“That’s a violation of our First Amendment rights,” hipster dude tells me.
“You are free to pursue that avenue if you wish.” I motion toward the wall clock. “Less than four minutes now.”
I hear the rattle of paper and glance over to see Lois brandishing the old citation book. It’s old as the hills; we haven’t used it for years. But it’s an effective prop.
I open the book and snag a pen off Lois’s desk. “You can call me anytime to set up an appointment.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” a heavyset cameraman in a Hawaiian shirt mutters.
“You’ll be hearing from legal by the end of the day,” a serious-looking young man calls out.
“Our main number will be included in the press release,” I tell him. “You now have three minutes to vacate the premises. Let’s pick up the pace, people.”
The woman in the pink skirt is already on her phone, her eyes shooting daggers in my direction. I hear her hiss the word “bitch” but I let it go.
Skid moves toward them, his arms spread as if he’s herding sheep. “Watch your step,” he says to no one in particular.
When the last journalist goes through the door, Lois chuckles. “Well played, Chief.”
“Thanks.”
“Can you do that?”
“I hope so,” I tell her.
Now that it’s quiet, I realize she’s looking at me as if seeing me in a whole new light. “I take it you’ve seen the photo.”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but I think everyone has. Made the front page of The Weekly Advocate, and folks have been calling all morning.”
Skid comes back inside. He’s trying not to stare at me, but he’s not doing a very good job.
I motion him over. “You saw it, too?”
He nods. “It’s all over the Internet. I guess people are into the whole Amish-police-misconduct thing.”
“Just so you know, there was no misconduct,” I tell them.
“Never doubted it,” Lois says.
Skid grins. “Next time I catch Steve Ressler speeding?” Ressler being the publisher of The Weekly Advocate. “I’m going to ticket the fucker.”
* * *
I spend twenty minutes fielding calls, most from curious citizens, wanting to know about the photo. Some call to complain. A few call fishing for juicy details that don’t exist. I return every message, assure all of them it’s a nonissue, that there was no misconduct, but if they wish to lodge a complaint they’re free to contact the mayor or town council. Judging from the tone of a few of the local merchants, I suspect they’ll take me up on the offer.
As I wrap up the final call, I find myself eyeing the folders Mona left for me. Since the start, I’ve assured myself I wasn’t going to get involved in a cold case that’s already been investigated, gone to trial, and closed. A case in which the perpetrator was convicted and is now dead.
I open the top folder anyway.
This one contains all the information she could dig up on Joseph King before the murder of his wife. As usual, Mona’s work is thorough, but the file is sparse in terms of documentation. I’d been hoping for a comprehensive criminal case history, arrest or Spillman reports, offense reports, citations, complainant and witness statements. Instead I have a summary report containing a list of charges along with dates and locations, a single summons to appear, four incident reports, a copy of a citation, and a mug shot. Considering King’s lengthy list of infractions, it’s far from complete.
I put the incident reports in date order and hunker down to read. His troubles began nearly four years ago when he received a DUI. According to the deputy’s report, a vehicle clipped the rear quarter panel of his buggy while passing. Evidently, King veered left of center and made contact with the other vehicle. The driver overcorrected, lost control, and hit a tree. He was transported to the hospital via ambulance with minor injuries. The deputy who made the stop smelled alcohol on King. When he searched the buggy, he found an open container of alcohol. The deputy administered a sobriety test, which King failed. He was arrested on a DUI charge. A Breathalyzer test indicated that his BAC (blood alcohol level) was .108 percent, well over the legal limit. King paid a $250 fine and spent six days in jail.
Six months later, a Geauga County sheriff’s deputy stopped him for operating a buggy after dark without lights. According to the report, King was trying to conserve his battery. Again, the deputy smelled liquor on his breath and arrested him on the spot. King’s BAC was .110 percent. King was convicted, spent twenty-two days in jail, and paid a $500 fine.
