After the Storm (31 page)

“That shifty-eyed son of a bitch butts me one more time and I’m going to—” Skid’s words are cut off when a deep male voice sounds from inside the barn.

“What are you doing in my parents’ barn?”

I look up to see Abram Kaufman glaring down at me. He’s wearing the same clothes with the same bloodstains on his shirt and trousers. I see the outline of the knife in his pocket. He’s holding a pitchfork in his right hand.

“Mr. Kaufman.” Leaning my metal detector against the pen, I walk to the area directly below the doorway. “We talked to your mother earlier. She said we could take a look around.”

His eyes narrow at the sight of the metal detectors. “Why would the English police want to look around an old barn? Don’t you have better things to do?”

“It’s related to the case we talked about earlier,” I say vaguely.

He considers the metal detector at my side. “What are you looking for?”

“We were told Nolt visited here at your parents’ farm a few days before he disappeared,” I say, fishing.

The Amish man stares at me for a long while. His expression isn’t friendly. “He might’ve come around once or twice, looking for work. Or a handout.”

“Was he here the day someone fell into this pen?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A little girl from next door claims to have witnessed an accident here at this farm. In this barn. She told her mother she saw someone fall into the hogpen.” I make a gesture to encompass the pen where I’m standing. “The sheriff’s department responded, made a report. Do you recall an incident like that?”

“Nothing like that ever happened.” He shrugs. “That child was always sneaking over. Leaving the gate open. Making up stories.”

“Gruesome stories?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What did she see that day?”

“Chief Burkholder, I believe it’s time you packed up your machines and left.” His gaze rolls to Skid. “You, too. Hit the road.”

“All right, Mr. Kaufman. Whatever you say.” I make a show of switching off my metal detector. “Do your parents still raise hogs here on the property, Mr. Kaufman?” I ask as I sling the carrying strap over my shoulder.

“They’ve never raised hogs here.” He points to the south side of the pen. “There’s the gate. Make use of it. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come back.”

CHAPTER 23

Since adulthood, I’ve considered myself an enlightened woman. I keep myself informed about issues that are important to me, including my health. That said, I’d rather stick my hand in a running garbage disposal than go to the doctor. Aside from a few trips to the ER for minor injuries sustained in the course of my job, I’ve managed to avoid that particular displeasure. But with my pregnancy looming large, it’s no longer just about me, so when Skid and I arrive back at the station, I make the call and set the appointment for tomorrow at noon.

I’m packing my laptop into its case, about to call it a day, when my phone buzzes. I glance down to see
POMERENE HOSPITAL
blink on the display and I hit
SPEAKER
. “Burkholder.”

“Hi, Chief. It’s Doctor Megason over at Pomerene. I thought you’d want to know.… Jeramy Kline died about an hour ago.”

Surprise takes a swipe at me. “What was the cause of death?”

“That’s the thing, Chief. I don’t know. He went into respiratory failure, so we put him on a ventilator. He suffered with uncontrolled gastric bleeding. We couldn’t get him stabilized. Heart began to fail. He coded twice this morning. This afternoon, he coded again and we couldn’t get him back.”

“You ran a tox screen?”

“It came back negative. No drugs. No alcohol.”

“Healthy middle-aged men don’t fall ill and die without cause,” I tell him.

“Rarely.”

“Doc Coblentz is going to want an autopsy to determine cause and manner of death,” I tell him. “So do I.”

“I figured that would be the case, so I went ahead and notified him.” He pauses. “Kate, we may run into some resistance from the family. When I notified the deceased’s next of kin, his wife, Abigail, wanted to take him home immediately.”

In the state of Ohio, the coroner doesn’t need permission from the deceased’s next of kin before performing an autopsy in order to determine cause of death. “I’ll talk to her,” I say.

“As you can imagine, she’s pretty broken up.”

“Is there someone there with her?”

“Nice Amish family arrived just a few minutes ago to take her home.”

“Good.” But my mind is already plowing through all the murky possibilities of what might have led to the untimely demise of Jeramy Kline. “Doctor Megason, if you had to take a guess on what killed him, what would you say?”

