After the Storm (30 page)

Next to me, Skid makes a sound of discomfort. “That’s fucked up,” he mutters beneath his breath.

One of the Amish men holding the calf glances over at us and grins. “Looks like you have another customer,” he says in Pennsylvania Dutch to the man with the knife.

The Amish man working on the calf chuckles as he uncoils the rope. Folding the knife, he snatches up a spray bottle and generously spritzes the incision with antiseptic.

“Faddich!”
he proclaims. Done. Slapping the animal on the rump, he gets to his feet.

The two men on either side of the calf move away and rise. The animal clambers to its feet and gallops toward the pen, kicking up its heels.

“Abram Kaufman?” I say.

The man who’d cut the calf nods. He’s tall and dark-haired with hawkish eyes and a steel-wool beard that reaches nearly to his belt. He’s clad in black trousers, suspenders, and a blue work shirt. “I’m Abram.” His eyes shift from me to Skid and back to me.

I offer a smile. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

He doesn’t smile back. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about your relationship with Leroy Nolt.”

“Nolt?” For an instant, he looks confused. “You mean the Nolt boy from years ago?”

“He disappeared in 1985. Do you know him?”

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Abram crosses to me. He’s got blood on his right palm, dried blood that’s gone brown beneath his nails. I’m relieved when he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake.

“I saw him around back then,” he tells me. “But I don’t know him.” Those hawk eyes narrow. “This got something to do with them bones found out on Gellerman Road?”

“I can’t get into the details of the case just yet,” I tell him.

He removes a kerchief from his pocket, lifts his hat, and wipes sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know anything about any missing people. We’re Swartzentruber, you know. We don’t associate with the Mennonites, unless it’s to hire one of them to drive us someplace.”

“How do you know Leroy is Mennonite?”

He shrugs. “Must have heard it somewhere, I guess.”

“Did you ever hire Leroy to drive you?”

“Always used that Yoder Toter up Dundee way.”

“How well did you know Leroy?”

“Not at all. Might’ve seen him around town is all. Or up to the farm store in Painters Mill.”

“Do you know who his friends were?”

“No.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

He sighs. “Chief Burkholder, you can ask the same question twenty different ways, but you’re always going to get the same answer. I don’t know Nolt. I never did. If you want to know something about him, maybe you should talk to the Mennonites.”

One of the men standing behind him chuckles, but I ignore him and focus on Kaufman. “What about your sister?” I ask.

“Abigail? What about her?”

“I heard she knew Leroy. I heard they were friends.
Close
friends.”

His reaction is subtle—fingers opening and closing, mouth tightening into a more pronounced frown—telling me the mention of his sister hit a nerve.

“You misunderstood.” His voice is level and calm, but he can’t quite conceal the annoyance in his eyes. “Abby has been with Jeramy since they were kids.”

I wait, but he says nothing, staring at me as if he’s considering ordering me off his property.

“All right, Mr. Kaufman.” Nodding, I move as if to leave, then I pause and look around the barn. “Did you ever raise hogs here on your farm?”

“Never cared for hogs.” He motions with his eyes to the small herd of cattle in the pen. “Always had cows.”

I look past him, where two more calves are in a tiny pen, awaiting their turn for castration. I see the outline of the knife in Kaufman’s pocket. Bloodstains on his hands. “I’ll let you get back to work then.” I make eye contact with the other two men and start toward the door.

Skid waits until we’re back in the Crown Vic before speaking. “I’ve seen some disturbing shit since I’ve been a cop, Chief, but I swear seeing that Amish dude cut off that calf’s balls takes the cake.”

I slant him a look. “I thought you were looking a little green around the gills.”

“He didn’t use an anesthetic. Seems kind of medieval.”

“I take it you’re not up for Rocky Mountain oysters for lunch? I know a place in Millersburg.…”

He groans.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, I make the turn onto County Road 600. Left and right, row after row of corn stretches as far as the eye can see. We pass an Amish boy walking barefoot along the shoulder, bamboo fishing pole in hand.

“Kind of reminds me of that movie
Children of the Corn,
” Skid says.

I wave at the kid. He doesn’t wave back. “If I recall, that one doesn’t end well for the two main characters.”

