“Was he ever abusive to her?” I ask. “I mean, physically?”
“Never saw it. I mean, not outright. But Naomi was private that way. Especially when things weren’t going well. She never complained, though I suspect she had plenty of grievances.” She shrugs. “But we talked like women do, you know. Too much if you ask our husbands, but then what do they know?”
“Were you aware of the domestic-violence charge against Joseph?”
“Naomi told me about it the day after they took Joe away. Everyone was talking about it—you know how the Amish are. They might be pious, but they like their gossip.”
“What did she say?”
Salome takes her time answering. “I got the impression she didn’t understand exactly what was going on when the policeman came to the house. She didn’t mix much with the Englischers, you know. She didn’t even realize it was a serious thing until she read about it later in The Budget. By then it was too late for her to do anything about it, so she just let Joe deal with it on his own.”
“Salome, did Joseph hit her?”
Grimacing, she shakes her head. “Joe might’ve been as dense as a stump, even a little mean at times, but he never hit her. Not that I ever heard about, anyway.”
A frisson of titillation zips through me. The kind that comes with a new tidbit of information on a case that’s been stingy with facts. “Naomi let them charge and convict her husband when she knew he was innocent?”
“Joe wasn’t exactly innocent now, was he? He was drinking and spoiling for a fight so the police came out and did what they do.” She knows what I’m getting at and frowns. “We are separate, Chief Burkholder. Naomi didn’t understand exactly what the police were doing. It didn’t help that the policeman didn’t explain. All she knew was that they took Joe to jail because he’d broken some English law.”
Her expression turns troubled. “This is just me talking, but I suspect she was glad to be rid of him. Maybe she thought spending a little bit of time in jail would teach him a lesson. Give him some time to think and give her and the kids a few days of peace.”
Her eyes slide toward the house and then her voice drops to a whisper. “My husband is the bishop. Naomi had come to him before, talked to him about Joe. Once, when she told him Joe had been taken to jail, he told her it was God’s way of getting him off the road he’d been traveling.”
If I didn’t understand the Amish mind-set so well, I might’ve experienced a moment of indignation. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen something like this happen; I’m not surprised. In their quest to remain separate from the rest of the world, some Amish will stick their heads in the sand. They learn the hard way that ignorance is no protection from the law.
I move on to my next question. “Did Joseph get along with the kids?”
“Oh, he loved them. In his own way, I suppose. Always had a way with them because they loved him right back.”
“Did Naomi and Joseph have a phone in their home?” I ask.
“Joe had a cell phone a time or two. Never was one to follow the Ordnung. But they didn’t have one in their home. If Naomi needed to make a call she used the pay phone at the end of the road.”
“Do you have any idea who called the police?” I ask. “Or how the police knew Naomi and Joseph were arguing?”
She blinks as if the question hadn’t occurred to her, but should have. “I don’t know.”
For a moment I think she’s going to say more. I wait, but she doesn’t.
“How did you find out Naomi had been killed?” I ask.
“Stink Ed drove the buggy over and told us. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was just beside himself. Didn’t go into much detail. Could barely speak. Just enough to tell us she was gone.” She presses her hand against her chest. “I went to pieces. Couldn’t believe it.” She shores up her emotions with a smile. “The only comfort came with knowing she was with God.”
“Did you suspect Joseph?” I ask.
“I figured there’d been some kind of accident with the buggy or maybe something medical. Then I heard Joseph was in trouble and … I don’t even know what I thought.”
“Do you think he did it?” I ask.
She locks her gaze on mine. “I reckon he did if the law says so.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Much as I disliked Joseph, I never thought him capable of something like that. Shooting his own wife while she slept? With all them kids in the house?”
“Is there anyone else you can think of who might’ve wanted to hurt Naomi?”
“Someone else?” She looks at me as if my hair is suddenly peeling away from my scalp. “But … I thought Joseph was … I mean, he had a trial and it was decided.”
I wait and she finally gives an adamant shake of her head. “Everyone loved Naomi.”
“What about Joseph? Did he have any enemies that you know of? Any ongoing disputes? Over money or—”
My words are cut off by a male voice. “Ich bin sell geshvetz laydich!” I’m tired of that kind of talk. “Die zeit zu cumma inseid is nau!” The time to come inside is now.
I look past Salome to see her husband standing in the gravel lane twenty yards away, his hands on his hips, staring at us. I didn’t hear him approach.
Knowing our time is limited, I repeat my question. “Did Joseph have any enemies?” I ask quickly.
She glances over her shoulder at her husband, then back at me. “I believe I’ve said enough. Got to get back to work now.”
She starts to turn away, but I reach into my pocket and pass her my card. “Call me if you think of anything else or if you just want to talk.”
She takes the card without looking at it and drops it into her apron pocket. Without bidding me good-bye, she turns and starts toward the house.
* * *
It’s almost always helpful to see the crime scene, even if the case is cold. Photos and sketches and notes are beneficial, but a walk-through can add perspective, scope, and clarity. The farm where Naomi and Joseph King lived with their five children is just fifteen minutes from the Fisher home, so I head that way.
