After the Storm (38 page)

I speak into my shoulder mike. “Abigail Kline may be armed.”

“What’s her twenty?”

“The old barn at the rear of the property. Half a mile in. Send an ambulance.”

“Ten-four.”

I start toward Kaufman. I’ve only taken two steps, when one of the hogs bumps my leg hard enough to knock me off balance.

I lash out with my boot. “Back off!”

I miss and the animal shies away. The boar trots past, snuffling, watching me. Its tusk juts two inches from its lower jaw. Most hog farmers trim the tusks once a year. The teeth can get caught on fences and cause injury. Without trimming, the teeth can grow to several inches in length. The animal becomes a danger not only to other hogs but to its handlers.

Trying not to agitate the hogs, I sidle through the herd. The animals’ bodies are hard against my legs. My knee brushes against one of the sows. Squealing, the animal spins and nips my calf. Pain shoots up the back of my leg.

Bending, I slap the hog hard on the back. “Get back! Go! Get out of here!”

The sow grunts and shuffles away. I glance down at my leg, dismayed to see blood seeping through the fabric, and a chill lodges at the base of my spine. “Shit.
Shit.
”

I reach Kaufman and kneel. His eyes are partially closed and rolled back white. His mouth hangs open. Blood from a broken tooth that’s pierced his lower lip trickles down his chin. At first glance I think he’s dead, then I notice the rise and fall of his chest. Blood coming through his shirt on his left side just above the waistband of his trousers. A gunshot wound.

“Don’t try to move,” I tell him. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

His lids flutter. His eyes focus on my face.
“Heeda der saus,”
he whispers.

Beware the hogs.

The back of my neck prickles. I look over my shoulder. The larger hogs are devouring the fallen bits of hay, threatening the younger animals with snapping jaws when they dart in to steal a scrap.

“What the hell’s wrong with them?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. But I already know. They’re starving. And the reality of the situation sends a quiver of fear through my gut.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

He tries to sit up. His face contorts with pain, and he only manages to flop around like a fish. “My legs … broken, I think.”

“Mr. Kaufman, we need to get out of this pen.”

“The gate.” He motions to a steel gate secured with a chain. “There.”

I look around for his rifle, but it’s nowhere in sight. Bending, I grab his right wrist and start to drag him across the concrete. Kaufman cries out, but I don’t stop. He’s not a large man, but he’s dead weight, and it takes every bit of strength I possess to move him. Progress is excruciatingly slow. I try to avoid the pigs and the patches of stinking black muck, but the pen is crowded and filthy and I don’t quite manage.

I’m fifteen feet from the gate when a shot rings out. I look toward the loft door to see Abigail Kaufman with the rifle to her shoulder, her eye on the sights. Releasing Kaufman’s wrist, I duck down. “Abigail! No! Put down the rifle!”

She doesn’t comply. Gives me no indication that she even heard me. Another shot cracks. A ricochet
zings
off the concrete inches from Kaufman’s head.

I have no cover. She’s at a high vantage point, thirty feet away, close enough even for someone unaccustomed to firearms to hit their mark. “Put down the gun!” I scream. “Do it now!”

Bending, never taking my eyes off her, I reach for Kaufman, grip his wrist, and pull. “Help me, damn it,” I tell him.

Face contorted, he scrabbles with his left leg. When he looks up at me, I see pain and terror in his eyes. “My legs…”

I drag him another couple of feet. I’m only a few feet from the gate when one of the hogs rushes me from behind. Its snout strikes the back of my leg. Tilting its head, it chomps down on my calf. Pain streaks up my leg. The animal shakes me. My balance totters. I drop Kaufman’s hand and barely maintain my balance.

“Get off me! Get away!” I punch the animal hard. The sow releases my leg and continues past, then turns to stare at me with bold, intelligent eyes.

Five feet away, the boar watches me, chomping its teeth.

“Kaufman!” I shout. “Get up!”

The boar charges. Despite its size, the animal is agile and fast. Shoving its snout beneath Kaufman’s shoulder, it roots upward with so much force that the man is flipped onto his side. It’s not until I see blood that I realize he’s been slashed with the tusk.

The old man screams. “The gate! Open it!”

