His bloodshot eyes sweep the room. He doesn’t bother with introductions. “What’s the situation?”
“We just started the debriefing.” Ryan pulls out a chair. “Have a seat. We’re going to want your take on this guy.”
Crowder crosses the room, pulls out a chair, and lowers himself into it with an exhale.
Ryan turns his attention back to me. “King’s armed?”
“He’s got my sidearm,” I tell him, trying not to wince. “A thirty-eight. City issue. I believe there’s a long gun in the house, too.”
Rasmussen shifts uncomfortably. Tomasetti looks away. Having your weapon commandeered by a previously unarmed suspect is the consummate rookie mistake. In the eyes of my counterparts, and regardless of the circumstances, indefensible.
Crowder makes a sound of thinly veiled disgust.
Ignoring all of it, I tell them about discovering the stolen vehicle. “I’d just called for backup when he ambushed me.”
Ryan snags a legal pad from a shelf behind him and pulls a pen from his breast pocket. He drops both onto the table between us. “Did King say what he wants? Did he make any demands?”
I recap the highlights of everything that was said, including the fact that I’d known him when we were kids. “King is claiming he didn’t murder his wife,” I tell him.
“Yeah and Jack the Ripper didn’t gut eleven women,” Crowder mutters.
“He wants someone to look into his case,” I say. “Give the evidence a second look.”
Ryan scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Of course he does.”
“What’s his frame of mind?” Scanlon asks.
“He’s on edge. Nervous. But not out of control,” I reply.
“Suicidal?” the negotiator asks.
I shake my head. “He said nothing to indicate he wanted to hurt himself. Or anyone else for that matter. He did, however, state he wasn’t going back to prison.”
Ryan and Scanlon exchange looks.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Crowder mutters. Mr. Helpful.
“Tell me about the hostages,” Ryan says.
I give him the names and ages of the children and he jots them on the notepad.
“Where are the children?” Ryan asks.
“Upstairs,” I reply. “They’d just gone to bed a few minutes before I left.”
“They have the run of the house?”
“Yes.”
Ryan snatches up his phone, thumbs a button, and speaks to someone on the other end. “See if you can find blueprints of that house. I know it’s old. Just do it.” He pockets the phone and turns his attention back to me.
“One more time, Chief Burkholder,” Ryan says. “Take us through everything that happened from the get-go.”
I start at the beginning and run through it to the end, recalling the conversations to the best of my memory. When he asks, I offer my impressions. Mostly, I stick to the facts. “I asked King multiple times to release the children, but he refused.”
“Are the children afraid of him?” Scanlon asks.
I shake my head. “Not at all. In fact, they seem quite content to have him in the house. King has fed them. Put them to bed. After seeing the way he interacted with them—and the way they responded—I don’t believe he means to harm them. I don’t believe they’re in imminent danger.” I shrug. “They seem more worried about all the police activity.”
“Well, that’s cozy as hell,” Crowder says.
Ryan jots something on the pad of paper. “He get any extra ammo with that thirty-eight?”
“Just what’s in the cylinder.”
A pause ensues. Everyone absorbing the information, trying to come up with a strategy.
“You grew up with King,” Scanlon says.
“His family lived next door to our farm for about six years,” I reply.
As I speak, I sense Tomasetti watching me intently from across the table. He’s been unusually reticent. I’m not sure if it’s the result of his earlier worry about me, or because he doesn’t like seeing me on the hot seat.
Ryan looks at Scanlon. “Any way we can use that to our advantage?”
Scanlon nods. “Might be helpful to keep Chief Burkholder around as a resource in case we run out of ideas on this thing.”
“I’ll help any way I can,” I tell them. “But honestly, I tried appealing to him while I was inside and he wasn’t receptive.”
Ryan glances at his watch. “Anything else, Chief Burkholder?”
I tell them about the little Amish girl’s assertion that there was a man with a long gun in the house the night Naomi King was killed.
