“Please tell me you made coffee.”
“Figured you’d be in early. It’s hazelnut.”
I prefer plain old Colombian, but I’ve learned to choose my battles when it comes to Mona’s quirks. “As long as it’s hot.” I head for the coffee station, snag the largest mug I can find.
Grabbing message slips, she rises and crosses to me. “Thought you’d want to see this ASAP. Tom Skanks down at the bakery came in at about four this morning. I guess he starts his doughnuts about that time. Anyway, he said he heard about the Slabaughs and remembered some guy hassling the wife a few days back.”
Coffee forgotten, I take the message from her hand and read “Will be at the bakery until eight.” I glance down at my watch. It’s just after 7:00 A.M. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
“I’ll hold down the fort.”
The Butterhorn Bakery is two blocks from the police station, so I brave the snow and walk. Originally from Boston, Tom Skanks and his wife, Maureen, opened the shop about ten years ago. It’s housed in the storefront of an old brick building that was a funeral home back in the 1970s. Occasionally, Glock or Skid will pick up a couple dozen glazed doughnuts and bring them back to the station. The Skanks have got the best coffee in town and make the tastiest apple fritters I’ve ever had. I always find myself trying not to think about the old crematorium in the basement.
The aromas of cinnamon and yeast reach me from halfway down the block. Warmth envelops me when I open the door and walk inside, and I know Tom has had the big oven at the rear of the store going since the wee hours of the morning. The customer area is dimly lit, since he’s not yet open for business. I look through the service window behind the counter and see Tom in the kitchen area, hovering over a commercial-size deep fryer.
Rounding the counter, I head toward the back and go through the swinging doors. Tom starts when he spots me, sets his hand to his chest. “You trying to give me a heart attack, or what?”
He’s a short man with brown hair and a belly that tells me he spends a good deal of his day sampling the fruits of his labor. He wears a white apron over a navy golf shirt and dark slacks. A smear of flour streaks his right cheek.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” I motion toward the door. “You might consider keeping it locked when you’re not open.”
Shaking his head, he goes to the stainless-steel sink and washes his hands. “I’d argue with you, citing the low crime rate here in Painters Mill, Chief Burkholder. But after hearing about what happened to them Amish folks, I don’t think I’d have a leg to stand on.”
“That’s why I’m here, Tom. I understand you saw some kind of confrontation between Rachael Slabaugh and someone here in town.”
“Didn’t think of it until I heard they might’ve been murdered.” Drying his hands on his apron, he crosses to an industrial-size coffeemaker and pours two cups. “Happened right outside the front door. I saw everything through the window.”
“What happened?”
“That Amish woman…”
“Rachael Slabaugh?”
“Yeah. Her. She was a pretty little thing. I saw her in town all the time, either with the kids or her husband. But she was by herself that day.” He shoves one of the cups at me and motions toward the window. “She tied her horse up to that hitching post, probably to go into the tourist shop next door. Anyway, some guy in one of them little Toyota pickup trucks parked behind her buggy and blocked her in.”
“Did you recognize him?”
He jerks his head. “Damn straight. It was that Jerome Rankin character. One of the biggest assholes I ever met.”
I’ve never met Rankin, but I’m well aware of his reputation. My officers have been called to his residence on at least one occasion for a domestic dispute. From what I understand, he’s got a temper and a mean streak. “So what happened?”
“Well, the Amish lady was trying to leave, asked him nicely to move his truck. But he refused to let her out of the space. Maureen—that’s my wife—was in here waiting on customers, so I stepped outside.” He puffs out his chest a little. “I was a decent boxer back in the day.” He pats his belly. “Of course, I ain’t no more. But I’ll tell you, the things he was saying to that Amish lady made me want to knock his block off.”
I pull out my notebook. “What did he say?”
“Just horrible things.” He glances over his shoulder, then lowers his voice. “You know, like he wanted to stick it in her. Wanted her to suck his dick, stuff like that. Indecent, I tell you.”
“Did he touch her?”
