“She said there was a man in the house the night Naomi was killed. At first, I figured she’d just made it up. You know, because she couldn’t accept the truth about her datt. But the way she told the story…” He shakes his head. “Katie, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I mean, she was only four years old, but I swear to God she was telling the truth.”
I stare at him, aware that the hairs on my forearms are standing up. “What did you do?”
“The next morning I called the public defender’s office. He basically told me Sadie would be deemed unreliable because of her age.”
“It seems like the defense attorney would be all over that,” Glock says.
“He wasn’t the least bit interested.”
“What’s his name?”
“Leonard Floyd.” He frowns. “He’s not going to be much help.”
“Why not?”
“Killed in a car crash six months ago down in Bainbridge.”
“Did anyone follow up?” I ask.
“I made a few calls. Talked to several attorneys.”
“Four to be exact,” Logan puts in.
“To make a long story short, they all said that while Sadie could be questioned as a possible witness, because of her age and the inability to cross-examine, her testimony would be disallowed.” Jonas grimaces. “But I couldn’t get it out of my head. I mean, I believed her. And I started thinking about some other things that had happened to Joe during and even before the trial. Things that just didn’t add up.”
“Like what?” Glock asks.
“A few weeks before the murder, the sheriff’s department busted Joseph with some meth during a traffic stop. It’s true that Joe had been drinking; he admitted it. But he swore the meth wasn’t his. Said he’d never tried it. But in usual Joe fashion, he screwed up and ended up pleading no contest for a lesser sentence. Then there was the domestic-violence charge for when he”—Jonas makes air quotes with his fingers—“‘hit’ Naomi.
“Joe always denied it, but he’d been in so much trouble I didn’t know whether to believe him. I mean, everyone knew he had a temper. I saw him put his fist through a window once, the asshole. So I never really questioned the charge. He did time in jail for the domestic-violence charge, by the way.
“Anyway, while he was in jail, I went to see Naomi and the kids, just to check on them and see how they were doing. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with Naomi and she told me Joe didn’t hit her.”
Jonas makes a sound of exasperation. “I’m, like, what? Then it’s confession time for her. Naomi starts crying and told me the police got it wrong. She told me the deputy who responded to the call just started putting words in her mouth. And get this: Because she was Amish, there were no photos taken, so they didn’t even have that as evidence.” He sighs. “In the end, Joe was convicted. He denied it from the start, but by then he had zero credibility and no one believed him.”
“Did Naomi go to bat for him?” I ask.
“She was big into the whole separation thing. She didn’t like the cops or the whole legal system. She didn’t understand the legal process. Didn’t want to get involved. Frankly, I think she didn’t realize how serious the charge was, and she wanted to be rid of Joe for a few days.”
“So she let her husband go to jail?” Glock presses.
Jonas and Logan exchange a look. “That was our reaction, too,” Logan says. “But yeah.”
“And of course, Joe was Joe.” Jonas rolls his eyes. “I mean, here’s Joe, facing jail time for the meth—serious as hell, right? So he’s out on bond, he goes fishing up to Lake Erie and misses his court date. But that’s Joe for you and, believe me, it didn’t help. But, Katie, he always maintained that someone planted that meth. I figured one of his friends had left it in the buggy or something. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“When people get into trouble with the law, they say all sorts of things to try and get out of it,” Glock says.
“I get that,” Jonas says. “I do. And I know how all of this must sound. I mean, Joe isn’t exactly a Boy Scout, right?”
Logan steps in. “At that point Jonas took his concerns to the sheriff’s department.”
“And?” I ask.
“They jerked me around for a couple weeks,” Jonas explains, “wouldn’t return my calls. In the end all I got was a rash of patronizing bullshit and pat answers.”
Jonas stops speaking, slightly breathless, and divides his attention between me and Glock. “No one knows better than me that Joe didn’t help his cause. He’s the only person on this earth I’ve ever come to blows with. But I’m absolutely certain he did not murder Naomi.”