The sow circles for another pass. I step back, keeping her in sight. Another shot rings out. I hear the bullet strike flesh. Kaufman jolts. Vivid red blooms on the fabric of his sleeve and dribbles onto the concrete. His scream rents the air.

I risk a look at the loft door to see Abigail lining up for another shot. “Drop the rifle!” I scream. “Drop it! Right fucking now!”

Another gunshot, followed by a ricochet a foot from where I’m standing. Specks of concrete hit my trousers. Spinning, I run toward the gate. I’ve only gone a few feet when the boar rushes me, rooting the air, its tusk flashing white. I kick it in the snout with my boot. The boar bellows but retreats.

I vault over the top of the gate. A curse grinds from my throat when my injured wrist slams against the ground on the other side. I roll and lie still. For an instant the only sound comes from my labored breaths. The grunting and squealing of the hogs. The wail of a siren in the distance.

Using the gate for support, I get to my feet. Abigail Kline stands at the loft door, staring into the pen below.

“Abigail, drop that rifle!” I shout. “Do it now! Drop it!”

A muffled scream sounds from the pen. Bending, I look between the rails of the gate to see that the hogs have surrounded Kaufman. The larger animals dart in, rooting and slashing. The smaller animals squeal and vie for position. The old man is sitting up, slapping at the animals with both hands. Terror on his face. Mouth open in a silent scream. A big sow lunges at him, slashing at him with her mouth. The scream that follows is horrific. The sow retreats, a bloody scrap in her mouth. A strip of material from his shirt. Horror burgeons inside me when I realize they’re mauling him.…

“Shit.
Shit!
” My hand shakes as I grapple for my shoulder mike. “Man down! In the pen! The hogs are mauling him!”

I step onto the lowest rail of the gate and scream at the animals. “Get back! Get away!”

But the animals are frenzied now. Injured and on the ground, Kaufman makes a feeble attempt to fend them off, slapping at them. For a split second I consider going in to help him. But I know the animals would turn on me, too.

“Back off!” I shout.
“Back off!”

The Amish man’s screams are a horrible, high-pitched keening that opens a fist of revulsion in my gut. I look around for a weapon, something to throw, and I spot a piece of broken fencing on the ground. Part of a busted cinder block. I snatch up both, throw them one at a time as hard as I can at the hogs. Both objects hit home, but neither is large enough to stop the carnage.

Unhooking the chain, I swing open the gate. Several of the hogs swing their heads my way. One of the smaller animals starts toward me. I turn and run toward the barn. Kaufman’s screams follow me. The dreadful sound of a man being eaten alive …

I scale the first fence I come to, putting as many obstacles between me and the hogs as possible. Then I’m in an old stall on the underside of the barn. I spy the hay chute ahead, shove off the cover, and climb through.

A deputy with a shotgun and flak jacket rushes toward me. “Where’s the shooter!
Where’s the shooter?
”

“Loft,” I tell him. “Female. She’s got a rifle.”

He sprints toward the stairs that will take him up a level. I get to my feet and hit my lapel mike. “Man down! He’s being mauled! In the hogpen!”

“Ten-ninety-five.” A voice I don’t recognize tells me he’s taken Abigail Kline into custody.

“Chief!”

I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice, see him come through the front of the barn, face grim, moving fast.

“You hurt?” he asks.

“Kaufman’s down. In the pen. For God’s sake, the hogs are killing him!” I don’t wait for a response. Cradling my injured wrist, I go back to the hay chute and drop down to the stall below. Quickly, I jog to the aisle and rush to the pen. I know immediately something has changed. Kaufman has gone silent. The hogs have quieted.

I reach the gate, startling when a juvenile hog careers past and scurries toward open pasture. I look in the pen. Most of the pigs have fled. Shock and revulsion rise in my chest at the sight of Kaufman—what’s left of him—lying in a pool of blood.

“What the fuck?” Glock whispers behind me.

The Amish man lies unmoving in a prone position with his face turned away. His arms are spread wide. Hands gone, the sleeves of his shirt shredded and blood soaked. One leg is bent at the knee and crossed over the other. A massive pool of blood has been trampled by dozens of cloven hooves.

I tilt my head to my lapel mike. “What’s the ETA on that ambulance?” But I know it’s too late.