“I hate to speculate on something like that. But if I had to, I’d venture to say he came into contact with some kind of toxin. Something he ingested, more than likely. A pesticide perhaps. Whatever the case, it was very lethal. Jeramy Kline didn’t stand a chance.”

We chat for a few more minutes, then I thank him and end the call. The timing of Kline’s death bothers me. He’d been a person of interest in the Leroy Nolt case. I’d connected the two men through Abigail Kaufman. Is it coincidence that he fell ill and died less than a week after the discovery of Leroy Nolt’s remains? Or did someone
want
him dead and make it happen? If that’s the case, what’s the motive? Did Kline know something about Nolt’s death? Was someone afraid he’d talk to the police? Or am I looking at this all wrong?

I pick up the phone and call Doc Coblentz. “I thought I might be hearing from you,” he begins without preamble.

“Doc, I need to know the cause and manner of death of Jeramy Kline.”

“You and me both. I’ve cleared my schedule and plan to perform the autopsy day after tomorrow.”

I’d been hoping he could do it sooner, but I’ve learned not to push. “Doc, is there some type of comprehensive tox screen you can run?”

“Are you looking for something specific?”

“Not really. But Doc Megason thinks Kline may have come into contact with some kind of toxin.”

“Such as?”

“Since Kline was a farmer, I thought we could check for pesticides. Or any farming-related poison that may have been absorbed, ingested, or inhaled.” I think about Jeramy Kline’s being Amish, their predilection for folk remedies, and add, “Is there a tox you can run that will isolate a toxin that’s plant in origin?”

“I can send samples of tissues, blood, and urine for a poison screen.” He pauses. “There are many toxins that don’t show up if we’re not looking for it. It would be tremendously helpful if you could be a little more specific.”

“I wish I could,” I tell him. “If you could just run everything you can think of.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“In the interim, I’ll talk to Abigail Kline and see if she can shed some light on the matter.”

“Kate, there’s one more thing: I performed the autopsy on the infant child Lucy Kester this morning, and I found some irregularities you need to know about.”

For a terrible moment I think he’s going to tell me that the little girl died at the hands of a first responder, after being mishandled, not knowing that first responder was me. “What did you find?” Closing my eyes, I brace.

“I don’t believe the child died from injuries sustained from trauma related to the tornado, as we’d initially assumed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cause of death was a subdural hematoma—”

“What is that?” I interject.

“A hemorrhage between the dura mater and the brain.”

“Brain injury?”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. There were several irregularities I noticed right off the bat. In the course of my preliminary examination of the body, I noticed a slight protrusion of the anterior fontanelle—”

“Doc, in English…”

“The soft spot on top of the head,” he says. “There was a slight bulge. So I had an MRI performed, and there was, indeed, a hemorrhage between the dura mater and the brain.”

“Is it possible it happened in the tornado? Doc, that mobile home was off its foundation and lying on its side. I found the baby beneath a playpen, but there was a sofa and television and a chair in the room. Any one of those things could have crushed that child.”

The pause that follows tells me he’s just realized I was a first responder. “Kate, normally under these circumstances I wouldn’t look twice at something like this. There’s no doubt that in the course of a violent storm the child had been tossed about inside her home. But the injuries I’ve described are not crushing injuries.” He sighs unhappily. “I also discovered retinal hemorrhage in both eyes. X-rays indicated two healed rib fractures.”

Terrible images flash in my mind’s eye. The sweet face of a helpless baby girl. A tiny body in my arms, warm against my breast. Darker, disturbing images of an adult, a temper run amok. At the same time, the guilt that had been pressing down on me since the moment I heard of her death transforms into a slow, seething outrage.

“Doc, are you telling me that child was abused?”

“I strongly suspect the injuries present—both new and old—were sustained at the hands of a caregiver hours or even weeks before the storm.”

I think of Nick and Paula Kester and I wonder how a young mother or father could do something so heinous to their own child. “My God, she was only four months old.”

