Pray for Silence (7 page)

“It’s Kate.”

A beat of silence ensues, and I wonder if he thinks the call is personal. I can practically feel his walls going up. Maybe he’s afraid I’m lonely and drunk and calling him in the middle of the night to scream and rant, though I’ve never fallen to that particular low. “This is an official call,” I clarify.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got a major crime scene here in Painters Mill. Seven vics. All DOA. No sign of the perpetrator. I need a CSU.”

I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I can’t help but remember what he looks like in bed. Boxer shorts. Tousled hair. Beard stubble thick enough to chafe my skin . . .

“Tell me about the vics,” he says.

“Amish family. Five kids. Two teenaged girls were tortured.”

“Sexual assault?”

“I don’t know yet. Probably.”

“Damn.” More rustling. I can tell he’s getting dressed. Stepping into creased trousers. Shrugging into a crisp shirt—an expensive one because John Tomasetti knows how to dress. He’ll take his tie with him and put it on at the office. Stop at Stauf’s for a cranberry muffin and double espresso. He likes his coffee strong.

“Do you know them?” he asks.

“No. They’re from Lancaster. Moved here about a year ago.”

“Premeditated?”

“Probably.”

“What about motive?”

“I don’t know. Looks . . . thought out. Killer spent some time with the two girls.” I relay details of the torture aspect of the case.

“You have a suspect?”

“No.”

The telephone line hisses, reminding me of the miles between us, both figuratively and literally.

“I’ll get a CSU out there pronto to give you guys a hand with the scene.” He pauses. “You want me to come down?”

I hesitate a moment too long. He knows what I’m thinking, and he snaps at me. “For God’s sake, Kate. I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to come for this one, John. There were kids. A baby . . .”

“Let me get it cleared,” he growls. “Give me a day or two to tie some things up.”

“Thanks,” I say. “See you then.”

The closest neighbor to the Planks is a pig farm owned by William Zook, who is also Amish. It’s nearly nine
A.M
. when Glock and I pull into the driveway and park between the barn and house. About nine hours have passed since the Plank family was murdered, and I feel every tick of the clock like the jab of an ice pick. Having worked for two years as a detective in Columbus, I’m well aware that the first forty-eight hours are the most vital in terms of solving a crime. After that, the case goes cold and the chances of a good outcome decrease substantially. I don’t plan on letting that happen.

The farmhouse is plain with badly weathered siding. The barn is octagonal with dirty white paint and tin shingles that have been peeled up by the wind. A tall silo with a rusty dome juts into a low, cloudy sky. A hundred years ago the farm had probably been a showplace. This morning, everything looks as old and tired as I feel.

In the side yard a dozen or more work shirts and trousers hang from a clothesline, flapping like flags in the morning breeze. To my right, pampas grass with spires that shoot ten feet into the air sways to and fro. Beyond, cornstalks rattle in a well-tended garden, and I know the woman of the house fills her days with pulling weeds and canning vegetables.

We exit the Explorer and start toward the front door. The smell of manure is overpowering. Most Amish farms are neat and well managed. The muck is scooped up several times a week and dumped into a manure pit, where it composts and is later used for fertilizer. Evidently, Zook doesn’t exercise good manure management.

Next to me, Glock sighs. “I’ll take you up on the mentholated jelly offer, now.”

“Left it at the scene.”

“Figures.”

Having just left the Plank farmhouse, I can think of more disturbing smells than pig shit, but I don’t comment.

We pass a small ramshackle barn surrounded by a rail fence and an ocean of oozing muck. Dozens of pink pig snouts poke out from between the rails, and I know they’re watching us, hoping for a snack.

At the back door, I knock and concentrate on the trace of mentholated jelly that remains beneath my nose. The door opens to reveal a plump Amish woman wearing a brown dress, a white apron and traditional
kapp
. We stare at each other for several seconds before I recognize her. Twenty years ago, Alma Gerig and I went to school together. She’s several years older than me, but our Amish school was so small, the older and younger children shared the same room.

She’s gained thirty pounds since I last saw her. Her hair is more gray than red. It makes me wonder what my own life might have been like had I remained Amish. Though I see mistrust in her eyes, she offers a genuine smile. “Katie.
Guder mariye.
” Good morning.