“Probably would have had a happier ending if they’d been packing.”

I turn into the lane of Reuben Kaufman’s farm, park in a spot that’s just out of view from the house, and get out. Birdsong echoes off the treetops. The smells of fresh-cut grass and the faint odor of livestock rides a gentle breeze. A few yards away, half a dozen hens cluck and scratch at the ground. The house is built on a hill with views in all directions. From where I’m standing I can see the cornfields at the front of the property. At the rear, the land dips to a low area overgrown with saplings and brush and, farther, thick woods.

I take a closer look at the two barns as I start toward the house. The one nearest the house is the smaller of the two and not terribly old. The one in the rear is an ancient structure built into the side of the hill. The front sliding door stands open. Inside, I can just make out the silhouette of a wagon heaped with hay.

“You know, Chief, sometimes I swear I think the Amish have it right,” Skid says.

“And then you remember how much you like tequila and realize it’s just a pipe dream.”

I’m smiling when I step onto the porch and knock. I hear footfalls inside. The door opens about a foot and Naomi Kaufman appears. She doesn’t look happy to see me.

“Hi, Mrs. Kaufman,” I begin.

“Hello.” Her eyes slide from me to Skid.

He tips his head at her. “Officer Skidmore, ma’am.”

She shifts her attention back to me without acknowledging him. “What do you want?”

“Do you have a few minutes, Mrs. Kaufman? I’d like to ask you a few more questions about that old case I’m working on.”

“What questions?”

“May we come inside, ma’am?”

“No, I don’t think you can,” she tells me. “I’m cleaning windows and I don’t see how I can help you with something I know nothing about.”

I remind myself that talking to her is secondary to getting inside that bank barn with a metal detector, so I’m not unduly perturbed by her refusal. “How is your son-in-law doing?”

She shrugs, her expression conveying worry. “He’s very sick. The doctor’s running tests and trying to figure out what’s wrong with him. I’ve been praying for him. Abigail, too.”

I nod. “I talked to Abigail.”

Her eyes sharpen on mine.

“She admitted to knowing Leroy Nolt. I thought you should know.” I pause. “In case you remembered something and wanted to tell me.”

“A lot of young people get to know other young people, during
Rumspringa
and such. All that running around. I don’t see what I could tell you about that.”

“Did you ever meet Leroy?”

“No.”

“Did Leroy ever visit you here at the farm?”

“No.”

“What about your husband?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is your husband home, ma’am?”

“He’s getting his physical therapy up in Wooster. Yoder Toter picked him up an hour ago.”

Nodding, I look out across the cornfields, admiring the tranquil beauty of the place despite the sense of uneasiness between my shoulder blades. The leaves of the two giant maples in the front yard hiss in the breeze. A cardinal trills at us from a cherry tree near the fence.

I’m not above using my Amish roots to cozy up to someone to gain his or her trust. I don’t fall to that particular device often, mainly because many of the Amish still judge me harshly for leaving the fold. But if the end result justifies the means, especially when it comes to a case, I have no qualms.

I address her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “I couldn’t help but notice that old bank barn.” I motion in the general direction of the rear structure. “They don’t build them like that anymore.”

She’s not impressed by my fluency or my interest in the barn. “The barn on the farm where I grew up was nearly two hundred years old,” I tell her. “They used wooden dowels, and some of the beams were as thick as a man’s waist.”

“The Amish certainly know how to build a barn to last.”

I nod and I extend my hand for a shake. “It’s been a pleasure speaking to you, Mrs. Kaufman. I appreciate your time.”

She gives my hand a halfhearted shake, her expression telling me she’s surprised to be rid of us so easily.

Skid and I turn to leave. Behind me, the hinges of the door squeak as she begins to close it. I reach the steps and then turn back to her. “Mrs. Kaufman?”

She pauses, glaring at me through the gap between the door and the jamb, a wily fox that hasn’t yet escaped the trap.

“Would you mind terribly if I took a quick look in your barn?” I ask.

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

I offer my best sheepish smile. “There aren’t many like it left. Bank-style, I mean, and in such good condition. I’d love to see the interior, if it’s no trouble.”