The words echo, their meaning as cold and heavy as steel.
“Someone did,” Glock says.
“If not Joseph, then who?” I ask.
“I’ve racked my brain.” Jonas gives an adamant shake of his head. “I have no idea.”
“Anyone we should talk to?” I ask.
He looks at me, a slow smile touching his mouth. “Salome Fisher might be able to shed some light.”
“Who’s she?”
“The bishop’s wife,” he tells me. “She was Naomi’s best friend. She won’t speak to me, because I’m … well.” He nods toward Logan. “But Naomi and Salome were close, Chief Burkholder. If anyone knows anything about what was going on in her life, it’s Salome.”
I pull out my pad and write down the name. “Where can I find her?”
“She lives south of here, off Wilkes Road. Got a farm out there with her husband.” His mouth curls. “From what I hear they weren’t very helpful when the cops were there after Naomi died.”
I’m still digesting everything that’s been said when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display and see DISPATCH pop up. “I have to take this.” Turning away from the men, I answer with my name.
“Chief, I got shots fired out at the Beachy farmhouse.”
“Shit.” I reach down and turn up the volume of my radio, the hiss and bark of traffic jumping at me. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering why I didn’t get the call from Ryan or even Tomasetti. “Anyone hurt?”
“Details are sketchy. The story I’m hearing is that King fired on a deputy. Deputy returned fire.”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 11
I use my emergency lights and siren and make the trip back to Painters Mill in an hour. All the while my mind runs the gauntlet of scenarios that could have played out. Did King panic and fire on law enforcement? Were the cops overzealous? Did it somehow involve the children? Was it an accidental discharge? The most troubling question of all: Am I wrong about King?
Using his cell, Glock tries to gather information, but no one seems to know exactly what happened. Just that gunfire was exchanged. Or else no one’s talking.
The scene hasn’t changed much in the hours since I left, but there’s a frenetic energy now that wasn’t there before. The road in front of the farm is jammed with law enforcement vehicles from as far away as Cleveland now. The media presence has tripled to include The Columbus Dispatch, a television station out of Akron, and another out of Cleveland.
Rather than fight my way through the crush of vehicles, I park a distance away and hoof it to the command center. A white van emblazoned with WAYNE COUNTY SPECIAL REACTION TEAM is parked a few yards behind the command center. A young deputy in full riot gear is leaning against the front grille, talking on his cell.
I fly up the steps and go through the door without knocking. Jeff Crowder is standing in the center of the room, looking at me as if I’m some undesirable that’s wandered in off the street. Curtis Scanlon is sitting at the table, the headset looped around his neck like a noose. A deputy clad in SWAT gear sits at the table across from him, watching me with dispassionate eyes.
“Is anyone hurt?” I ask.
“No,” Scanlon replies, but the word doesn’t jibe with the way he’s looking at me.
“King? The kids?”
“Haven
’t been able to get him on the phone.”
“Shit.” I take a breath, make an effort to dial it down and look around the room. “What happened?”
“King fired on one of my deputies,” Crowder says. “The deputy returned fire.”
The words jam a knot into my gut. Now that there’s been an exchange of gunfire, it’s only a matter of time before SWAT makes a crisis entry.
The temperature inside the command center is uncomfortably hot despite the blast of the air conditioner. Tension lies heavy in the air. No one’s talking. There’s no place for me to sit, so I move to the hallway that leads to the cab. It’s the only place left that won’t interfere with the flow of the RV or obstruct any of the electronics, and not for the first time I feel as if I’m in the way.
“Is Ryan around?” I ask Crowder.
“Yep.”
He doesn’t elaborate, so I glance toward the front of the RV, thinking he may have gone into the cab. “I need to speak with him.”
Crowder smirks. “If you’re in that big a hurry I reckon you could drag him out of the toilet.”
Chuckles erupt. I smile, but my face heats.
Careful, a little voice warns.