“Hello, Alma.” Giving her a passable smile, I flash my badge.

Her smile falters.
“Was der schinner is letz?”
What’s wrong?

“I need to ask you and your husband some questions about something that occurred last night.”

Stepping back, she opens the door wider. She’s nervous now; I see it in the way her eyes flick away from mine. I don’t believe it has anything to do with me personally or the murders. Mistrust between the Amish and the English police has been a problem in this town for as long as I can remember. My being formerly Amish has helped dispel some of the friction, but it hasn’t eradicated it.

“Of course,” Alma says. “Come in.”

Glock and I enter a small living room. The plywood floor is covered with a blue and white braided rug that’s tracked with dirt. Against the far wall, a walnut bench is draped with a worn quilt and a couple of throw pillows. I
smell kerosene and frying scrapple and for an instant I’m reminded of my own childhood home. A bittersweet memory best left in the past.

“There was a problem at the Plank farm,” I begin. “A shooting.”

She presses her hand against her breast. “Was anyone hurt?”

“I’m afraid so.” I don’t elaborate. I want her husband there when I tell them about the murders. I don’t believe the Zooks are involved. Still, I want to see their unrehearsed reactions when I tell them the news.

“Has something happened?”

I turn at the male voice and see William Zook approach from the kitchen. He’s a tall, thin man with hunched shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard badly in need of a trim. He wears a blue work shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a flat brimmed straw hat, trousers and suspenders. His eyes are sharp and suspicious when they land on me.

Showing him my badge, I get right to the point. “Mr. Zook, there was a shooting last night at the Plank farm. I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions.”

“A shooting accident?” His eyes narrow. “Was anyone hurt?”

Normally, I don’t release the names of the deceased until I’ve notified the next of kin. Since the Planks are from Lancaster County, I’m still working on obtaining NOK contact information, which could take a few hours. With the clock ticking and a killer on the loose, I can’t put my investigation on hold that long. If a member of the Zook family saw something, I need to know about it now.

“The entire family was murdered,” I say.

“Ach!”
William presses his hand to his chest.

Across the room, his wife gasps. “The children?”

I glance over at her and shake my head. “There were no survivors.”

Quickly, I shift my attention back to William. His complexion has gone pale. He stares at me as if I’ve just plunged a knife into his chest. “Dead?” he whispers. “All of them?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Alma covers her mouth with both hands and looks at me over the tops of her fingers. “Who would do such an evil thing?”

“Did you see or hear anything strange last night?” I ask.

Both heads shake, but it is William who speaks. “The Plank house is over a mile away. Sometimes we do not see them for days at a time.”

“When did you last see them?” Glock asks.

William shifts his attention to Glock, his brows knitting. “I saw Amos yesterday morning. I was repairing the fence, near the road. He was in the buggy and stopped to say hello.”

“How did he seem?” I ask.

“Fine. We talked about the corn harvest. He wanted me to butcher a hog for him. I told him I would pick out a fat one for them.”

“How did he seem to you? Normal? Nervous or upset?”

He shrugs. “He seemed the same as always.”

Alma wrings her hands. “Who did this terrible thing?”

“We don’t know.” I turn my attention to her. “Were either of you close to the Planks?”

William answers. “We see them at worship.”

“I quilted with Bonnie, Mary and Annie just last week,” Alma puts in.

As a teenager, I spent many an evening cutting, pinning and sewing fabric. Quilting is the perfect activity for female bonding—and an even better forum for gossip. “Did Bonnie or either of the girls mention any problems? Family problems? Money problems?”

“They mentioned no such thing,” Alma responds.

I look at William. He’s standing so close I can see the crumbs from his breakfast toast in his beard. He smells of pig shit and hot lard. “Do you know if they had any enemies?” I ask. “Anyone who might have been unhappy or angry with them?”

“They were good neighbors.” William shakes his head as if still reeling from news of their deaths. “A happy, generous family. I do not understand how this could happen.”

“Has anyone made any threats against them?” Glock asks.

Alma looks upset. I can’t tell if it’s from the news of her neighbors’ deaths or something else. “Everyone loved the Planks. They were very kind.”