Just two weeks later, an unnamed caller reported a “loud argument” between King and his wife, Naomi. The deputy arrived to find the couple embroiled in “a heated argument.” Naomi “appeared disheveled, shaken, and frightened of her husband.” The scene inside the home was in “disarray.” The officer spotted a bruise on Naomi King’s neck and, over her protests, arrested her husband on a domestic-violence charge. The charge was later reduced to the threat of domestic violence, which is a second-degree misdemeanor. King spent eight days in jail and paid a $250 fine.
Three months later an anonymous caller reported hearing gunshots and “rapid fire” at the King farm. A Geauga County deputy arrived to find Joseph King “intoxicated” and firing a rifle at “targets” he’d set up. According to the deputy’s notations, King became combative and assaulted the deputy. King was arrested and charged with battery upon a public servant, which is a fourth-degree felony. This time, he did four months in jail.
King had only been out of jail for a week when, in the course of a “domestic violence situation” at his residence, a Geauga County deputy discovered a bag containing marijuana and a small amount of methamphetamine in the Amish man’s coat. King was charged with a second-degree felony. The case went to trial and the charge was ultimately knocked down to a misdemeanor drug possession.
I’m paging through the docs for the third time when it strikes me that there are no witness statements included. Nothing from any of the complainants, including Naomi King. The “unnamed caller” is never identified. There are no photographs accompanying any of the domestic-violence incidents. Most cops are fanatical about recordkeeping, me included. Not because they enjoy truckloads of paperwork, but cops know all too well that in a litigation-run-wild society you cover your ass. That means meticulous documentation.
“So where is it?” I mutter.
I page through the file again, searching for things I missed, but there’s nothing there. It’s true that for religious reasons, most Amish would not be required to have their photographs taken; most police officers are trained to comply. That said, if the photo is only of a bruise somewhere on the body, it’s likely the majority of Amish would allow it. Had Naomi King refused to let them photograph her? While that would explain the lack of photos, it doesn’t explain the sparse information.
I go to the e-mail from Mona and read, Hey Chief. Hope you’re surviving all the craziness re J. King. Clerk at Geauga Records Dept sent everything he had and I printed for you. Hope it helps! See you tomorrow!
The homicide file includes more in terms of documentation. There are pages of detective notes, crime-scene photos, logs, the autopsy report, lab and ballistics reports, and various computer-generated printouts. I read the ballistics report first. I’m midway through when a passage stops me cold. “… evidence that an attempt was made to fire the second shell present in the shotgun. A visible indentation on the primer made by the firing pin indicates the primer failed to ignite, possibly due to improper seating.”
I flip the page and find myself staring at a computer-generated image of a primer that’s been magnified twenty times. Even to my proletarian eye, the mark where the firing pin struck is clearly visible. I think of the story Sadie told about the armed intruder inside the house the night her mamm was murdered and I suppress a shiver.… he raised the long gun like he was going to shoot us. I heard it click, but he must’ve been playing.
Dear God, is it possib
le the shooter tried to kill a three-year-old little girl because he feared she might be able to identify him?
The lead detective was Sidney Tucker. I reach for the phone, knowing I’ll need to be careful with my approach. No law enforcement agency wants some cop from another jurisdiction sniffing around about an old case or questioning their work. I dial the main number for the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department and ask for Detective Tucker.
“There’s no one here by that name,” the receptionist tells me.
I ask her to put me through to the detective unit. A gruff-voiced detective tells me Sidney Tucker retired two years ago.
“Any idea how I can reach him?” I ask.
“I don’t have his contact info. Last I heard he lives out by Mosquito Lake.”
At two P.M. I grab my keys and head to reception. Lois is embroiled in a mound of salad heaped in a Styrofoam container. She looks up at me when I pass by her desk.
“That looks good,” I tell her.
“Tried that new little shop down the street, Chief.” Blotting her mouth with a napkin, she grins. “Don’t tell the folks at the diner.”