The house is abandoned now. After Naomi King’s death—and Joseph’s incarceration—the children moved in with Rebecca and Daniel Beachy in Painters Mill. The eighty acres they left behind was leased to the Amish family next door, and they use it to farm hay and corn, and run a couple of dozen head of cattle on the pasture. The money, which probably doesn’t amount to much, goes to the Beachys.
The gravel lane is overgrown with weeds and lined on both sides by blackberry bushes that will undoubtedly bear copious fruit by summer’s end. As I zip past, I can’t help but wonder how many times Naomi King sent her children down the lane to pick berries.
I pass a row of blue spruce trees; then the lane curves right and the old farmhouse materializes. It’s a plain house with white siding and a red brick chimney. There are no shutters or landscaping. Rusty tin shingles on a steeply pitched roof. The lawn is a tangle of knee-high grass, patches of thistle not yet in bloom, and a thousand other unidentifiable weeds. I can just make out the rusty frame of a swing set with an attached slide that’s been twisted by summer storms and the weight of winter snow.
I pull around to the back of the house and park adjacent to a tumbling-down chicken coop. The door stands open, giving me a view of the nesting boxes and a roost that’s broken in half. A sapling tree has taken root in the coop yard and pushed through the chicken wire covering the top. And I’m reminded of how quickly Mother Nature reclaims what is rightfully hers.
I get out of the Explorer and make my way to the back door. I find the key where Daniel Beachy told me it would be, beneath the nearest rock of the flowerbed, and I let myself into the mudroom.
Abandoned homes have a distinctive smell. But it’s more than the redolence of mildew and dust and uncirculated air that defines it. It’s an intangible sense of abandonment, of loneliness, a sort of vacuum left behind when the final person walked out the door with the knowledge that he or she w
ould never return. And I’m reminded of ghosts.
The mudroom is oblong and small with an ugly plywood floor. Two small windows to my right, but not much light makes it through the grime. There’s a small workbench to my left, its surface covered with dust and droppings. Something was once clamped to the edge with a metal plate, but the bolts are long gone. The only thing left is an odd-looking steel arm. It’s about a foot long with a foam roller handle that’s been chewed up by rodents. On impulse, I pull out my phone and snap a photo. There’s an old propane refrigerator in the corner. The door stands open, and through the gap I can see where some industrious mouse has built a nest of cardboard and dried grass.
I stand in the mudroom and for an instant I try to imagine the voices of children as they played in the backyard. The squeak of the swing set as little legs pumped with all their might. The echo of laughter. The lingering aromas of cured ham and bean soup for supper. The clang of pots and pans as Naomi King washed and dried the dishes. Joseph standing at the workbench tinkering with some project …
The kitchen is still intact. Plain cupboards painted white, the hinges just beginning to rust. An old-fashioned Formica countertop marred with a brown ring where someone set a too-hot skillet. I look at the window above the sink, where a terra-cotta pot sits on the sill, a long-dead plant crumpled and brown. There’s a chipped porcelain sink and stainless-steel faucet crusted with hard-water minerals. An old propane tank lies on its side on the floor. The place where the stove once was is bare.
The floor creaks beneath my feet as I walk into the living room. There’s no furniture. To my left is a side door with a broken pane. Water stains on the hardwood floor that’s started to warp. A wasps’ nest hangs down from the ceiling in the corner; I can hear the buzzing from where I stand, so I back away and move on.
The stairs are to my right. A narrow, darkened stairwell and steep wooden steps. I know from the police reports that the murder happened in an upstairs bedroom. I take the steps to the top. There’s a small round window to my right. A narrow, tall-ceilinged hall to my left. Four doors stand open, dim light slanting into the hall. I see a half dozen or so nails in the walls, probably where a baby quilt or macramé wall hangings once hung. Farther down, the arm of what was probably a gas light angles down from the ceiling.
I go to the first room, glance inside. It’s a small space with a single window. Typically Amish, with no closet, no frills. Rough-hewn wood plank floors. Homemade wood pegs set into the wall for hats and clothes.
I continue down the hall, pass a bathroom. Grimy window. Old-fashioned claw-foot tub. The sink has been disconnected from the wall, leaving the pipes exposed, and sits at a cockeyed angle on the floor, its white porcelain striped with rust the color of blood.
The next room is also a small bedroom. Same setup as the first. One of the windowpanes is broken. Beneath it the hardwood planks are misshapen and starting to rot.
The master bedroom is at the end of the hall. The door is ajar. I push it open the rest of the way, the squeak of the hinges inordinately loud in the silence. I feel something brush against my head and, thinking of spiders, I swipe at it with my hand. But it’s only the steel arm of the gas ceiling light.
I peer into the bedroom. Two windows are swathed with homemade curtains that are caked with dust and cobwebs. The room is devoid of furniture. Blue paint on the walls, darker where a tall headboard must have been. I wonder about the things this room has witnessed. I wonder about its secrets.