“Now we got the one-armed man,” Crowder grumbles.
I take them through the girl’s account, leaving nothing out. Ryan scribbles onto a pad. Scanlon types into a tablet. All the while I’m aware of dispassionate eyes on me, and I know the information is falling on deaf ears.
“Let me get this straight.” Crowder crosses his arms over his barrel chest and leans back in his chair. “So that fucking King marches a five-year-old into the room, puts her in front of you, and has her tell you that she witnessed the murder?”
“She didn’t witness the murder,” I tell him. “She claims she saw a man with a rifle in the house that night.”
“You’re aware the murder was over two years ago,” Crowder states. “She was only three years old at the time.”
“I did the math,” I tell him.
“He coached her,” Crowder says.
“It has been my experience that a witness that age is unreliable.” Ryan looks from Scanlon to Crowder. “Jeff, were those kids interviewed by Children Services?”
“The sheriff’s department talked to all of them. So did social workers from Children Services,” Crowder replies. “I do recall one of them mentioning a man with a gun, but the kid was too young and the psychologist deemed her unreliable.”
“What’s your take, Chief Burkholder?” Tomasetti asks. “Did the girl seem credible?”
Leave it to Tomasetti to prod the elephant in the room.
“She’s five years old now,” I tell them. “She relayed the story without input from King. I’m no expert, but if King coached her, he did a good job. She seemed credible. Confident. She gave details that would have been difficult for a five-year-old to fabricate.”
“Details like what?” Crowder asks.
“For one thing she said the intruder was clean-shaven. Her father, being a married Amish man, had a full beard at the time of his arrest. She also said the intruder wasn’t dressed in Amish clothes.”
“Doesn’t seem too complicated,” says Crowder.
“She also said the man pointed the long gun at her,” I say. “She claimed to have heard a ‘click,’ as if he’d pulled the trigger but for whatever reason the rifle didn’t fire. If King had coached her, why would he ask her to say something like that? It doesn’t make sense.”
The men fall silent. Rasmussen and Tomasetti are looking down at their notes. Crowder, Ryan, and Scanlon are staring at me as if trying to decide if I’ve sided with the enemy.
“What are you saying exactly?” Ryan asks.
I meet his gaze head-on. “I’m telling you what was said.”
“We had a shitload of evidence against that son of a bitch,” Crowder says. “We’re talking fingerprints. Blood. Gunshot residue. His fishing story was full of holes.”
Ryan intervenes. “The children will certainly be interviewed again when this is over.” He looks around the table. “We’re not going to retry King tonight so let’s deal with the crisis at hand. We need to get those hostages out of there unharmed and get King to lay down his weapons and turn himself in.”
Rasmussen addresses Ryan. “Did you talk to the warden at Mansfield?”
Ryan nods. “They know how he got out, but they’re still trying to figure out if he had help.” He turns his attention to me. “Did King mention anything about the escape? Did he have help? Was it was planned? Or did he take advantage of an opportunity?”
/> “He didn’t mention the escape at all,” I tell them.
“Considering you used to know King, do you think it’s possible he targeted you in some way?” Ryan asks.
“There’s no way he could have known I’d be in those woods,” I say.
“Did he know you’re a cop now and living in Painters Mill?”
“He mentioned he had read about it.”
The beat of silence that follows sends a string of tension through me. I try to quiet the unsettled little voice whispering things I don’t want to hear, but I know how cops think. They’re a suspicious lot, me included, and I know I’m just a step or two away from being accused of sleeping with the enemy.
“Any idea why he released you?” Scanlon asks. “I mean, you’re a cop. Seems like you’d be a high-value hostage.”
In unison, Ryan and Tomasetti lean in.
“I think he released me because he wants me to look into his case.”
“So you agreed to look into it?” Crowder asks.
“I explained to him it’s out of my jurisdiction, but I’d see what I could do.”
“Good answer.” Scanlon looks around the table. “If worse comes to worse, we can use it, dangle that carrot.”
