Seeds of Deception: A Kate Burkholder Short Story (8 page)

She looked up at the sky. Snow slanting down. Her feet leaving furrows in the snow. And she wondered:
How will I run without my boot?

CHAPTER 1

Dusk arrives early and without fanfare in northeastern Ohio in late January. It’s not yet five
P.M
. and already the woods on the north side of Hogpath Road are alive with shadows. I’m behind the wheel of my city-issue Explorer, listening to the nearly nonexistent activity on my police radio, uncharacteristically anxious for my shift to end. In the field to my left, the falling snow has transformed the cut cornstalks to an army of miniature skeletal snowmen. It’s the first snow of what has been a mild season so far, but with a low-pressure system barreling down from Canada, the situation is about to change. By morning, my small police department and I will undoubtedly be dealing with a slew of accidents, hopefully none too serious.

My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill, Ohio, a township of just over 5,300 souls, half of whom are Amish, including my own family. I left the fold when I was eighteen, not an easy feat when all I’d ever known was the plain life. After a disastrous first year on my own in nearby Columbus, I earned my GED and landed an unlikely part-time job: answering phones at a police substation. I spent my evenings at the local community college, eventually earning an associate’s degree in criminal justice. A year later, I graduated from the police academy and became a patrol officer. Over the next six years, I worked my way up to homicide detective and became the youngest female to make the cut.

When my
mamm
passed away a couple years later, I returned to Painters Mill, my past, and my estranged Amish family. The police chief had recently retired and the town council and mayor—citing my law enforcement experience and my knowledge of the Amish culture—asked me to fill the position. They’d been looking for a candidate who could bridge a cultural gap that directly affected the local economy. My roots had been calling to me for quite some time, and after weeks of soul-searching, I accepted the position and never looked back.

Most of the Amish have forgiven me the transgressions of my youth. I may be an
Englischer
now, but when I smile or wave, most return the gesture. A few of the Old Order and Swartzentruber families still won’t speak to me. When I greet them—even in my first language of
Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch
—they turn away or pretend they didn’t notice. I don’t take it personally. I like to call that part of my repatriation a work in progress.

My own family wasn’t much different at first. Early on, my sister and brother would barely speak to me. In keeping with the Anabaptist tenet of excluding the wicked from the group, they’d effectively excommunicated me. We’re still not as close as we once were; chances are we’ll never again find the special bond we shared as children. But we’ve made headway. My siblings invite me into their homes and take meals with me. It’s a trend I hope will continue.

I’m anticipating the evening ahead—a quiet dinner at the farm where I live with my lover, John Tomasetti. He’s also in law enforcement—an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I love him, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Like any couple, we’ve encountered a few bumps along the way, mostly because of our pasts—both of which are slightly checkered. But he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and when I think of the future, it makes me happy to know he’s part of it.

I’m doing fifty, headlights on, wipers making a valiant attempt to keep the snow at bay. I’ve just crested the hill at the intersection of County Road 13 when the buggy materializes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard to the left and stomp the brake. The Explorer fishtails, but I steer into the skid. For an instant, I think I’m going to plow into the back of the buggy. Then the tires catch asphalt and my vehicle comes to an abrupt halt on the gravel shoulder on the opposite side of the road.

I sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. Several thoughts strike my brain at once. I didn’t see the buggy until I was nearly upon it. The accident would have been my fault. Everyone on board probably would have been injured—or worse.

Through the passenger side window, I see the horse come to a stop. Flipping on my overhead emergency lights, I back up so that I’m behind the buggy to protect it from oncoming traffic. I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out, noticing immediately that there’s no lantern or reflective signage anywhere on the buggy.

The driver exits the buggy as I approach. I keep my beam low to avoid blinding him as I take his measure. Male. Six feet tall. Mid-thirties. Black jacket. Black, flat-brimmed hat. Matching steel-wool beard that hangs to his belly. His clothes, along with the fact that the buggy is without a windshield, tell me he’s Swartzentruber. I’ve seen him around town, but I’ve never spoken to him. I don’t know his name.