She sighs. “I’ll need to put on my muck boots.…”

“Please don’t go to any trouble. I’ll just have a quick peek inside. You don’t have to come out if you’ve things to do.”

Annoyed by my request but not seeing the any reason she shouldn’t grant it, she motions toward the barn. “Go on then. Just be sure to close all the gates. We’ve got goats in the pasture.”

Muttering a thank you, I catch Skid’s gaze and toss him the keys to the Crown Vic. He catches them with one hand and then crosses to the vehicle and unloads the metal detectors.

He meets me in the gravel area in front of the barn. “That was something right out of the
Columbo
playbook,” he says.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t backfire,” I say.

“Never backfired on Peter Falk.”

“He never had to deal with the Amish.”

The old barn is indeed a historical work of art, with access on two levels and the iconic gambrel roof. We enter via the open sliding door and are immediately swallowed by the shadows inside. I cross the dirt floor, where an antique-looking wagon sits, its bed piled ten feet high with hay. Beyond is a step up to a wood-plank floor. At the rear, a large square door looks out over the pasture. I can hear the red-winged blackbirds and the occasional
jug-o-rum
bellow of a bullfrog from the pond.

I motion toward the doorway. “Sally Burris said the man she saw fell from a second-story door to the pen below.”

“That one fits the bill, Chief.”

I take the steps to the wood floor and look around. Sure enough, from where I’m standing I see two-feet-square hay chutes cut into the floor. Generally, they’re used to drop hay or grain to livestock housed in the stalls below. The chutes have wooden cover cutouts with leather straps so they can be easily lifted. I look at the chute to my right and imagine a nine-year-old girl sneaking into the barn to spy. She entered from the stalls on the underside of the barn and pushed the cover up from below. One chute in particular offers a decent view of the rear hay door, and I realize Sally Burris’s story holds water.

My boots thud dully against the plank floor as I cross to the door. Below, a dozen or so rusty steel pens are set into concrete, forming a maze of sorts. Though the pens are designed to withstand the weight and strength of livestock, many are dented and bent from large animals and years of use.

“Let’s get down there and put these metal detectors to work before we get busted,” I tell Skid.

A quick look around reveals there’s no way to reach the pen area without going back through the front. A route that would make us—and our metal detectors—visible from the house for a short stretch. I’m about to risk it, when I realize we can use the hay chute and get down the same way Sally Burris did the day she witnessed the incident.

Hefting my metal detector, I go to the hatch and kneel. The original leather grip has been torn off, but someone has affixed a loop of hay twine for a handle, so I use it to lift the hatch. Below, I see a dirt floor that’s built up with decades of manure that’s long since composted. I glance over at Skid. “I’m going down. Hand me the metal detectors, will you?”

“Sure.” Taking my metal detector, he leans it against a support beam and then offers his hand. “Down the hatch.”

I lower myself to a sitting position and dangle my legs through the opening. Taking Skid’s hand, using my other to steady myself, I lower myself through the opening. I gasp upon spotting the hairy face staring back at me.

“You okay down there?” Skid calls out from above.

“Just a billy goat.”

“Well, shit. Does he have horns?”

“Yup.”

I look up to see Skid grin at me through the chute. Passing me the metal detectors, he deftly lowers himself through. I wander to the edge of the stall area and look out at the pens. The rusted steel rails are dented and covered with bird shit. Some lean precariously, held in place by posts set in concrete. The floor is pitted and chipped with a bumper crop of weeds sprouting through the cracks. The low areas and corners contain several inches of soil that has built up over the years.

“Looks like these pens haven’t been used in a while,” I say, stating the obvious.

Skid comes up beside me and I hear him inhale. “I swear it still smells like it, though.”

He’s right, and vaguely I wonder if the Kaufmans keep hogs in another part of the property.

I flip on my metal detector. “Let’s get to work.”

He pauses to motion at the billy goat that greeted me. “He gets too close, Chief, and I swear I’m going to plug him.”

“We’ll probably have to hide the body.…”

For the next fifteen minutes we hunker down and scan the ground as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Somewhere along the way the rest of the goat herd discovered us and, being the curious creatures they are, decided we’re fair game for nibbling and, for the horned male, targets for some friendly head butting. The only thing we’ve recovered so far is a soda can and a rusty coffee can.