“Let’s take advantage of any leverage we can get.” Ryan turns his attention back to me. “Did he at any point threaten you?”
“He pointed the gun at me. I took that as a threat.”
“Did he threaten the hostages?” Scanlon asks.
“No.”
“Did he physically assault you or anyone else inside the house?” Ryan asks.
“Just when he jumped me in the woods. Even then, I don’t believe his intent was to cause bodily harm. He wasn’t unduly violent. No punching or hitting. It was more like he just wanted to overpower me, gain access to my weapon, and get me inside the house.”
Crowder sneers. “That’s when he got your weapon? When he jumped you in the woods?”
“Correct.”
“You’d called for backup at that point, though, right?” he asks.
I give the sheriff a pointed look. “I was on the phone with my dispatcher when he came at me, tackled me to the ground.”
“You’d been notified there was an escapee in the area, hadn’t you?” Crowder says.
“I’d received a notification call from ODRC, but I didn’t believe King would show up in Painters Mill.”
Crowder shakes his head with flourish. The sentiment behind it isn’t lost on me—or anyone else. “With the Amish being so … family-oriented, I assumed you’d realize there was a high probability he’d return to them.”
Another jab aimed at me. I don’t jab back. No one knows more clearly than me that I screwed up. “He’s from Geauga County,” I point out. “Not Painters Mill. I didn’t expect him to come into a community in which he isn’t a member of the church district. That’s not to mention he’s estranged from his family. The Amish here in Painters Mill want nothing to do with him.”
“Evidently ODRC thought the threat of him turning up here was great enough to put you on the notify list,” the sheriff shoots back. “I mean, the guy’s kids are here. That’s a big deal.”
I stare at him, fingers of anger poking me, irritating me, goading me to poke back. But I know it would be counterproductive. Crowder may be an asshole, but I’m the one who got myself ambushed and my sidearm taken. So I suck it up and keep my mouth shut.
“Maybe you should have taken that call from ODRC a little more seriously.” Crowder skewers me with a nasty look before adding the coup de grâce. “I hear that happens a lot with you.”
I stare back at him. My heart is pounding. My hands are beginning to shake. But I give him nothing. “If you have something to say, maybe you ought to just say it.”
He takes me up on it. “You knew there was an escaped felon in the area, and yet you were out in the woods, in the middle of the night, alone, and without backup. As a result of your poor judgment, he disarmed you, took five minor children hostage. He keeps the kids, but you get sent on your merry way. Now, not only do we have to deal with a hostage situation, but a crazy shit who’s armed with your service revolver.”
It’s a cheap shot, but I don’t defend myself. As angry as I am about being raked over the coals in the presence of my peers, the bottom line is he’s right.
“King had actually taken those hostages before ambushing Chief Burkholder,” Tomasetti points out.
Ryan intervenes. “I believe she’s well aware of the situation at hand, Jeff.”
“In case you’re not reading between the lines, Sheriff,” Tomasetti adds, “that means keep your extraneous commentary to yourself.”
I risk a glance at Tomasetti. Outwardly, he appears calm and in control. But I know him too well. He’s one more word away from launching an all-out assault on Crowder.
Crowder isn’t deterred. “Don’t tell me to keep my commentary to myself. I know what this motherfucker is capable of. I saw what he did to his wife.” He glares at me. “I saw Naomi King lying in her bed with her goddamn chest laid open and her intestines all over the sheets. I saw all them poor kids with blood all over their hands.” He looks at Ryan. “Joseph King is a dangerous son of a bitch and every single one of us would be wise not to forget it.”
CHAPTER 9
The words are damning—worse than damning—especially coming from the sheriff of the county in which the murder happened. Not for the first time I wonder if I’m wrong about Joseph. If I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist. That he murdered his wife in cold blood, he coached his little girl to lie for him, and I’m a fool for entertaining any possibility other than the one that’s been established by solid police work, a copious amount of evidence, and an impartial jury.
