A Marriage for Meghan (41 page)

Mast held his breath and waited.

“Solomon Trotsler,” said King, ending the suspense. “He lives at lot number eighty-seven, over on White Birch Lane.”

Solomon Trotsler—the name Meghan mentioned.
“Thanks for the tip, Mr. King. I’ll check it out.” He reached to shake the man’s hand.

“You gave my son a leg up. Just thought I would return the favor.”

T
homas walked John King to his truck. After the man drove away, Thomas sprinted to his car on the other side of the parking lot. To save time, he called Sheriff Strickland on the drive out to Misty Meadows. He wanted to question the campground manager about Solomon Trotsler. That name had set off bells in his head. It was the name of the man seen filling two five-gallon cans of gasoline by one of Meghan’s students.

Strickland would check the databanks for anything on Trotsler and start paperwork for a search warrant for his trailer, but Thomas figured the man had flown well below the radar since he’d left the Amish community. Plenty of things were starting to make sense. Trotsler had been shunned by his district and ostracized. No matter what had been the provocation, it had to have been traumatic to be asked to leave. Everything he knew and everyone who offered any type of support had been closed off. Transitioning into the English world would have been difficult with his limited education, work skills without practical application, and few outside friends or contacts.

Resentment left to fester often turned into hatred. Left unchecked, hatred sometimes escalated to retaliation. A former Amish man knew the dangers of downed livestock fences in the middle of the night. He would know turfing a freshly planted field created more headaches than a fallow pasture. He would be familiar with Yoders’ profitable produce stand and the widows’ obscure quilt shop. According to John King’s nephews, Trotsler had been drunk the night he attempted to shoot pool. Alcohol fueled many acts of rage, bolstered courage, and undermined any rational consideration for consequences.

Thomas pulled into the parking lot for campground registration, relieved to see the same rusty pickup parked near the door. When he entered the log cabin, the manager appeared pleased to see him. The building still had the same sour cooking odor, as though cabbage soup simmered behind the cloth drapery on a daily basis.

“Detective,” he said. This time his flannel shirt was blue plaid instead of red, but his position bent over the newspaper hadn’t altered. “What can I do for you today?”

“Agent Mast,” corrected Thomas. “Good to see you again, sir.” After a few moments of chatting about the lovely spring weather, Thomas got to the point. “What can you tell me about Solomon Trotsler?”

The manager scraped a hand across his stubbly jaw. “Bad apple, that one. I plan on booting him out the next time he takes a shot at squirrels from his picnic table. My wife feeds those squirrels apples and sunflower seeds, and this guy wants to put them into his stew pot.” He shook his head with disgust.

“Any other complaints besides discharging firearms within campground boundaries?”

“His nearest neighbors complain he sits around his campfire getting drunk and playing his music too loud. That’s common enough in the summer, but this guy sits outdoors in the dead of winter. And these are school nights we’re talking about, not weekends. Cold weather doesn’t seem to bother him in the least.”

“Did you know Mr. Trotsler was Amish at some point in his life?”

The manager stared blankly and then shook his head. “That explains a few things. It looks like he cuts his own hair. He talks with an accent I don’t recognize, and he had trouble learning how to use the coin laundry.”

“Have you ever heard him disparage the Amish?”

Thomas’s choice of words took a moment to register. “He doesn’t talk to me at all. He pays his rent only when nobody’s here in the office. He slips an envelope through a slot in the door—all cash, never a check or money order. He writes his lot number on the envelope and nothing else. A man of few words, that one.”

Thomas glanced outside at the sound of a vehicle driving past. It was a small compact Toyota, not a monster truck. “Any idea how he earns a living?”

The manager stared at the wall for inspiration. “Nah, but I’m pretty sure he only works part-time. He hightails it out of here only three or four days a week. I see him drive by in that truck of his about five a.m. I’ll tell you what. His truck is sure in a lot better shape than his camper. That tin can he lives in is ready for the scrap heap.”

Thomas felt another surge of excitement, similar to the one he’d experienced with John King’s revelation. “What kind of truck does Trotsler drive? A small pickup like a Ford Ranger?”

“Oh, no, Agent. He drives a huge, dual-axle Silverado with big tires and a foot-and-a-half of clearance under the frame. Figures, don’t it? The guy went from driving a ten-mile-an-hour horse and buggy to a serious piece of automobile.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thomas shook hands again and practically ran out the door. He phoned in the information to the sheriff before jumping into his car. That should be enough for a search warrant. But considering it might take a couple hours, he consulted the Misty Meadows map from his last visit. He chose an adjacent street for his stakeout and positioned himself to watch Trotsler’s campsite.

The man’s pride and joy was parked beside his dilapidated camper. The truck gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine, whereas mud and soot caked the exterior of the trailer. The front entrance featured an upturned bucket instead of steps. A ribbon of smoke curled from a stovepipe chimney at the back end, indicating their suspect was still inside.

Thomas sat and watched. If Trotsler tried to leave, he would intervene and arrest him without waiting for backup. No way would he let this miscreant get away. Trotsler had wreaked havoc on the Amish community for much too long. The sheriff and his deputies would arrive as soon as they had the search warrant. In the meantime, Thomas tried to imagine his parents ever living like this. Trotsler existed in a netherworld between the fringes of two separate societies. He’d been cast out by the Amish and yet had only marginally acclimated to the English world.