“No. Grabbed the buggy reins once, though.”
“How did it end?”
“I went out there and threatened to call the cops.” He shrugs. “Rankin told me to fuck off, then left. The Amish lady was so shook-up, she left without thanking me.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer, heading toward Jerome Rankin’s last known residence. Beside me, Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore nurses a Styrofoam cup filled with hazelnut coffee. He works the graveyard shift, which is from midnight to 8:00 A.M., and was the only officer available this early, so I asked him to ride along.
We pulled Rankin’s sheet before leaving and checked for priors and warrants. There’s nothing outstanding, but the guy’s got a colorful history. As we head toward his residence, Skid reads the highlights. “Arrested for domestic violence three years ago. No conviction. There was a stalking incident involving the same woman. No conviction. Got a DUI last year. Get this: He was arrested for sexual assault, but the charges were dropped. Been a busy fuckin’ guy.”
“Who took the call for the domestic?”
“I did. It was one of my first arrests here in Painters Mill when I came down from Ann Arbor.” Skid motions toward the approaching intersection. “Turn right here.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “Let me tell you, Rankin’s one crazy son of a bitch, and I ain’t the only one who thinks so.”
I make the turn onto the township road. “How so?”
“It’s weird, Chief. It’s like when you look at him, he’s not all there. Crazy eyes. You know, like there’s something missing.”
“Any history of mental problems?”
He flicks the paper. “Nothing shows up here, but this is pretty cursory.”
Rankin lives in a small frame house nestled in the woods a few miles from Miller’s Pond. When I was a kid, the old place was vacant; some of the English kids in town used to say it was haunted. A few years ago, it caught fire and sustained a good bit of damage. It stood vacant for another year, open to the elements and forest animals, before the owner decided to replace the roof, put in a new furnace and hot-water heater, and rented the place to Rankin. I figure by now he’s realized Rankin is a lot more destructive than the animals and elements combined.
“Looks like he’s home,” Skid says.
I pull into the narrow gravel driveway and park behind an old Toyota pickup truck. “He work anywhere?” I ask.
“I used to see him every so often down at the gas station off the traffic circle. Ain’t seen him there for a while, though.”
I find myself thinking of the missing money from the mason jar in the Slabaugh basement. “I wonder where he gets his cash.”
“Hard telling with this guy.”
I get out of the Explorer. The sun is fully up now. It’s getting warmer, and I can hear the melting snow dripping off the trees. “Head around back,” I say quietly. “Just in case he decides to take a morning jog.”
Grinning, Skid heads around to the back of the house.
I step onto the porch. Wood creaks beneath my boots as I cross to the front door. I’m keenly aware of my service revolver pressing reassuringly against my hip. Using my baton, I knock. “Jerome Rankin?” I say loudly. “This is the police. Open the door.”
Silence falls all around. From the woods behind me, a crow caws. It’s so quiet, I can hear the wind whispering through the trees. I’m about to knock again, when the door swings open. R
ankin appears, looking rumpled and cross. He’s wearing low-slung blue jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, which reveals a bony-looking white chest with a big keloid scar that runs from belly button to nipple. He snarls something unintelligible but distinctly nasty, and I realize I’ve roused him from bed. He doesn’t seem the least bit pleased to find me standing at his door.
“You Rankin?” I ask.
“Who the fuck else would I be?”
Frowning, never taking my eyes from his, I hit my lapel mike, let Skid know I have him. Rankin is one guy I don’t want to be alone with too long. “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?”
“That’s what all the chick cops say.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet.”
A moment later, Skid comes around the corner, his boots crunching through snow and dry leaves. Rankin glances at Skid, then turns his attention back to me. “What do you guys want?”
He’s standing in the doorway, squinting as if the light hurts his eyes. I’d like to take a look inside the house, but I suspect he’s not going to invite us in. I try anyway. “Can we come in?”
“I’ll come out there.” I have to back up a step to let him out of the house. “I didn’t do anything,” he says as he steps onto the porch.