No one speaks. No one looks at me. Except Crowder. He’s staring at me; his face is red, the capillaries in his nose and cheeks standing out like ink on leather, his lips drawn tight over clenched teeth.
“That’s enough, Crowder.” Tomasetti’s voice is like steel.
The two men stare at each other for the span of several heartbeats. Finally, Crowder rises. “Excuse me,” he says, and strides to the coffeemaker.
I feel my credibility slipping away. These men are losing faith in me, in my competence as a cop. In their eyes I’ve become something I detest. A novelty because I’m female. A figurehead because I’m formerly Amish in a town where that matters. I’m not sure how it happened so quickly, but I know that no matter what I say from this point forward, it will be met with skepticism.
Ryan moves to break the tension. “For now we need to figure out how to best deal with King and get those kids out of there.”
Scanlon looks at his watch and addresses Ryan. “I need to get a dialogue started with this guy. See if I can get a read on him. That’ll help us get some kind of strategy in place.”
Ryan glances my way. “I’m assuming there’s no electricity in the house.”
I nod. “He’s got lanterns.”
Crowder returns to the table, a cup of coffee in hand. “Can’t even cut off the fucking electricity,” he grumbles.
“Does he have family in the area?” Scanlon poses the question to Crowder. “Parents? Grandparents? Close relatives can be helpful in terms of negotiation.”
“Seems like all of those Amish are related somehow,” the sheriff says. “We got four or five families with the same last name in the area. I’ll put one of my deputies on it, see what he can find out.”
I look at Ryan. “Joseph King has two brothers, Jonas and Edward. His parents are dead.” I look at Crowder. “Are either of them still in the area?”
“There’s an Edward King lives out to Huntsburg Township. Everyone calls him Stink Ed. Raises turkeys and the place smells to high heaven.” He looks around the table, his eyes skipping over me as if I’m not there. “Problem is Stink Ed’s one of them Amish that don’t like dealing with the rest of us.”
He realizes quickly the words were a mistake. Before he can
rephrase, Tomasetti jumps on it. “Chief Burkholder used to know the family. She knows the Amish culture, the language.” He looks at me, his expression deadpan. “Maybe you ought to run up there and see if either brother is willing to help.”
“We’ve got a good relationship with the Amish,” Crowder says. “I’d rather send one of my guys.”
“I’m betting Chief Burkholder would be plenty effective,” Tomasetti maintains.
“I figure she’d be even more effective if she called it a day,” Crowder says.
Ryan groans. “Come on, people. Cut the crap. We need to take advantage of all our resources here.” He looks at me. “Go talk to Ed King and his brother.” He frowns at Crowder. “I need you here.”
Crowder holds his gaze, stone-faced, saying nothing.
“Any idea where his other brother, Jonas, lives?” I ask Crowder.
Crowder doesn’t even look at me. “No idea.”
Ryan calls me over to where he’s sitting. “We’re probably not going to get blueprints on that old house. Can you give me a rough idea of the layout? Kids’ bedrooms? Is there a basement? It’ll be helpful to know where the doors and windows are, and where the people are inside.”
Spying a pad on the table, he slides it over to me.
I pick up the pen and draw a crude outline of the house. “The kitchen is on the west side,” I tell them. “There’s a window above the sink here. A door off the mudroom that probably leads to the basement. Stairs to the second level are between the kitchen and living room. No windows there. I’m pretty sure the bedrooms are upstairs. That’s where the kids were when I left.”
“Where’s King?”
“He spent most of his time at the kitchen table.” I indicate the general position.
I study the crude sketch, recalling a few outside details as I left. “There are cellar doors on the east side, here.” I draw an arrow to the windows. “Living room windows face north. Front door is here and faces east.”
“Lots of trees on the east side,” Rasmussen says offhandedly.
Crowder sits up a little straighter. “We got SWAT on scene.”
Scanlon slides his chair back and rises. “I’m going to make contact.”