“I do,” I say fractiously.
“Excuse me if I don’t get out my violin.”
“Mr. Tucker, I know Joseph King wasn’t perfect, but he deserved to live his life.”
He sighs tiredly. “Do yourself a favor and walk away while you still can.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “What do you mean, while I still can?”
He dumps the rest of the beer onto the ground and crushes the can. Bending, he tucks it into the cooler; then he picks the cooler up and grabs his pole. “It was nice talking to you.” He starts toward the house.
“But … wait.” I fall into step beside him, having to walk at a fast clip to keep up. “If Joseph King didn’t murder his wife—”
“No one said that—”
“Who did?”
“I wouldn’t fuckin’ know.”
“But you said—”
“What I said was this and it’s the only thing you need to hear: If you’re smart you’ll leave this alone. Go back to your loose cows and jaywalkers and Saturday-night drunks and have yourself a nice, long, peaceful life.”
“Mr. Tucker, you can’t drop a bomb like that and then walk away.”
“Really?” Stopping, he swings around to face me, giving me a red-eyed glare. “Try this on for size then: Take your badge and your attitude and get the fuck off my property. Don’t come back. Is that clear enough for you?”
* * *
It takes me forty-five minutes to make the drive to Chardon. All the while, my conversation with Sidney Tucker churns in my brain like shards of glass, cutting and grinding.
I don’t think he did it.
I can still feel the low-grade thrill the words induced. He’s the first cop I’ve talked to who believes Joseph King didn’t murder his wife. But how could he make a statement like that when he was the lead detective? And why wouldn’t he talk to me about it? It doesn’t make sense.
Walk away while you still can.
What the hell did that mean? Were the words some kind of threat? From who? And why?
The Geauga County Safety Center is located on Merritt Road south of Chardon. The low-slung white building is a large complex that houses the sheriff’s department, the county jail, dispatch, and Records. The coroner’s office is located within the complex as well. One-stop shopping for a small-town cop who’s light-years out of her jurisdiction.
“Not to mention her mind,” I mutter as I park in the lot and leave the Explorer.
I use the crosswalk and pass the flagpoles where the wind whips the flags into a frenzy, the halyards clanging against the mast. I go through a set of glass doors to a sleek reception area and approach the information window.
A young woman in a Geauga County Sheriff’s Department uniform snaps open the sliding glass. “Help you?”
Since I’m on restricted duty, I’m wearing civilian clothes. Hoping my being a cop will garner a bit more in terms of cooperation, I set my badge on the counter and identify myself. “I’d requested some records a few days back. I was in the area for a funeral so I thought I’d stop in and pick them up in person, save you guys the trouble.”
She looks at my badge. “Painters Mill. You talking about the Joe King stuff?”
“Yes.”
She glances at the clock on the wall. “Let me call Records.” She motions to a sofa set against the wall, just below a framed color photo of Sheriff Jeff Crowder. “Have a seat.”
Fifteen minutes later, I hear the lock on the door click. I look up from my phone to see a young African American man wearing creased khakis, a crisp white shirt, and a coordinating tie standing in the doorway, his eyes on me. “Chief Burkholder?”
I rise and cross to him, stick out my hand. “Kate.”
He grins. “Dylan.”
He’s attractive, with a quick smile and intelligent eyes tinged with good humor. Too young to be a cop. College student, maybe. The wire-rimmed glasses give him a studious appearance.
“I’m closing a case down in Painters Mill,” I say easily, “and wondering if I can pick up some records.”
“Usually we need some time to pull files, but since you’re law enforcement and you’re here…” He ushers me into a hallway. “You need copies? Or just a look-see?”
“Both if possible.”
“I’m not that busy this afternoon, so I’ll see what I can do.”
He takes me down a series of well-lit halls, past a couple of glassed-in offices. Two uniformed deputies approach, giving us cop’s nods as they pass. Though the Safety Center is a good-size building, home to multiple county agencies, I find myself hoping I don’t cross paths with Jeff Crowder.
“You civil or law enforcement?” I ask as he punches a code into a door and ushers me through.
He grins, pleased by the question. “Civil. For now,” he adds quickly. “I’m hoping to get into law enforcement one of these days. Preferably federal. You know, Homeland or the bureau. I’m a full-time student over at Kent State. I work here part-time two afternoons a week.”
“Good place to get some experience under your belt.” I’m trying to charm him in case I need help with something; so far I think it’s working.
“Hope so.”
“When do you graduate?”
“Spring.”
I dig into my pocket, hand him my card. It earns me another grin.
We go through another door and enter a large, slightly shabby office with four open cubicles loaded up with desktop computers and landline phones. An old-fashioned microfiche squats atop a steel desk in the corner. Two glassed-in interview rooms along the wall look out over the parking lot. The opposite wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling file cabinets.
“Which case you looking for?” Dylan asks as he takes me to his cubicle.
“I’d like to see everything you have on Joseph King.”
“I heard what happened down there in Painters Mill.” But my request seems to give him pause. “Someone from your department called. Mirna…”
“Mona.”
“That’s it.” His brows knit. “I thought I sent everything your way already.…”
“We received some of it, but I’m not sure everything was there.”