“When you get a minute, I need contact info for a retired detective with the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department by the name of Sidney Tucker,” I tell Lois as I head for the door. “Last known address was Mosquito Lake.”
She jots it down. “I’ll see what I can find.”
“If you need me I’ll be up in Geauga County.”
“Joseph King stuff?”
“Just tying up a few loose ends. If anyone asks, I’ve packed up and moved to Key West.”
She grins. “You and me and Jimmy Buffett.”
“And that stray bottle of rum.”
CHAPTER 15
According to Jonas King, Salome Fisher, the bishop’s wife, was Naomi King’s best friend. If anyone knows anything about what was going on in her life, it’s Salome, he told me. I’d been planning to pay her a visit the day I talked to Edward and Jonas King, but I’d gotten the shots-fired call from Mona and had to cut it short. I figure the best friend is probably going to be a good place to begin, so I check the address and head toward Rootstown Township.
Salome and her husband live just off Wilkes Road. It’s a rural area dotted with quaint farms festooned with the iconic silos and bank barns prevalent in this part of Ohio. The mailbox at the end of the lane isn’t marked and I drive past it twice before realizing through process of elimination that it is, indeed, the place I’m looking for. There’s a sign next to the mailbox that reads BROWN EGGS NO SUNDAY SALE. The lane itself is little more than a winding dirt track with a hump of weeds in the center. I follow it a quarter mile before the old white farmhouse looms into view. In the side yard, a garden striped with rows of baby corn, fledgling green beans, and a single row of caged tomato plants. A clothesline is strung next to the house and contains children’s clothes—boys’ trousers, work shirts, and little girls’ dresses—all flapping in the breeze.
I follow the lane around to the rear of the house and park against a railroad timber where a dozen or so guineas and a lone peacock peck at the ground. Outside the barn to my left, two draft horses are hitched to a wagon loaded with hay. I wave at the Amish man watching me from the doorway. He doesn’t wave back.
I take the stone walkway to the front of the house, ascend the steps, and cross to the door. The house sits atop a low hill with a pretty view to the north. In the flower bed next to the porch, a fat hen and a dozen or so chicks peck and scratch at a patch of irises, and I can’t help but remember all the times my mamm burst from the door, armed with a broom, and swatted at the marauding chickens.
“Can I help you?”
I turn to see the Amish man who was in the barn come around the corner of the house. He’s clad completely in black—slacks, vest, and jacket—and a white shirt. I guess him to be around fifty years of age. Pale blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. A salt-and-pepper beard reaches nearly to his belt. The Amish don’t work out or belong to gyms. But physical labor is often part of the lifestyle and this man has the physique of a man half his age. Shoulders the size of tires. A thick neck corded with muscle. Large hands with callused palms and nails worn down to the quick. He makes for an imposing figure as he stops at the base of the steps and squints up at me.
“Mr. Fisher?” I ask.
“That’s me,” he drawls as he ascends the steps. “Who wants to know?”
I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill.”
“Police?” He ignores my hand. “What do you want with me?”
I relay the basics of the Joseph King situation. “I’m actually looking for Salome. I understand she was friends with Naomi.”
“She knew her.”
“Is she home? I’d like to speak with her if she has a few minutes.”
He doesn’t look happy about the request and takes a moment to look out over the pasture to the north. “She’s been trying to put that business behind her,” he says after a moment.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” I add in Deitsch. “I won’t take up too much of her time.”
“Burkholder, you say?” His eyes narrow.
“My parents were Amish.” I’ve no idea if it will get me in the door, but I’m not above using my roots to get things done, especially when it comes to a case.
“I don’t know if she will speak to you. About Naomi, I mean.” He brushes past me. “I’ll go get her.”
He disappears inside, the screen door slamming behind him.
I spend a few minutes watching the chickens move from the now-mangled irises to massacre a beetle that dared trespass onto the sidewalk. I’m wondering if the Fishers forgot about me and thinking about knocking again when the door squeaks open.
