless rows of corn on both sides of the road, where hip-high leaves sway in the breeze.

I nearly miss the narrow mouth of the gravel lane. It’s bordered on both sides by tall grass and tangles of raspberry bushes hugging the fence line. The plain mailbox is overgrown with weeds and easily overlooked. I make the turn, and the Crown Vic bounces over ruts and potholes.

“Bet the mailman loves delivering to this place,” Skid mutters as we approach a small hill.

“Especially in winter.”

The lane makes a lazy S, and then the corn gives way to a mowed shoulder. Ahead, I see a two-story brick house with a tin roof and the brooding facade of a place that’s decades past its prime. The front porch wraps around two sides and tilts slightly on the north end. There are no hanging plants or clay pots. The windows are darkened with black coverings.

“They’re Swartzentruber,” I say as I park behind a black windowless buggy. A second buggy with a handsome sorrel gelding still harnessed is parked beneath the shade of a tree.

“Is that good or bad?”

“We’re about to find out.”

We disembark and take the sidewalk to the front door. To my right I notice the big barn adorned with what looks like a fresh coat of white paint. The sliding door at the front stands open, telling me there’s probably someone inside.

I hear Skid behind me as I cross the porch to the front door. I’m raising my hand to knock, when the door creaks open. I find myself looking at a stout Amish woman of about thirty-five with a round, ruddy face. She’s wearing a dark gray dress that falls to mid calf, an apron, and off-brand sneakers. White
kapp
with the strings tied neatly beneath her chin. Her summer-sky eyes contradict a mouth that’s disapproving and thin.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her accent heavy.

“Frieda Kaufman?” I ask.

“Ja.”
She looks me up and down. “Who wants to know?”

I show her my badge and identify myself. “I’m working on an old case and was wondering if you’d mind answering a few questions.”

“We don’t know anything about any case.”

The aromas of yeast bread and a house that’s overly hot waft through the door. “I’m trying to find out what happened to a young Mennonite man who disappeared from Painters Mill back in 1985,” I tell her.

She fingers the worn dish towel in her hands. “You’re speaking of Leroy Nolt?”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you know him?”

“I met him once or twice. Way back. I heard he moved to Florida.”

It’s the first time in the course of the investigation anyone has mentioned Florida in relation to Leroy Nolt. “Did he tell you that?”

“Something I heard, is all. Don’t recall who said it.”

“Were you and Leroy friends? Was he friends with your husband?” I watch her closely for a reaction as I pose the questions.

She looks down at the dishcloth and dries hands that are already dry. “Leroy Nolt was no friend of my husband’s and no friend of mine.”

“Did you or your husband have some kind of falling out with him?”

She looks at me as if I’m dense. “Never was friendly to begin with. We’re Swartzentruber. Leroy’s
Mennischt.
” The laugh that follows isn’t pleasant. “He was
maulgrischt.
” A pretend Christian. “Always had a lot of
Englischer
ways, if you know what I mean, with all the drinking and running around. Always smoking cigarettes and taking the Lord’s name in vain.” She clucks her tongue, then lowers her voice. “From what I heard, he liked his women, too.”

“Any woman in particular?”

“Anything in a dress, I imagine. We didn’t associate with the likes of Leroy Nolt. Florida can have him, as far as I’m concerned. Sure don’t need him here in Ohio.”

“What about Abigail Kline?”

The Amish woman’s eyes sharpen on mine. “What about her?”

“Did she have a relationship with Leroy Nolt?”

“I suspect you’ll need to ask her about that now, won’t you?”

I nod. “When’s the last time you saw Leroy?”

“Been thirty years or more. Don’t rightly recall. Probably in town. He was always hanging out there, charming all those loose
Englischer
girls. Worked down to the farm store, so maybe that’s where I seen him last.”

I nod, realizing I’m not going to get anything useful out of her. “Is your husband here, Mrs. Kaufman?”

Her eyes flick toward the barn. “He’s out there in the barn, castrating calves.”

“Thank you for your help.” I offer a smile. “I won’t keep him long.”

She closes the door without responding.

Skid and I take the steps to the sidewalk and then start across the gravel driveway. We’re midway to the barn when he glances my way. “Did she really say ‘castrating calves’?”

“I’m pretty sure she did.” I look over at him and grin at the discomfort etched into his features. “I take it you didn’t grow up on a farm.”

“City slicker from the word ‘go.’”

“You want to sit this one out?”

“As long as Kaufman keeps his tools to himself, I should be okay.”

The barn is huge and shadowy, the only light coming in through the open door, and it smells of cattle. There’s a buggy just inside, but no horse hitched. A wagon filled with hay is parked farther in. Burlap bags filled with what looks like oats are stacked against the wheel. Voices coming from the rear of the structure draw me more deeply inside.

I hear a calf bawling from somewhere ahead. Skid and I go through another door and enter a large room with a concrete floor that opens to a small pen beyond. Two Amish men kneel on either side of a black calf lying on the floor, its legs secured with rope. The third man straddles the animal, a four-inch knife with a rounded tip in his hand. We stop a few feet away and watch as the Amish man deftly slits the animal’s scrotum. A small amount of blood dribbles onto the concrete when he grasps the sac and squeezes the testicles through the opening. Quickly, he pulls out the cord, picks up emasculator pliers and snips. He’s not wearing protective gloves.