“Huh.” He looks perplexed. “Let’s see what we can find.”
He slides into a chair and jiggles the mouse to wake up the computer. “Kind of odd for a police chief to make a trip in person,” he says as he pulls up a menu. “I mean on old cases that aren’t really related.”
“Since it was a hostage situation, I want to make sure I have everything on file. I was in the area for a funeral, anyway.” I shrug, nonchalant, keeping it light, my eyes on the monitor. “I always like to make sure I dot my i’s and cross my t’s. A small town like Painters Mill can’t afford any kind of litigation.”
“Better to have too much documentation than too little. Someone sues, and you can’t cover your butt, you’re sunk.” He taps a key. “Here we go. King, Joseph. Let’s see … I’ve got several cases…”
“I’d like to see all of them.”
“Okay.” He hits another key. “I’ve got booking files, including booking sheets, criminal history, court papers, inmate records, fingerprint scans.”
I recognize the reports as the same ones I already have back at the station. “What about incident reports? Witness statements? Especially on the two domestic-violence cases.”
“I can check. Didn’t think you’d want to see those since they’re not related to the standoff.” He types in a command. “I’ve got complaint files and some incident reports.”
“What about LEADS? NCIC?”
“Protected.”
I knew those records would be unavailable, but I thought it might be worth asking about.
“Hmm.” His brow furrows. “Wait a sec.”
His fingers fly over the keyboard. “That’s odd … it looks like some of the records were … purged.”
“Purged?”
He’s staring at the screen as if his life depends on his
figuring it out. “They should be here, but they’re not.”
“What kinds of records?”
“Looks like … whoa … just about everything.”
Record-retention laws exist in the state of Ohio. Generally, the statute of limitations on a misdemeanor is two years. Seven years for a felony. When it comes to a sex offense or homicide, all law enforcement agencies are required to keep the records forever. Still, if a particular agency is lax or doesn’t have a policy in place, things can and do fall through the cracks. That’s not to mention the accidental or inadvertent purging of records. It’s dangerous, particularly when it comes to documentation for arrests and court cases with the possibility of future litigation.
“What do you have?” I ask.
“Just what we sent you guys down in Painters Mill.”
“Any idea what happened to the rest?”
“It looks like some of the records were purged accidentally when we computerized everything last year.” He looks away from the monitor and makes eye contact with me. “You want me to print these records for you?” He motions toward a Hewlett-Packard printer the size of a large suitcase.
“Since I’m here.” But I have a sinking suspicion I’ve already seen everything. “Any chance I can get my hands on the autopsy report?”
“You mean for Naomi King?”
I nod. “Just for my file.”
“I’ll request everything and print it, let you take it with you and sort through it at your convenience. That okay?”
“Perfect.”
CHAPTER 19
I was blessed with good mentors during the early years of my law enforcement career. Men and women who generously shared their knowledge and experience with a cocky young rookie who wasn’t always as receptive as she should have been. When I made detective, my sergeant paired me with a veteran who had more years on the force than I’d been alive. Francis Rosiak was just six months away from retirement when we worked our first case: the discovery of human remains from a homicide that had occurred a decade or so earlier.
It was my first big case and as cold as Lake Erie in January. Information was scarce, and I had absolutely no idea where to begin. Francis did. In fact, I’d never seen him stumped, and one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received came from him in the course of that case. “Figuring out where to start is easy,” he told me. “You start at the beginning.”
The advice has served me well over the years.
I make the drive to Rootstown despite the pouring rain and reports of flash flooding in Portage County. A renewed sense of urgency dogs me as I turn in to the lane of the Fisher farm. The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see the overgrown two-track as I make my way toward the house. I park in the same place I did last time I was here. As I shut down the engine, I notice the barn door standing open. Since it’s Bishop Fisher I want to speak with this time, I put the Explorer in gear and pull up to the barn.
Swinging open the door, I sprint through the rain, my feet sinking ankle deep in spongy gravel, mud, and standing water. I’m soaked to the skin by the time I enter the barn. Rain pounds the tin roof in a deafening roar. The smell of horses and hay and damp earth fills my nostrils. A nice-looking little bantam rooster sits atop the top rail of a horse stall, crowing his ass off. There’s no one else in sight.
“Bishop Fisher?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”
The rooster eyes me warily as I take the wide, dirt-floored aisle more deeply into the barn. I hear a horse whinny over the din of rain, glance left and see a sorrel looking at me over the gate to his stall. An ancient-looking manure spreader is parked in the aisle outside a second stall.
I sidle between the manure spreader and the façade of the stall and catch a glimpse of the bishop inside. He’s using a pitchfork to muck manure and toss it onto the spreader.
“Bishop Fisher?”
He turns. “I thought I heard someone out there.”
I make a show of shaking water droplets from my jacket. “We’re getting some good rain.”
“Corn sure isn’t going to complain. Been a dry spring so far.”
I stop at the stall door and watch him work. “I’ve mucked more stalls than I care to count,” I tell him.
“If you’re feeling nostalgic, Kate Burkholder, I have another pitchfork hanging in the tool shed.”