“
Guder Ohvet,
” I begin. Good evening.

He blinks, surprised that I speak Pennsylvania Dutch, and responds in kind.

Leaning forward slightly, I shine my beam into the buggy. A thirtyish Amish woman, also clad in black, and six children ranging in age from infant to preteen are huddled in the rear, their legs covered with two knitted afghans. The woman is holding a baby. Dismay swirls in my gut when I’m reminded how this could have turned out.

“
And Wie bischt du heit?
” I ask the woman. How are you today?

She averts her gaze.

“
Miah bin zimmlich gut,
” comes the man’s voice from the front. We are good.

When dealing with the Amish in an official capacity, particularly the Old Order or Swartzentruber, I always make an effort to put them at ease before getting down to police business. Smiling at the woman, I lean back and address the man. “
Sis kald heit.
” It’s cold today.

“Ja.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Elam Shetler.”

“Do you have an ID card, Mr. Shetler?”

He shakes his head. “We are Swartzentruber,” he tells me, as if that explains everything.

To me, it does. The Amish don’t drive; if they need to travel a long distance, they hire a driver. Most do not have driver’s licenses, but apply for DMV-issued ID cards. Not so with the Swartzentruber, whose belief system prevents them from having their photographs taken.

“Mr. Shetler, I came over that hill and didn’t see your buggy.” I motion toward the vehicle in question. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a lantern or reflective signage.”

“Ornamentation,” he mutters in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I nearly struck your buggy.” I nod toward his wife and children. “Someone could have been seriously injured.”

“I trust in God, not some
Englischer
symbol.”

“
Ich fashtay.
” I understand. “But it’s the law, Mr. Shetler.”

“God will take care of us.”

“Or maybe He’d prefer you put a slow-moving vehicle sign on your buggy so you and your family live long, happy lives.”

For an instant he’s not sure how to respond. Then he barks out a laugh. “
Sell is nix as baeffzes.
” That is nothing but trifling talk.

“The Revised Ohio Code requires reflective signage on all slow-moving vehicles.” I lower my voice. “I was there the night Paul Borntrager and his children were killed, Mr. Shetler. It was a terrible thing to behold. I don’t want that to happen to you or your family.”

I can tell by the Amish man’s expression that my words are falling on deaf ears. His mind is made up, and he won’t change it for me or anyone else. I’m trying to decide whether to cite him when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see Tomasetti’s number on the display.

Opting to call him back, I return my attention to Shetler. “Next time I see you on the road without the proper signage,” I tell him, “I will cite you. You will pay a fine. Do you understand?”

“I believe we are finished here.” Turning away, he climbs back into the buggy.

I stand on the shoulder, listening to the jingle of the horse’s harness and the
clip-clop
of shod hooves as he guides the buggy back onto the asphalt and drives away.

Snow falls softly on my shoulders. The cut cornstalks whisper at me to let it go. “Jackass,” I mutter.

I’m sliding behind the wheel when my radio cracks. “Chief?” comes the voice of my second-shift dispatcher.

I pick up my mike. “What’s up, Jodie?”

“You’ve got visitors here at the station.”

“Visitors?” For an instant I envision my sister or brother sitting in the reception area, feeling out of place while they wait for me to show. “Who is it?”

“Agent Tomasetti, some suit from BCI, and an agent from New York.”

My memory pings. Tomasetti had mentioned a few days ago that the deputy superintendent wanted to talk to me about an investigation. But the meeting hadn’t yet been scheduled and he didn’t have any details. Odd that they would drop by after hours on a snowy afternoon without giving me a heads-up. Even more unusual that one of the men is from New York.

“Any idea what they want?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but they look kind of serious, Chief.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Like there might be something big going on.”

“Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Perplexed, trying not to be aggravated, I put the Explorer in gear and start toward the station, hoping Elam Shetler and his family make it home safely.