“Paramedics just arrived at the house, Chief,” comes T.J.’s voice. “Want me to send them back?”

“That’s affirm. Make it fast.”

I don’t want to go into the pen. I don’t want to see what the hogs did to Kaufman. I don’t want the sight branded onto my brain. I don’t have a choice. I’m a first responder and EMT certified. It’s my responsibility to take every action necessary to preserve life until help arrives.

The gate squeaks when Glock swings it wider. We start toward the fallen man. The stench of manure is powerful, but I barely notice. I can smell the blood now. Too much of it for anyone to have survived.

“This is going to be bad,” Glock mutters.

I stop a few feet away and look down at Kaufman. His shirt and suspenders are shredded and have been torn away from his body. His torso is riddled with bite marks. The flesh on his abdomen is torn, and something gray with blue veins protrudes from the gash. Bile rises into the back of my throat when I look at his face. His eyes stare sightlessly into space. His right cheek has been torn open, exposing the gums and teeth and part of his jawbone. His right ear is gone. His hands are gone. The stumps of his wrists are jagged flesh and the pink-white of protruding bone.

“That’s some disturbing shit,” Glock mutters.

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not sure I can speak even if I try.

Digging into his equipment belt, he digs out a latex glove and slips it onto his right hand. Kneeling, he presses his index finger against Kaufman’s carotid artery.

After a moment, he lowers his head and gives a single shake. “He’s toast.”

*   *   *

The next hours pass in a blur. Abigail Kaufman is taken into custody and transported to the Holmes County Jail in Holmesville. The county prosecutor will have to sort through an array of charges, ranging from the attempted murder of a peace officer, attempted murder for what she did to her parents, and first-degree murder for the poisoning death of her husband. That’s not to mention Kaufman. Since she implicated her brother in the death of Leroy Nolt, two additional Holmes County deputies were dispatched to Abram Kaufman’s farm to bring him in for questioning.

Doc Coblentz pronounces Reuben Kaufman dead at the scene. It’s premature to rule on the cause or manner of death, but in an off-the-record conversation, the coroner tells me that if my bullet had killed Kaufman he wouldn’t have continued to bleed once the hogs went to work on him. By all indications, while the fall and the bullet incapacitated him, he more than likely died of massive trauma and blood loss caused by the mauling that followed. At some point a local animal-protection organization is called in and the hogs are rounded up. I don’t know what will happen to them. I’m not sure I want to.

I recount the incident a dozen times to several law enforcement officials affiliated with two agencies. The case is officially assumed by the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. I give another statement along with the pertinent information on Abigail Kaufman to the lead detective. I physically walk him through the scene, which is being sketched, videotaped, and photographed. I try not to look at any of it.

Once Kaufman’s body is transported to the morgue, the CSU from BCI goes to work. The rifle is confiscated. Since I fired my service revolver, my .38 is also taken for testing “just to cross the t’s and dot the i’s,” according to the detective. The CSU is looking for the slugs from the .22 when Tomasetti calls.

He begins with his usual: “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” But I tell him about my wrist. “Might just be a sprain.”

He makes a sound that’s part dismay, part disapproval. “That’s not code for ‘compound fracture,’ is it?”

I can’t help it; I laugh. It feels good after the things I witnessed this afternoon. It reminds me that I’m alive. That I still have my life and a future with the man I love.

As if understanding, Tomasetti falls silent and listens as I take him through it.

“Tough scene,” he says when I’m finished.

“I don’t think I’m going to be eating pork chops any time soon.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, but it’s short-lived. “Nick Kester and his wife were taken into custody. Kester had a handgun in his possession, but not a rifle.”

“Reuben Kaufman did.”

“He knew you were getting close to figuring things out.”

“Ballistics will probably confirm he was the shooter, not Kester.”

I want to add something about closure and justice, but I’m not sure either of those things is the case. While a killer was taken into custody and three cases were closed, none of them entailed a happy ending for anyone involved. Especially little Lucy Kester, who was the only innocent in the bunch.

“Kate, have you been to the hospital?”

“I’m going to head over that way in a few minutes.”

He just sighs. “Look, I can drive down there if—”

“Tomasetti, I’m okay. Really. You can’t leave work to rescue me every time I get into a scuffle.”