I smile. “I wanted to talk to you about Joseph King.”
“I thought we already did that.”
“Actually, I have a bit of new information I want to run by you.”
“Good news, I hope.”
“I’m not sure.” I pause before continuing. “I was told by one of the deputies that in the course of an interview you told him you believe Joseph killed his wife.”
“I don’t recall saying anything like that.” The bishop shovels another pitchfork of manure and wood shavings into the spreader.
I can’t tell if he’s lying and I have no way of knowing if the deputy who talked to him misspoke or misunderstood. Still, I press on. “It was in the course of an interview you did with one of the Geauga County sheriff’s deputies after the murder.”
The bishop sets down the pitchfork and leans on it, giving me an assessing look. “What exactly is your intent with these questions, Kate Burkholder?”
“All I want is the truth,” I tell him.
“Or maybe you have an ax to grind against the Amish?”
“I have nothing but admiration and respect for the Amish.” I meet his gaze head-on. “Unless they break the law.”
“It’s always a little bit more spectacular when it’s the Amish, though, isn’t it?”
“Not for me.”
He contemplates me thoughtfully, as if seeing me for the first time. “There are times when the truth is a painful thing. Times when it will hurt people. There are times when silence is best.”
“My mamm was fond of glay veis leek.” Little white lies. “She used them to keep the peace,” I tell him. “To keep people from getting hurt. Police don’t have that luxury.”
“Luxury?” The Amish man’s eyes are cold. “Joseph King is dead. Naomi is dead. What does it matter now?”
“It matters because if I’m right, someone got away with murder.”
“You know nothing,” the bishop hisses. “Nothing.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Aeckt net so dumm.” Don’t act so dumb.
“Why are you so certain Joseph killed his wife, Bishop?”
“Joseph King was no innocent.” He looks at me as if I’m something to be pitied. “I believe the devil climbed into his heart and left the black stain of evil. I believe he killed his wife in a fit of rage. And I believe he thought he had reason to do so.”
“What reason?”
For the first time the bishop looks uncertain. “Naomi is not here to defend herself.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Why would she need to defend herself? She was the victim.”
He looks at the pitchfork as if he’d forgotten it was in his hands, jabs it into the trampled manure and wood shavings, and tosses it into the spreader. “What exactly are you going to do with this information?” he asks.
“I’m going to stop a killer.”
“And if it hurts someone? Innocents?”
“Would you rather someone get away with murder?”
He sets down the pitchfork, leans on it. “I have struggled with this. I’ve asked God for guidance.” Clenching his jaw as if against a powerful wave of emotion, he shakes his head. “Naomi came to me. For counsel. A few weeks before she was killed.”
“What happened?” I ask.
He stares at me for a long time, as if he’s trying to come to a decision. I wait, staring back, aware that my pulse is up because I’m pretty sure I’m about to hear something that’s going to change everything.
“She was tearful and troubled and … deeply ashamed,” he whispers.
“Ashamed? Of what?”
“Naomi King
had gone down a dark road.” He pauses, looks away, his mouth quivering. “She’d been unfaithful to her husband. Betrayed her vows. Not once, but … many times.”
It’s the first I’ve heard of infidelity on Naomi’s part and the words shock me. “Naomi was unfaithful?”
“Yes.”
“With who?”
“She wouldn’t say. Just that he was not Amisch. She came to me seeking guidance. And forgiveness.” He shakes his head. “Normally, with a transgression, I would ask the person to confess before the congregation and ask God for forgiveness. But with this…” The Amish man shrugs. “Knowing what I did about Joseph and all the trouble he’d caused with his infidelities and the law …
“Naomi and I prayed. I told her to ask God for forgiveness. I asked her to confess her sin to her husband and from this point on to remain faithful to him. She assured me she would do those things. A week later, she was dead.”
He closes his eyes tightly, trying to hold back tears, not quite succeeding. In all the years I’ve known the Amish, lived with them, lived apart from them, I’ve never witnessed a bishop breaking down.
“Naomi must have done as I advised,” he whispers. “She must have confessed to her husband that she had broken her vows, that she’d been unfaithful. Because of my counsel … I believe Joseph flew into a jealous rage and took her life.”
The rain continues in a relentless deluge, pounding the roof and slapping against the ground. The noise inside my head is every bit as deafening. I don’t know what to think. I’m not sure how to feel. The bishop’s theory makes perfect, terrible sense. The weight of the guilt I see in his eyes is crushing. Have I been wrong about Joseph? Did I let my past, my feelings for him, blind me to the truth?
“That’s why you told the police you thought Joseph had done it,” I say after a moment.
He nods. “I still do.”
In the dim light slanting in through the open Dutch door behind him, I see tears on his cheeks and I’m moved by them. “This was my doing,” he says. “At least in part. But I am just a man. Imperfect. Flawed. Unworthy.”
“The only person responsible for Naomi’s death is the person who pulled the trigger,” I tell him.
He considers that for a moment. “That may be true. But if I hadn’t told Naomi to confess her sin to Joseph, would she still be here?” He offers a sorrowful smile. “Neither you or I will ever know, of course. It’s a question I’ll take to the grave.”