*   *   *

I arrive at the station to find Tomasetti’s Tahoe and an unmarked brown Crown Vic with New York plates parked next to my reserved spot. There’s already a dusting of snow on the vehicles. I park and high-tail it inside. When I enter reception, I find my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, sitting at her desk, eyes closed, drumming her palms against her desktop to Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep.”

Usually, her workaday antics are a source of entertainment for all of us. Since we have official visitors this afternoon, I’m not quite as amused. I’m midway to her desk when she opens her eyes. She starts at the sight of me, then quickly turns off the radio. “Hey, Chief.”

I pluck messages from my slot. “Any idea where our visitors are?”

“Agent Tomasetti’s showing them the jail in the base—”

“Right here, Chief,” comes Tomasetti’s voice from the hall.

He’s still clad in the charcoal suit and lavender tie he put on at seven this morning. He’s wearing his professional face, no smile for me, and I know this isn’t a happenstance visit. The two men coming down the hall behind him aren’t here for a tour of my single-cell basement jail.

“Hi … Agent Tomasetti.” It’s a ridiculously formal greeting considering we’ve been living together for over a year.

“Hi.” Two strides and he extends his hand. “Sorry for the last-minute notice.”

“No problem. I was on my way here anyway.”

“Heavy weather in store for New York tomorrow,” he explains. “Investigator Betancourt wants to drive back tonight, before the roads get too bad.”

“Long drive.” I turn my attention to the two men coming up beside Tomasetti. I don’t recognize either of them, but I can tell by their demeanors that they’re law enforcement. Overly direct gazes. Suits off the rack. Taking my measure with a little too much intensity. Grim expressions that relay nothing in terms of emotion or mood. That cop attitude I know so well. I catch a glimpse of a leather shoulder holster peeking out from beneath the taller man’s jacket.

Tomasetti makes introductions. “This is Deputy Superintendent Lawrence Bates with BCI.” He motions to a tall, lanky man with an angular face and skin that’s deeply lined, probably from years on the golf course. Blue eyes behind square-rimmed glasses. Hairline just beginning to recede. The slight odor of cigarettes he tried to mask with chewing gum and cologne.

I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, Deputy Superintendent Bates.”

He brushes off the formal title with a grin that belies an otherwise serious demeanor. “Larry, please.” He has a firm grip. Dry palm. Quick release. “I patently deny whatever Tomasetti has told you about me.”

I return the grin. “I hope so.”

Tomasetti motions to the other man. I guess him to be about the same age as Bates. Conservatively dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, red tie, he looks more like a fed than a statie. He’s not much taller than me, but he’s built like a bulldog and has a face to match. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes just starting to go bloodshot. Five o’clock shadow. He’s got
long day
written all over him.

“This is Frank Betancourt, senior investigator with the BCI division of the New York State Police.”

I detect calluses on his hand when we shake, telling me he spends a good bit of his time at the gym lifting weights. His eyes are direct, and when I look at him, he holds my gaze.

“You’re a long way from home,” I tell him.

“That’s not such a bad thing this time of year.” His smile is an afterthought, his jowls dropping quickly back into a frown.

A pause ensues. An awkward moment when no one says anything. And I realize that with the niceties out of the way, they’re anxious to get down to business.

Bates rubs his hands together. “Can we have a few minutes of your time, Chief Burkholder? We’ve got a developing situation in upstate New York we’d like to discuss with you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tomasetti scowl.

“We can talk in my office.” I motion toward the door and lead the way inside. “Anyone want coffee?”

All three men decline, telling me they’re seasoned enough to know that police stations and decent coffee is an oxymoron. Tomasetti and Bates settle into the visitor chairs adjacent to my desk. Betancourt chooses to stand and claims his place near the door.

I remove my coat, hang it on the rack next to the window, and slide into my chair. “It’s not often that we have visitors from BCI or the New York State Police,” I begin.

“Tomasetti tells me you used to be Amish,” Bates says.

“I was. I was born here in Painters Mill to Amish parents, but I left when I was eighteen.”