Recalling the police photos, I look at the place where the bed used to be—against the wall to my left—and I realize I’m probably standing in the exact place where the killer stood the night he murdered Naomi King.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
I think of Sadie and the story she relayed about the stranger in the house that night. I step back into the hall and glance at the room she shared with her sister. Two doors down. She said she got up to use the bathroom, which is next door to her parents’ room. Of course, it would have been very dark. But if the bedroom and bathroom doors were open, if the curtains had been parted, there would have been enough light for her to see someone standing here, at least in silhouette.
A sound from downstairs interrupts my thoughts. A door closing. Footsteps against the hardwood floor. They’re not trying to be quiet. Still, it gives me a start. Setting my hand over my .38, I go down the hall and look down the stairwell. No one there, but I can hear someone moving around.
Quietly, I descend the stairs. Midway down, the step creaks. I’m nearly to the ground level when an authoritative male voice calls out.
“Stop right there.”
I reach the base of the stairs to see a Geauga County sheriff’s deputy standing in the living room, his hand on the butt of his Glock, looking at me as if he’s trying to decide if he’s seen me on the FBI’s most wanted list.
“I’m a cop,” I tell him.
He’s an attractive man of around thirty years of age. Not much taller than me, but he’s got the physique of a professional wrestler. I can see the cords in this thick neck above the crisp collar of his uniform shirt. Short sleeves revealing biceps the size of Thanksgiving turkeys. Expensive sport sunglasses at his crown over buzz-cut hair.
Eyeing my uniform, he starts toward me. “You got ID on you?”
“I’m Kate Burkholder.” Slowly, I reach for my shield and hand it to him. “Chief down in Painters Mill.”
“Painters Mill, huh?” He takes my ID and looks at it carefully. “You’re a long way from home.”
I offer my hand and a smile. “Out of my jurisdiction, too.”
“Nick Rowlett.” We shake and he hands my ID back to me, his expression thoughtful. “One of the neighbors called, said she saw a vehicle out here. Figured I’d find teenagers looking for ghosts or smoking dope.” His eyes narrow on mine. “Your name’s familiar.”
“I was involved in the standoff with Joseph King.”
“Nasty situation.” He shakes his head. “You got business up this way?”
The last thing I want to do is reveal to local law enforcement that I’m here looking into a case they closed two years earlier. Especially when Sheriff Crowder made it abundantly clear he’s no fan of me or Joseph King. Still, a deputy sheriff could be a good source of information.
“After the standoff with King, I just wanted to drive up and take a look around.”
“You find what you’re looking for?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
“I just remembered where I heard your name,” he says. “You’re the one who used to be Amish. You knew King back when you were kids.”
“That’s right.” In the back of my mind I wonder if he saw that damn photograph, but he’s too polite to mention it. “His family lived on the farm next to ours.”
“Personal connection makes it even tougher.” He offers a slightly apologetic look. “Hated the way all that turned out.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the takedown of King or the murder of his wife.
He sighs, his eyes scanning the room, and then shakes his head. “Our department took a lot of calls out here that last year or so before he killed her.”
I think of the skimpy file and ask, “What kinds of calls?”
“Ran the gamut. King was one of those guys that was always getting into some kind of trouble. If he wasn’t drunk and disorderly, he’d get himself pulled over—in the buggy of all things—and we’d catch him with alcohol or drugs. Later, we started getting domestic-violence calls. Honestly, I think he’d been beating the hell out of her for some time. No one knew about it and she never told anyone. I can’t help but wonder … if we’d done something sooner she might still be around.” He shrugs. “But then you know what they say about hindsight.”
“Who was it that called the sheriff about the domestic disputes?”
“Neighbor, I think.”
I wonder if it’s occurred to him that the neighbors on both sides are at least half a
mile away. “What was Naomi King like?”
“Only met her a couple of times. Nice woman. Pleasant. Pretty, too. I always wondered what she saw in King. From what I hear, the guy was a thug and a bully.”
“You know what they say about love being blind.”
He laughs. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Were you involved in the homicide investigation at all?” I ask.
For the first time he doesn’t look quite so cocky; his eyes flick away from mine. “I was one of the first responders. It was my first homicide and let me tell you, it was a bad scene.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Learned I wasn’t such a tough guy that morning, I guess.”
“Anyone who doesn’t feel that way probably shouldn’t be a cop,” I say.
“Hated to see things turn out the way they did, but we’re not going to miss Joe King around here. I figured that son of a bitch was out of our hair for good when he got sent up to Mansfield. No such luck.”
An awkward silence ensues, but he takes ownership of it. “Sorry if you were a friend of his.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “No offense. I hadn’t seen Joseph in over twenty years.”
“Well, I hope I’m not overstepping, Chief Burkholder. But I had multiple run-ins with that guy. He might’ve been Amish and all that, but he was a bad egg. When the mask came off, he was like any other piece of shit I’d ever dealt with. Worse, because you weren’t expecting it from an Amish dude. Hell, even the bishop figured Joe did it.”
The statement gives me pause; I’d just talked to the bishop and he hadn’t mentioned any such thing. “The bishop said that?”
The deputy doesn’t notice my surprise. “In the course of one of the interviews. I mean, for King’s own bishop to deem him guilty? I think it says a lot about what the Amish thought of him.”