To my dismay, it’s not Salome Fisher. “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he tells me in Deitsch.
“Mr. Fisher, I’m just trying to find the truth. Your wife may be the only person who can help.”
He starts to close the door, but I set my hand against it. “Did you know Joseph?”
“Good-bye, Miss Burkholder.” He glares at the place where my hand is preventing the door from closing, so I let it slide away. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
The door clicks shut.
I stand on the porch, disappointment sizzling beneath my skin. “It’s Chief Burkholder,” I mutter.
I take the steps to the sidewalk and make my way toward the rear of the house, where I parked. As I walk past the window, I see the curtains flutter. I wonder if Salome is inside, watching me leave. I wonder if she’s curious, if she feels guilty for not helping me. I slow my pace, hoping she changes her mind, but no one emerges from the house.
Upon reaching the Explorer, I yank open the door, climb behind the wheel, and start the engine. I make a U-turn and start down the lane. My mind is already forging ahead. I’ve just picked up my cell to see if Lois was able to find an address for Sidney Tucker, when I glance in the rearview mirror. Through the billowing dust, I see the figure of an Amish woman running after me, waving her arms.
I hit the brake so hard the tires slide. By the time I get out she’s just a few yards away, breathing hard, her cheeks pink from the exertion of the run.
“Salome?” I call out.
“Ja.” She reaches me, bends at the hip, and takes a moment to catch her breath. “Couldn’t make up my mind if I wanted to talk to you or not.” She straightens. “You’re that Amish police?”
“Yes.” I introduce myself.
Salome Fisher is a pretty woman with a face full of freckles and eyes the color of a summer storm. I guess her to be at least ten years her husband’s junior, but that’s not so unusual among the Amish.
“I knew something bad was going to happen when I heard Joe got loose from jail.” The Amish woman cocks her head. “How are the children?”
I tell her what I know. “They’ll be reunited with their aunt and uncle today, I
think.”
“Poor little things.” She closes her eyes briefly. “I’ve been praying hard for them.”
“Jonas told me you were friends with Naomi,” I say.
The Amish woman looks away, but not before I discern the quick flash of emotion. When she finally turns her gaze to mine, her face is serene, her eyes soft. “Friends?” She hefts a laugh. “More like shveshtahs.” Sisters. “Naomi was the best friend I ever had and probably ever will. I know she’s with God now, but I miss that woman every day.”
“You knew her well?” I ask.
“Better than she knew herself.” Salome’s mouth curves into a melancholy smile. “She was a good friend. A good mother. Wife.” She gives a short laugh. “Naomi King was a force to be reckoned with. So full of life. And a little bit of vinegar, too.”
“Did you know Joseph?” I ask.
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I was no fan of Joseph King.” She spits out the words as if they’re chunks of rotting meat. “Everything that’s happened to him was his own doing. The man was dense as a log.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Well enough to know he was a brute and a drinker. Men like him?” She hefts another laugh. “Sie scheie sich vun haddi arewat.” They shrink from hard work. “Joseph King was a lazy fool with a cesspit for a mouth and a head full of rocks. He had no business having all those children. Always yelling at them. Naomi, too, like she was some dense animal. He liked them to do their share around the farm, but never held himself to the same standard.”
“What kind of relationship did he have with Naomi?” I ask. “Did they get along?”
“They had their differences,” she tells me. “Naomi had a spine on her and a sharp mouth to boot. She put both to good use on that no-good husband of hers.”
Up until now I’d been under the impression that Naomi King was a browbeaten wife who’d had little in the way of a support system. I amend my opinion. “Naomi stood up to him?”
Salome sets her hands on ample hips. “I seen her put him in his place a time or two. I reckon she should’ve taken a buggy whip to him. Doubt that would’ve helped, though.” Her mouth twitches as if she’s remembering something particularly amusing, but there’s pain behind the smile, too. “No one knew it, but sie hot die hosse aa.” She wore the pants in the family.