A smile touches her eyes, but she says nothing.
“Ms. Cascioli, I read about what happened to you.”
“Yeah, well, so did everyone else.” Bitterness laces her voice.
“What are you doing for a living now?”
“I’m unemployed. Shocking, right?”
“You looking to get back into law enforcement?”
She sneers. “What do you think?”
“I think it depends.”
“On what? The tooth fairy?”
“On the information that comes out in the course of your lawsuit. On the truth.”
Her eyes narrow on mine. I’ve got her undivided attention now. She’s staring at me, wondering why I’m here and where all of this is going.
“Your lawsuit alleges that while you worked for the sheriff’s department, your fellow deputies and Sheriff Jeff Crowder were regularly tampering with evidence and engaging in other unlawful activities.”
“I know what my lawsuit is about,” she says.
“You claim you were terminated because you were a whistleblower.”
“Look, Chief Whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, my lawyer told me not to talk to anyone about the lawsuit.”
“Probably good advice.”
Sighing, she crosses her arms, unimpressed, saying nothing.
Vickie Cascioli is a tough cookie, and I struggle to find the right words. Some angle that will compel her to buck her better judgment and give me something I can use. I’m coming up short. “I know this is a sensitive situation, but I need your help. It’s about the Naomi King murder case and Joseph King. It’s important.”
“Can’t help you.”
“Ms. Cascioli, I believe we want the same thing.”
“You have no idea what I want.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” I stumble over words that aren’t quite right, not sure how to best proceed. “I think the King case went to trial without all of the evidence ever coming to light. There’s something going on. I’m trying to figure out what it is.”
“Are you recording this?” For the first time she looks angry. “You wearing some kind of fucking wire?”
“If you’re that paranoid, you can check.” Maintaining eye contact, I raise my hands to shoulder level.
Her mouth curves. Never taking her eyes off mine, she quickly and impersonally gives me a thorough pat-down, leaving the pockets of my jacket and jeans turned inside out.
“Lift up your hair,” she says.
Rolling my eyes, I do, and she runs her fingertips around the back of my neck and beneath the collar of my jacket.
Finally, she steps away.
I hold her gaze. “What are they doing?”
“I’ve seen them plant dope. Pot. Meth. Coke. I know at least two deputies have acted improperly with females during DUI arrests. I know at least one deputy has taken cash off a drug dealer and kept it. The information never made it into any report or file.”
“How deep does the corruption go?” I ask.
“All the way to the top,” she says in a low voice.
“Who’s involved?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not going to go there with you.”
“How did you find out about it?”
Her mouth twists into something ugly. “Sleeping with the enemy.”
“Who?” I repeat.
“Time’s up.” She strides to the door and opens it. “Hit the road.”
* * *
There’s an old saying in the annals of law enforcement. It goes something like this: When a case stalls, get off your ass and canvass. Any cop worth his salt knows it’s one of the most effective tools a cop has. Of course, the best time to canvass is immediately after the crime. It’s been over two years since Naomi King was murdered; the case is as cold as the bones of her decomposing body.
Still, in terms of the good old-fashioned canvass, there are a couple of things that might work to my advantage. The area is rural—fewer homes to cover—and it’s predominantly Amish. The Amish tend to stay in one place longer than their English neighbors. And while members of the Amish community may have been reluctant to come forward for the local police, they may be more likely to speak with me.
The King farm is just half an hour from Auburn Corners. Garnering any useful information from the neighbors is a long shot, but since I’m already in the area it’s worth the trip. I cruise past the abandoned King farm. Of course there’s no one there.
Just us ghosts, a little voice whispers.
I continue on to the next farm. The name Nisley is hand-painted on the mailbox. I start down the gravel lane and realize quickly that this is a large farm. The lack of telephone poles and the general appearance tell me it’s Amish-owned. I idle past a loafing shed and a pen to my right, where half a dozen Hereford cattle mingle with some spotted hogs. The lane cuts between two massive white barns and a corn silo to my left; then the lane veers right and the house comes into view. It’s a two-story red brick with a big elm tree in the front yard and a flowering cherry tree at the side. I park a couple of yards from the cherry tree and take a narrow sidewalk around to the front of the house and knock.
An Amish woman in a dark blue dress opens the door and looks at me as if I’m some vermin that’s wandered in out of the woods. I can tell by her kapp and dress that she’s Swartzentruber, one of the most conservative of the Amish sects. She’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and holding a threadbare dish towel in her hand. I estimate her to be about sixty years of age.
I move quickly to get this off on the right foot. “Guder nammidaag.” Good afternoon. “Mrs. Nisley?”
She arches a brow, not impressed with my knowing her name or my use of Deitsch. “What can I do for you?”
I introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill.” This woman is no pushover, so I launch into my spiel. “I’m closing out the case on Joseph King. I don’t know if you heard, but he’s dead.”
“I heard. Everyone’s been talking about it since it happened.” She doesn’t invite me inside. “What do you want?”
“Did you know the King family when they lived next door?” I ask. “Naomi and Joseph?”