Rankin isn’t tall and doesn’t have a lot of bulk. But he’s got the rangy look of a street fighter, all wire and sinew, with the reflex speed of a rattlesnake. Part of an intricate-looking tattoo runs up the side of his neck like a serpent tail. Despite his diminutive size, I find myself wanting to avoid any kind of tussle.
I hear Skid coming up the steps behind me. “I understand you were involved in a confrontation in town a couple of days ago,” I begin.
“Who says?”
“A little bird,” Skid puts in.
“Don’t remember no confrontation.”
Looking at Rankin, I understand what Skid was saying about his eyes. They’re vacant. Though he’s looking at me, I get the strange sense that he’s not really seeing me. There’s a blank countenance to his stare, like there’s not a whole lot going on as far as thought processes. He’s thinking, but I get the uneasy impression they’re not the kind of thoughts a normal person has.
“I’m a peaceful fuckin’ guy,” he adds, looking pleased by his audacity.
Badass or not, he’s seriously starting to annoy me. “You harassed an Amish woman outside the Butterhorn Bakery.”
Skid eases past us and makes a show of peering through the open door at the interior of the house.
“Don’t recall no Amish woman.” Rankin glances over his shoulder, keeping an eye on Skid.
“I have an eyewitness who says you argued with her and verbally abused her.” When he says nothing, I add, “In case you missed that segment of Law and Order, sport, lying to the cops is against the law.”
“Okay. Fine.” He raises both hands as if in surrender. But his attention is still divided between me and Skid, and I realize he doesn’t want Skid looking in the house. “I might’ve talked to an Amish woman. Last time I checked, that wasn’t against the law. Or did I miss that segment, too?”
“You did more than talk to her. You harassed her. Grabbed the reins of her buggy without her permission.”
“She pressing charges or something?”
“Or something,” Skid echoes.
I frown at him because he’s not helping, then turn my attention back to Rankin. “You had an argument with her, and now she’s dead. You have a history of stalking women. You were arrested for sexual assault. That puts you on my hit list. If I were you, I’d think real hard about cooperating.”
His eyes widen and he takes a quick step back. “You gotta be shitting me. You think…” He backs up another step. “I didn’t do nothing to that chick, man!”
Skid stops looking through the open door and comes up beside me, his eyes on Rankin. “You got a meth pipe on your coffee table, dude.”
“What? You’re full of shit. That ain’t no pipe.” Rankin crosses to the door, yanks the knob, and slams it shut. “You ain’t got no business looking in my fuckin’ house, man.”
“It was in plain sight,” Skid says amiably.
I glance at Skid. “I wonder what else he has in there?”
“Where there’s a pipe, there’s usually meth.”
“That sounds like reasonable cause,” I say conversationally.
“This is a bunch of crap.” Rankin breaks in, his voice incredulous. “I ain’t got no pipe in there! I ain’t done that shit in months. You guys are full of shit.”
“Tell us about the Slabaugh woman, and maybe we’ll let the pipe go,” I say.
“Ain’t no damn pipe!”
“Calm down.” Sobering, looking a little badass himself, Skid steps toward him. “You’re an inch away from getting your ass carted down to the station. You got that?”
“Okay! I’m cool!” Rankin glances over his shoulder, toward the woods. For an instant, I think he’s going to bolt. All he’d have to do is vault the rail. Twenty yards and he’d be in the trees.
I sidle right, positioning myself between him and the porch rail. “Tell me what happened between you and Rachael Slabaugh.”
“Nothin’! I swear to God, I was just messing with her. You know, flirting.”
Flirting. Coming from the mouth of a man arrested for sexual assault, the word pisses me off. A hard rush of anger shakes me, jarring my brain, like a dog shaking a stuffed animal. I envision myself pulling my baton, giving him a couple of good whacks, taking him to his knees. I grapple with my temper, yank it back hard.
“You’re a real Romeo, aren’t you?” Skid comments.
Rankin turns his head and spits. “Fuckin’ hayseed Nazis. You can’t come on my property and jack with me like this. I got rights.”