He heaves a sigh. “Look, Kate, shaken baby syndrome is highly controversial, even within the medical community. In light of the circumstances of this infant’s death, and before I can rule on cause or manner of death, I need to bring in a forensic pathologist for a second opinion.”

Shaken baby syndrome. My God.

“Let me know the instant you get that second opinion,” I tell him.

“Count on it,” he says, and ends the call.

*   *   *

I leave the police station immediately after my conversation with Doc Coblentz. Our conversation follows me, his words taunting me with terrible possibilities.

 … the injuries present—both new and old—were sustained at the hands of a caregiver hours or even weeks before the storm.

 … shaken baby syndrome is highly controversial, even within the medical community.

I think of Lucy Kester, so tiny and vulnerable, and I wonder how anyone could inflict violence upon a baby. What kind of person does something like that? But the part of me that is a cop, the part of me that has dealt with individuals who’ve hit bottom—people who for whatever reason are incapable of exercising restraint or feeling even the most fundamental human emotions—knows those people are part of our society and things like this happen far too often.

It’s dusk by the time I arrive at the Kline farm. Somewhere along the way I managed to put the news of Lucy Kester in some small compartment for later, so I can deal with the situation at hand with a clear head.

I’m surprised to find the farm deserted. When there’s a death in the Amish community, friends and neighbors converge upon the bereaved in droves. The women clean and cook and care for the children. The men take over the running of the farm, feeding the livestock and taking care of any crops. When Big Joe Beiler’s
datt
passed away a few years ago at the height of harvest season, Amish men came from miles away, most leaving their own crops in the field, to cut and bundle forty acres of corn.

I go to the front door and knock anyway. No one answers, so I stroll to the edge of the porch and look out over the yard and field beyond. A pleasant breeze caresses my face, bringing with it the smell of new foliage and the scent of honeysuckle, and I breathe in deeply. To my right I see Abigail’s garden. Beyond, countless rows of corn sway in the breeze. Pulling one of my cards from my pocket, I go to the front door and slide it between the screen and the jamb, but it slips out and flutters to the floor. I’ve just stooped to pick it up, when I notice the wicker basket shoved against the wall, beneath the porch swing. It’s the one Abigail was using to pick dandelion greens the other day. Oddly, it’s still full of wilted greens.

I pick up the card. I’m about to rise, when something in the basket snags my attention. Not all the greens are dandelions, but the reddish stems of what looks like miniature rhubarb. Only it’s not. My
mamm
grew rhubarb and regularly made strawberry-rhubarb pies, so I know what it looks like. I stare at the red stems, and a distant memory whispers unpleasant tidings in my ear. I remember my
mamm
telling me there are certain plants you don’t ever pick when you’re harvesting dandelions.
If it’s red, put it to bed.…

Kneeling, I pluck the questionable plant from the basket. The leaves are saggy and wilted, but the stem is still firm and red.

If it’s red, put it to bed.…

I pull a small evidence bag from a compartment on my belt, tuck the stem into it, and drop it in my pocket. Leaving the basket, I rise and take the steps to the side yard. The grass is freshly mowed, probably by Jeramy before he fell ill. I cross the gravel driveway and head to the horse pen and barn. The grass is knee-high here with a profusion of goldenrod and thistle with lavender tops. Closer to the barn, I see another plant that’s thigh-high with a reddish stem, egg-shaped, pointed leaves, and clusters of tiny white flowers. I go to it and kneel to study the stem. Sure enough, it’s the same as the one in the evidence bag.

If it’s red, put it to bed.…

Pulling on my gloves, I remove the small knife from my belt and cut off about a foot of the plant, capturing the stem, leaves, and flowers. An ink-like liquid the color of blood drips from the cut, and another quiver of uneasiness runs through me. I’ve seen this plant before. I was warned away from it by my
mamm
because it’s poisonous. It’s known by many names: nightshade. Cancer jalap. Pokeweed. There are certain times of the year when you can eat the new leaves safely, but they must be thoroughly boiled, the water tossed, and boiled again. Some Amish use the berries in pies and even harvest the tubers for canning, but you have to be very careful. My
mamm
never took the chance and forbade us to touch it.