From his vantage point, Thomas studied the littered campsite with binoculars. A charred log still smoldered in the fire pit. A nearby pile of crushed beer cans revealed how Trotsler spent his free time. Fast-food wrappers and an empty box of packaged pastries testified to an unhealthy diet. This man used to live in a household filled with garden produce, fresh milk and cheese, and free-range beef and chicken. Thomas spotted an empty can of peas among the discarded beer cans.
An inexpensive addition to his squirrel stew
? He shuddered and slouched down in the seat.

When his parents left the Amish lifestyle, both had found entry-level jobs and completed their education through GED programs. Then his dad attended college at night while working forty-hour workweeks. He struggled to improve his skills while still supporting his family. Eventually, he worked himself up to manager of a chain hardware store. Not once could Thomas remember his parents bad-mouthing their former Christian sect. What could make someone used to living in a tight-knit circle exist as a recluse with little human contact? Thomas jumped when his cell phone jarred him from his reverie.

“Agent Mast? My deputies will be in position within a few minutes. They’ll block any possible escape routes.” As usual, Strickland sounded as though he was firing on all cylinders at maximum capacity. “We have the warrant to search the premises, although from the looks of things that shouldn’t take too long.”

In his rearview mirror, Thomas saw the sheriff’s cruiser pull up behind him. Both men exited their vehicles simultaneously—Strickland with the warrant in one hand while his other rested on his holster. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Thomas drew his weapon and approached the front door of Trotsler’s camper. A deputy brandishing a shotgun stepped out of the brush behind the trailer to discourage flight in that direction.

“Solomon Trotsler,” shouted Thomas. “This is the FBI and the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department. We have a warrant to search the premises. Step outside with your hands raised.” Mast stood to the right of the doorway while Strickland stood to the left, both with guns pointed skyward.

They waited for a silent count to ten before Thomas repeated the command. Water dripped from the leaky gutter. Faraway, a train whistle mournfully signaled an approaching railroad crossing. A dog barked on the next cul-de-sac, but no sounds emanated from inside. “Trotsler, you’re out of options. Open the door and keep your hands where we can see them.”

Strickland held up fingers for a three-count, and then he stepped up onto the overturned bucket. With one fluid movement, he kicked open the door. The rotted wooden frame offered little resistance. Thomas and the sheriff entered the Trotsler residence with firearms leveled almost before the door hit the trailer wall.

It took no time to locate their suspect. In the foul-smelling camper, a thin man sat in an upholstered recliner in the center of the room. With his elbows braced on his knees and his head resting in his hands, Trotsler’s face was hidden. But they heard the muffled sound of sobs over the soft drone of a twelve-inch TV. Within one or two seconds, Thomas absorbed the pertinent details. Newspapers, unopened mail, and food containers littered the floor and covered every flat surface. Empty wine bottles, along with more beer cans than were piled outside, attested to acute alcoholism. The sour odor of spoiled food and an unwashed body assaulted their senses.

Thomas stood in front of his chair. “Solomon Trotsler, we’re taking you in for questioning in a series of recent hate crimes against the Amish population of Wayne County.”

“I knew you’d find me eventually.” Trotsler raised his red-rimmed eyes to focus first on Thomas and then the sheriff. “Hate crimes? You bet I hate them. They kicked me out and wouldn’t let me see her anymore.”

Mast and Strickland exchanged surreptitious glances while the sheriff pulled the suspect to his feet. The vacated vinyl recliner had split, allowing tuffs of fiberfill to protrude in several places.

“See whom?” asked Thomas, snapping on handcuffs.

“Edna Stoll. I loved her. I would have married her if her old man hadn’t married her off to that roofer. It ain’t right that Amish people can’t get divorced. Then we could have gotten hitched instead of sneaking around behind her husband’s back.”

Strickland recited Trotsler’s Miranda warning while Thomas stared at the broken down human being. “This was all because you couldn’t
marry
somebody?” he asked.

Trotsler planted his feet wide. “Edna repented and begged her husband to take her back. He forgave her—just like that—so she never had to leave. Doesn’t that just beat all?” He stared at Thomas as though seeking some kind of validation. “But I wouldn’t say I was sorry in front of the congregation, because I wasn’t.” With his explanation complete, he lifted his chin defiantly and relaxed his stance.

A deputy entered to haul the suspect to a waiting squad car, while a detective stepped inside to gather evidence. He wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Man, what died in here? This guy ever consider hiring a cleaning service?”

Mast and Strickland jumped down from the depressing hovel. “Who would have guessed
that
would be his motivation?” asked the sheriff. “A regular little love triangle. Wait until I tell my wife. She says either love or money is at the root of every crime ever committed.”

Thomas leaned his head back to stretch out his neck muscles. He gazed up at a crystalline blue sky. “You married a very perceptive woman, Bob. I’ll bet Mrs. Stoll would be shocked if she found out how Solomon reacted to their breakup.” He shook his head.

“You got that right. All that old gossip will start up again.” Strickland snapped his holster closed. “Well, this case would be a slam-dunk to try in regular county court. But I’ll bet the federal prosecutor won’t want to touch it—not since an ex-Amish person terrorized members of his former district. You might be going back to Cleveland empty-handed.”

Thomas nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. But to tell you the truth, I’ve enjoyed my assignment down here. It’s been like a working vacation. Life in the city will be dull without a rooster crowing at dawn, cows grazing outside my window, and a home-cooked breakfast each morning in the big house.”

“Sounds like you need to marry a country gal.” Strickland extended his hand for a shake. “Thanks, Thomas. My department appreciated the help from the big dogs.”