“We can do it at the station if you prefer,” I say.
Some of his belligerence slips away, but I know it’s only temporary. “Look, man, I already told you, I didn’t do nothing to that Amish chick. I swear. I just talked to her. That’s all.”
“I got a witness says you were verbally abusive.”
“I mighta stepped over the line a little. I ain’t exactly the polite type. But I didn’t put my hands on her. I swear.”
“Where were you yesterday morning?” I ask.
“I was here. Slept in late.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My girlfriend.”
“The one you beat the crap out of a few weeks back?” Skid asks.
He swings around to face Skid. “She fell.”
“So she said.”
I hear Rankin’s teeth grind, like hard chalk against slate, and I put my hand on my baton. “Rankin,” I warn.
“I didn’t touch that bitch!” he shouts. “You can ask her.”
“What’s her name?” I snap. But I already know. I read the emergency room report before leaving the station. Two weeks ago, Rankin’s current girlfriend, Lauren Walker, made a trip to the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital with broken ribs and a broken nose. Suspicious, the attending physician asked her what happened. She claimed she fell down some stairs. It’s an old story, one that’s retold far too often. The doctor notified me, but the next day when I went to her apartment for a statement, she was nowhere to be found.
I look at Rankin, daring him to make a move. “You know we’re going to check with Lauren.”
“Go for it. I was here. All fuckin’ night. We slept late.”
“I find her marked up, and we’ll be back for you,” I say.
“You guys don’t have shit on me.” He looks from me to Skid, gives an incredulous huff. “You’re fishing. Well, I ain’t biting, so hit the fuckin’ road.”
There’s nothing I’d like more than to cuff him and haul him into town. He’s a rude, drug-using, woman-beating son of a bitch. Unfortunately, none of those things make him guilty of murdering the Slabaughs.
“Don’t leave town,” I say.
Muttering obscenities, he yanks the door open, goes ins
ide, and slams it in our faces.
“Now there goes a model citizen,” Skid comments.
I glance at him and lower my voice. “Did you really see a meth pipe in there?”
“I saw something.” He grins. “Might’ve been a pen.”
“I can see how a trained police officer could get those two items confused.” I punctuate the statement by rolling my eyes. “Let’s go find Lauren Walker.”
CHAPTER 9
Skid and I are in my Explorer a few blocks from the station. I’m thinking about swinging by the sheriff’s office to talk to Tomasetti, when my radio crackles. “Chief, we got a ten-sixteen out at the Slabaugh place,” says Lois.
We use the ten-code system in the department. A 10-16 is the code for a domestic dispute. I’ve been the chief of police for three years now, and I have yet to take a call for any kind of domestic problem at an Amish farm.
Skid and I exchange “What now?” looks, and I pick up my mike. “You got details on that, Lois?”
“CSU guy called it in. Said there was a bunch of Amish people out in the yard and there was some kind of argument. He said it looked like a fight was going to erupt.”
“I’m ten-seven-six.” Pulling into the parking lot of a Lutheran church, I turn around and hit the emergency lights.
“Well, that’s a first,” Skid says. “What about Lauren Walker?”
“She’ll have to wait a little while.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the Slabaugh farm. Sure enough, a dozen or so Amish men and women are standing in a group between the barn and the house. Quickly, I park and Skid and I get out. As we approach, I identify Bishop Troyer’s grizzled form in the center of the group and then see Adam Slabaugh, who’s wearing his English work clothes. I notice Salome’s slight form in her blue dress and white kapp. Several Amish women stand at the perimeter of the group, hovering like nervous hens.
I reach them in time to see Mose Slabaugh charge his uncle. Head down, the teenager butts the larger man like a bull, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. I hear a whoosh of breath, and then the elder Slabaugh reels backward, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his butt. Snarling, Mose drops down on top of him. He draws back and lands a blow to his uncle’s cheekbone. Behind me, Skid mutters, “Shit,” and I lunge at the boy.