“Knew both of ’em. Rode to worship with the family every now and again. When he bothered to go, anyway.”
“I’m trying to … understand what happened, Mrs. Nisley. What were they like?”
“Naomi was nice as could be. Demut.” Humble. “A good mamm to her children. A good wife, too.”
“What about Joseph?”
“My grossmuder told me once that if you don’t have something nice to say about someone, don’t say anything at all. I have nothing to say about Joseph King.”
“Did you ever hear them arguing or anything like that?”
“From here?” She laughs. “Don’t think so.”
“Did you ever call the police? Ever have a reason to?”
She looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Why would I do something like that?”
“I’m wondering if you ever heard or saw something that gave you cause to be concerned or worried.”
She sets her hand on her hip and stares at me. “No.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“I saw them the Sunday before it happened. The whole family. We all rode to worship together and—”
“Veah is datt?” A gruff male voice calls out from inside the house. Who goes there?
I look past Mrs. Nisley to see an Amish man hobbling toward us on crutches. He’s wearing typical Amish clothes—blue work shirt, black trousers, suspenders, and a flat-brimmed hat. He’s an amputee, missing his left leg at the knee. His trousers are folded up and pinned to keep the hem from dragging.
He doesn’t look pleased by my presence, so I heft a smile, hoping to charm him into answering a few more questions. “I hope I’m not disturbing your lunch.”
Grimacing as if his missing limb is causing him pain, he glares at me. “Vass du vella?” What do you want?
&nb
sp; I identify myself and tell him the same thing I told his wife—in Deitsch. “I’m closing the case and I was hoping you might answer some questions about Joseph and Naomi King.”
“We don’t know anything about them.” He looks at his wife. “We’ve much to do.” Then he turns his sights to me. “Die zeit zu gay is nau.” The time to go is now.
“Mr. Nisley, did you ever become concerned about Naomi or the kids and call the police?” I ask.
He closes the door in my face.
* * *
I hit every house within a three-mile radius of the King farm, venturing into chicken coops, a slaughterhouse, and within smelling distance of manure pits, all to no avail. Most of the Amish answered my questions without qualm, but none of them offered anything new. I’d hoped to find some busybody who liked to spend his or her time looking out the window and gossiping about what she’d seen, but no such luck. So far the afternoon has been a big, fat strikeout.
I’m westbound on Nash Road when I come upon a group of five Amish boys walking along the shoulder, two in front and three in the back. They’re talking and gesturing, probably on their way home from school. On impulse I slow and stop next to them.
“And wie bischt du heit?” I begin. How are you today?
The boy nearest me slows. The others look away and keep going. I keep the Explorer in gear and idle along beside them. “My name’s Kate Burkholder. I’m the police chief in Painters Mill and I’m wondering if you guys would mind answering a few questions for me.”
The group slows. I’ve snagged their interest. Bored, I realize, and probably not too anxious to get home and start chores. Pulling the Explorer slightly ahead of the group, I shut down the engine and get out.
“I won’t keep you too long,” I say in Deitsch as I approach.
The boys stop walking, exchanging glances, all ears now. I guess them to be in their early teens. They’re not sure why an Englischer woman has flagged them down, but they’re curious. The boy nearest me eyes me from beneath the brim of his straw hat. “Kannschtr du Deitsch schwetze?” Can you talk Dutch?
“I used to be Amisch,” I tell him. When no one says anything, I jump into to my first question: “You guys live around here?”
Heads nod.
“Did any of you know Joseph or Naomi King?”
Another look is exchanged, this time fringed with uneasiness.
A tall blond boy with a bowl haircut and green eyes steps forward. “I knew ’em,” he says. “What do you want to know?”
“Did you ever see or hear any trouble out at their place?”
“Heard talk about it,” the blond boy says.
“What kind of talk?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but a shorter, heavier boy chimes in. “That there was all kinds of hanky-panky going on out there.”
The boy beside him giggles. When he notices me looking at him, he sobers.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
The heavyset boy looks at me as if he wished he hadn’t mentioned it. “Never mind.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’m not from around here. I’m closing a case and trying to … understand what happened.”
The heavyset boy backs away. “I gotta get home.” He turns away and starts walking. Two others join him. I call out, but they wave me off and keep moving.
I look at the two boys who remain. “What about you guys? You ever hear anything about the Kings?”
A skinny, sandy-haired boy with acne on his cheeks replies. “Maybe.”
“I’m Kate, by the way.” I stick out my hand and shake hands with both of them.
“I’m Roy,” says the sandy-haired boy. “This here’s Emery.” He squints at me. “Are you really a cop?”
“Yes, but I’m off-duty.”
Evidently, Roy’s the talker of the group. “Me and Emery done some work for Joe a few times.”
“What kind of work?”
“Mucking horse shit, mostly.” He smirks at his audacity, trying to be cool, testing the waters. “Cleaned out that old manure pit once. Paid us ten bucks an hour.”
“Not bad,” I say.