“What about the kids?” I press. “Did any of them ever get into trouble?”

Alma shakes her head. “The children were well behaved. Even Mary, who was going through her
rumspringa.
”

Rumspringa
is the “running around” period Amish teens go through when they turn sixteen or so. It’s their time to experience the world without the social constraints of the Plain life. Usually, that entails some drinking and generally harmless misbehaving; nothing excessive. It’s the period in which teens decide whether or not they want to be baptized. Most ultimately choose to join the church. I’m one of a small percentage who did not. But I had my reasons.

Footsteps on the stairs snag my attention. I look over to see two young boys wrestle down the steps. They notice Glock and me, and freeze, giving us dual deer-in-headlights looks.

“No roughhousing inside,” William scolds.

His wife gives me a weak smile. “Our boys, Billy and Isaac.”

“Do you mind if I ask them a couple of questions?” I know sometimes kids see things, know things parents do not.

For an instant, Alma looks alarmed, and I realize my being formerly Amish only goes so far when it comes to bridging gaps.

William calls the boys over and addresses them. “Billy. Isaac. Chief Burkholder would like to ask you a few questions.”

I almost smile when both boys’ eyes widen. “Just a couple of easy ones,” I say in an attempt to put them at ease.

Both boys have thick blond hair blunt cut above their brows. Isaac is younger and looks at me as if I’m about to drag him off to prison for the rest of his life. Billy appears to be about fourteen or fifteen. But there’s a childlike innocence in his expression that belies his age.

I offer my friendliest smile. “How old are you guys?”

“I’m eleven,” Isaac says, his chest puffing out a little.

“That’s pretty old.” I smile, but my attempt at juvenile humor falls flat. I turn my attention to Billy. “How about you?”

“He’s fifteen.” Isaac answers for his brother.

“Did either of you happen to see anything strange over at the Plank farm the last few days?”

“What do you mean by strange?” Isaac asks.

I shrug, noticing the younger boy is much more articulate than his older
brother. “Any English cars? Or maybe a buggy you didn’t recognize? Strangers visiting? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?” Glock asks. “Unusual sounds? Shouting? Crying?”

“No.” Isaac looks toward his parents for direction. “Did something happen to the Planks?”

“I saw Mary’s underwear!” Billy blurts the words, then slaps his hand over his mouth, his cheeks reddening.

The odd comment garners everyone’s attention. Only then do I realize that while Billy is older than Isaac, his mentality is that of a much younger boy. I discern a slight speech impediment. He rounds his Rs and skipped pronunciation of the D altogether. The incidence of mental retardation is slightly higher among the Amish in comparison to the general population. There are several theories on the cause, the most prevalent being the small size of the gene pool. The majority of Amish do not marry outsiders; very few non-Amish join the Plain life. The gene pool has been closed for about twelve generations.

“When did you see her, Billy?” I ask.

“I dunno.” When he looks up at me, I notice he suffers with strabismus, or crossed eyes. “One day. It was sunny. She was pretty.”

“Did you see any strangers?” I ask.

“No strangers.”

“What about cars or buggies? Did you hear any noises?”

“No.” Biting his lower lip, he looks at his father. “Is Mary okay,
Datt
?”

I glance at William.

The Amish man grimaces, then sets his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Mary is in a good place, Billy. The whole family is.”

John Tomasetti arrived at BCI Headquarters at the Rhoades State Office Tower in downtown Columbus at just before nine
A.M
. He should have been thinking about his agenda for the day: the presentation he was supposed to give to a group of sheriffs that afternoon at the Marriott in Worthington, an interview at the Franklin County Correction Center down on Front Street with a suspect involved in the shooting death of a kindergarten teacher.

But Tomasetti’s thoughts weren’t on the day ahead of him as he stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor and headed toward his office. He’d been thinking about Chief of Police Kate Burkholder since her earlier call and a case that would take him back to Painters Mill. They’d kept in touch, but he hadn’t seen her for almost two months. Things had been good between them—the friendship, the sex—but as was usually the case, distance had intervened. Or maybe things had been progressing a little too fast and with a little too much intensity. Kate was cautious, after all. That was one of many things he liked about her.