I wait for a span of several heartbeats, but no one speaks. No one makes an effort to bring me up to speed on the situation. No one makes eye contact with me.
What the hell?
The restroom door swings open. Jason Ryan steps out, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He doesn’t look pleased to see me.
Aware that all eyes are on me, I cross to him. “What happened?”
“Evidently King isn’t in the mood to chat so we’re kind of stuck in a holding pattern for now,” Ryan says, and then, “Excuse me.” Turning away, he tugs his cell from his pocket and just like that, I’m dismissed.
I glance at Crowder. Looking pleased by the exchange, he sneers and turns away. Scanlon is hunched over his iPad, brows knit, suddenly absorbed. Even the other deputy gives me the cold shoulder, which tells me he was present for at least one conversation in which I was the topic.
They’re shutting me out. Cutting me off. Letting me know in no uncertain terms that I’m not needed. I’m not part of the team. This isn’t my gig.
The door swings open. I glance over my shoulder to see a grim-faced Sheriff Mike Rasmussen come through, a folded newspaper in his hand. I’ve known Mike for about three years now. He’s a solid cop and an apolitical sheriff with a laid-back personality, a wicked sense of humor, and truckloads of good judgment. There was a time—before he knew that Tomasetti and I were together—when he wanted to be more than professional counterparts. I consider him a friend and I know I can count on him to give it to me straight—even if he knows it’s something I don’t want to hear.
“You look like someone just shot your dog,” Crowder tells him.
Rasmussen ignores him; his eyes are fastened to mine. In their depths I see an unsettling combination of discomfort and irritation. His mouth is pulled into a thin, hard line. He thrusts the newspaper at me. “You seen this?”
Perplexed, I take the paper, unfold it. The floor tilts beneath my feet when I see the front page. For an instant, I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a color photo of me standing in the doorway of the Beachy farmhouse. King is leaning in to me, too close, his mouth a scant inch from mine. The headline reads SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY.
My heart does a sickening roll and begins to pound. I can’t look away from the photo. It’s damning. Easily misconstrued. I’m aware that everyone is staring at me.
“I didn’t want to spring this on you like this,” Rasmussen tells me. “But it’s out. I thought you should know.”
I hear Rasmussen’s voice as if from a great distance. I’m aware of the blood rushing to my face, heat on my cheeks, that I’ve gone breathless.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say.
Ryan approaches, his eyes on the newspaper. Something sinks inside me when Rasmussen hands him another copy. “I bought up all the newspaper in the machine outside the diner. But there’s no stopping it. It looks bad, Kate, and we’re probably going to have to deal with some kind of fallout.”
Ryan actually recoils when he sees the photo. He blinks twice and then his eyes find mine. “You didn’t tell us King made … inappropriate advances toward you.”
“He didn’t. Not really.” I flick my finger against the photo, refold the newspaper, and lower it to my side. “That’s not what it looks like.” I add a good bit of attitude to my voice, but the fact that I’m being forced to defend myself belies the bravado.
Ryan scrapes his hand over his hair, but he’s still looking at the photo. “All right.” He doesn’t know what else to say.
“That photo is extremely misleading,” I say, struggling to keep my cool.
Crowder laughs outright when he sees the photo. “For God’s sake!”
I look at him, saying nothing. But I know he’s not going to remain silent.
“Looks pretty damn cozy to me,” Crowder mutters.
There’s nothing I can say that will explain or excuse the photo. If I remain silent, I risk my counterparts filling in the blanks with speculation. No matter what I say, the words will be the wrong ones.
“As you can imagine, the situation was intense inside the farmhouse,” I say. “King and I grew up together. When I left, he moved to embrace me. It wasn’t appropriate so I stopped it.” I motion toward the newspaper. “That photo was shot in that instant before I turned away from him.”
“I believe you, of course.” Ryan says the words a little too quickly, his eyes flicking to Rasmussen; he isn’t sure what to think. What to say. “No one is questioning your conduct.”