“Mr. King didn’t have the money to pay us once, so he took us pheasant hunting,” Emery adds. “We helped him reload a bunch of shells and shit.”
“You got any cigarettes?” Roy asks me.
I barely hear the question; something the other boy said caught my attention. “What did you say?” I ask with a little too much intensity.
Emery’s eyes widen. “Uh … nothing.”
“About reloading,” I clarify.
The Amish boy’s eyes flick from me to his friend and back to me. “Just that Mr. King was a reloader.”
“He reloaded ammo?” I ask. “For his shotgun?”
“Yeah.”
Reloading basically means the gun owner assembles his own cartridges or shells as opposed to buying factory-loaded ammo at the store. I don’t know much about the process, but I’ve been around enough cops and shooting enthusiasts to know that if it’s not done with meticulous care, misfires can and do happen. I think of the workbench in the mudroom of the King home, the steel arm I hadn’t been able to identify. That was where he’d done his reloading. And for the first time the misfire that occurred the night Naomi King was killed makes sense. More than likely Joseph King improperly seated the primer.
The boys are looking bored again. They’re about to blow me off, so I launch back into my original line of questioning. “You were about to tell me something about the Kings.”
Emery drops his gaze to the ground. “We don’t really know anything.”
Roy looks at him. “What about that one time?”
Judging by the look on Emery’s face, the statement requires no clarification. Emery looks embarrassed, can’t meet my gaze. “I dunno…”
Both boys look uncomfortable. As if they want to tell me something, but aren’t sure they should share.
“What happened?” I press.
Emery casts a covert look at Roy and shakes his head. The silent message is clear: Don’t tell.
“I’m trying to get to the truth about some things that have happened,” I tell them. “That’s all. Please, if you know something … tell me.”
“We don’t know anything.” Emery looks at his friend. “I gotta go.”
The boys start to walk away. I watch them go. Frustration is like a fist in my chest, twisting. I’m standing there, shaking my head, when I notice Roy lagging behind, looking at me over his shoulder.
I call out to him. “If you know something, even if you think it might not be important, you should tell me. You won’t get into any trouble.”
The boy stops walking. I cross the twenty feet between us. “I want to make sure the truth comes out,” I tell him.
Though we’re on a back road that doesn’t get much in the way of traffic, the boy’s eyes dart left and right. He cocks his head as if listening for the hiss of tires on pavement. Then he looks down at the ground. “I think I know why he killed her,” he whispers.
“You know why who killed her?”
He looks at me as if I’m dense. “Mr. King.”
“Why?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder to see how far his friend has gone. Emery has slowed down, but isn’t close enough to hear. Roy leans toward me anyway. “I saw … her. I’d been to a singing over to the Miller place.” He motions east. “It was dark. Real late. I was on foot. There she was. And she wadn’t alone.”
“Mrs. King?”
“Ja.”
“Who was she with?”
He looks away, wipes his hands on his trousers as if his palms have suddenly gone wet. “A policeman. They were … you know. Doing it. Right on his car.”
“Having sex?” I ask once I find my voice.
Color climbs into his face, but he nods. “I was just walking along, not paying much attention. And I heard this sound. I thought it was … an animal. You know, a dog that had been hit by a car or somethi
ng. I went to check and … there they were.”
“Are you sure it was Mrs. King?”
“I looked right at her.”
“Did she see you?”
He shakes his head. “They were … too busy.”
“Did you recognize the policeman?”
“Couldn’t really see his face, just … you know.”
“Where did this happen?”
He points. “There’s a two-track pulls into a hayfield, half a mile or so down the road. There’re lots of trees.” He shrugs. “It’s private. Not much traffic.”
“What did you do?”
He lets out an are-you-kidding-me sound. “I kept walking.”
“How long ago?”
“Couple months before she … died.”
I think about that a moment, my mind grinding out a dozen different scenarios. “Did you tell anyone?”
He looks sheepish. “Naw. What would I say?” He looks past me at his friend. “I didn’t even tell Emery until after she was killed. Emery’s real smart. He thought it would be best if I just kept my mouth shut, so I did.”
CHAPTER 24
I leave Roy to catch up with his friend. Reluctantly, he gave me his last name and address, both of which I write down in case I need to contact him later. I don’t know if he would be a willing witness if, indeed, this pseudo case I’m building comes to fruition. And of course there’s the issue of his being a minor; I’d need permission from his parents.
Dusk has fallen, but it’s still light enough for me to try and find the two-track. Turning the Explorer around, I head east, keeping my eye out for the place where Roy claims to have seen Naomi King and a cop having sex. Sure enough, a mile down the road, a dirt track cuts through the trees on the north side and opens to a large hayfield. Roy was right; it’s well hidden. The perfect spot for a covert rendezvous, especially under cover of night. The question is, who was Naomi King with?
Two adults engaging in consensual sex isn’t a crime. But in light of Naomi King’s murder—and the possibility that she was having an extramarital affair that was never revealed in the course of the trial—it’s worth a thorough look. Enter the dark rumblings about Wade Travers into the equation, and a disturbing picture begins to emerge.