Crowder laughs. “The media are going to have a field day with that.”
Rasmussen takes the newspaper from Ryan’s hands. “If you have nothing productive to add, Crowder, I suggest you keep your mouth shut. That kind of commentary isn’t helping.”
Crowder doesn’t take it personally. Shaking his head, he walks back to the table and reclaims his chair.
Rasmussen slants a look at Ryan. “Is this going to be a problem? I mean PR-wise?”
“It doesn’t look good.” Ryan shrugs.
Scanlon finally speaks. “I don’t want King to see that.”
“No reason why he could,” Rasmussen says. “Unless he’s in there, Googling himself.”
“I’m assuming the newspaper is online, too,” Ryan growls.
“Checking now.” Rasmussen thumbs the Web-site address into his phone and utters a curse. “Yup.”
“Circulation can’t be much,” Scanlon says.
“People are still going to notice,” Rasmussen puts in. “Especially if it gets picked up by a larger outlet…”
Though I did nothing wrong, something akin to shame slinks through me. The hard truth is that I’ve compromised the credibility of the operation. I look at the men, hating the way their eyes slide away. Suddenly I’ve become one of those female cops. The ones who aren’t respected. Who aren’t to be trusted. The ones who aren’t part of the team.
“Look, we’re all on the same page here,” Ryan says diplomatically. “The photo looks bad. It’s going to be misunderstood. We’re going to be criticized. People are going to talk. If there’s even a hint of impropriety or misconduct, things could get complicated. I mean, legally, but—”
“Could get dicey if we have to take this guy out.” Crowder watches me, hoping I’ll bite, waiting for a reaction.
I don’t give it to him.
Rasmussen passes me the newspaper. “I don’t think there’s any way we can work this to our advantage.”
No one responds. No one looks at me. No one knows what to say. What can they say?
“Kate, look, you’ve been the consummate professional through all this and everyone knows it,” Ryan tells me. “You’ve been a tremendous help and I mean it. But that photo is going to undoubtedly complicate an already complicated situation. Look, no reflection on the good wor
k you’ve done here and the hours and energy you’ve put into this thing. But this might be a good time for you to take a step back.”
He phrased it as if I have a say in the matter, but of course I don’t. I’m poison and I’m being told to butt out. Stay away from the case. Stay away from King.
Rasmussen finally makes eye contact with me. “I’ll keep you posted on how things are going.”
“I appreciate that.” I look at Ryan, but he’s already turned away. I want to shout at them that I didn’t do anything wrong. There was no misconduct on my part. But I know there are times when perceptions outweigh facts, and this is a prime example.
I stand there another minute, watching the men work. But I’ve been effectively dismissed. It rankles. They’re treating me as if I crossed some invisible line. As if I did something unscrupulous. I think about Tomasetti and how he might see this, and another layer of misery washes over me.
Ryan looks away from his phone call and makes eye contact with me. “We’ll give you a call if we need you again, Chief Burkholder.” His gaze slips to the door and back to me. “Thanks again for everything.”
Fury sizzles beneath my skin, but I don’t give it voice. “Sure thing,” I tell him.
Eyes burn into my back as I make my way to the door. Then I’m through it, too much pride to slam it, and I take the steps to the scene outside.
I’m standing at the base of the stairs, trying to convince myself that my ego isn’t bruised and smarting, when I spot Tomasetti striding toward me.
“You calling it a night?” he asks.
All I can think is that he doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen the headline. “We need to talk,” I say.
He reaches me and stops, tilting his head to catch my eye. “You okay?”
“No.” I pass him the newspaper.
He unfolds it, his eyes scanning. His expression reveals nothing as he takes in the photo and skims the accompanying article. When his eyes meet mine they’re as hard and sharp as a scythe. He hands it back to me without speaking.
“Did Ryan see this?” he asks.
“They all did. Just now.”
“What did he say?”