A glance at the clock above the coffee station tells me it’s already after noon. “I’ll be there in five.” I lift the file. “Going to take a quick look at these first. Can you let everyone know?”
“Rounding them up now.” She pivots and starts toward the reception area.
“Mona?”
Swinging around to face me, she raises her brows. “Yeah, Chief?”
“You, too,” I tell her.
She dazzles me with another grin, and again I’m struck by the unencumbered love she has for her job. That she’s only twenty-four years old and life is one big adventure. She’s not yet accumulated the kind of baggage most cops own after a few years. And in that instant, I feel … old.
“Roger that,” she says.
In my office, I slide into the chair at my desk, open the file, and find myself looking at the mug shot of Joseph King. The boy I’d once known has grown into an attractive man. He’s still got that boy-next-door face and dark, puppy-dog eyes. The same eyes I looked into a thousand times as a kid. In this particular photo he still bears the typical Amish “bowl” haircut and a beard that reaches past his collar. There’s a trace of a smile on his lips, but the twisting of his mouth doesn’t jibe with the angst in his eyes.
The mug shot was probably taken the day of his arrest—regardless of any protests because of his religious beliefs, if he had any left. I can tell by his expression he’s not taking the situation seriously. Not yet, anyway. I’ve seen the reaction before. People who’ve committed serious crimes believing—even after they’re arrested, booked, and jailed—that some miracle will happen and the whole thing will go away. They think someone will step forward and rescue them. The cops will come to their senses and realize it’s all a big mistake.
I bet he’s taking his situation seriously now.
“Joseph, what the hell happened to you?” I whisper.
I leaf through the remaining pages, refreshing my memory, looking for new information. Thirty-six-year-old Joseph King, his wife, Naomi, and their five children, ages ranging from three to ten years, lived on a small farm near Middlefield, Ohio. On the morning of May 11, twenty-nine-year-old Naomi King was discovered by her children, lying dead in her blood-soaked bed. The oldest child, Becky, ran to a neighbor’s farm, over a mile away, and called police.
According to the children, King had gone fishing at Lake Erie. He arrived home a few hours after the grisly discovery, at which time he was detained and interviewed by the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department. The Amish man claimed no knowledge of the murder. Ultimately, King was released. He took his children to stay with relatives while the police processed the crime scene. But as King’s criminal record came to light—and the stories about his rocky relationship with his wife emerged—he quickly became a person of interest.
The Geauga County Sheriff’s Department confiscated a shotgun found at the scene. The CSI was able to capture the tread of a single shoe print. A bloodstained jacket found in a hamper was also sent to the lab for testing. When the police interrogated King a second time, the timeline of his alleged fishing trip didn’t quite align with his previous story. Forty-eight hours after Naomi King was discovered dead, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Sheriff’s deputies picked him up at his farm and arrested him in front of his children, who were placed with relatives.
According to the prosecutor, sometime between three and five A.M. King returned to the farm, entered the residence, and shot his wife as she slept. The murder weapon was a shotgun owned by King; his prints were all over it, and all over the shells. The jacket found in the hamper was determined to belong to King and tested positive for gunpowder residue as well as Naomi King’s blood. The evidence was damning—and it didn’t end there.
Those who knew the Kings claimed their marriage was rocky. Joseph had a temper; he was abusive and had a record of domestic violence. Combined with the physical evidence, it was enough to make a case against him and take the case to trial.
I turn the page, find myself looking at a statement written by one of the social workers who interviewed the children. The oldest, Becky, who’d been ten years old at the time, reportedly heard “thunder” during the night, but she didn’t get up and the children didn’t find their mother’s body until morning. Upon making the gruesome discovery, all five of the children ran screaming from the house.
Next is the autopsy report. The coroner states that Naomi King died from a single gunshot wound to the abdomen sometime between one and five A.M. A devastating wound that killed the twenty-nine-year-old mother instantly. The coroner ruled the cause of death as massive trauma from a gunshot wound. The manner of death was homicide.
I glance through King’s abbreviated criminal case history. Two DUIs. Drug possession. Marijuana. Meth. Battery upon a public servant, for which he was convicted and served time. Most disturbing, however, is the smattering of domestic-violence calls and arrests in the months before Naomi was killed, two of those calls ending with convictions. I sigh in disgust, suspecting there were dozens more instances no one would ever know about. Physical and psychological abuse that Naomi King suffered in silence.
When you’re Amish you don’t call the English police. Most Amish women do have a support system—either family or female members of the community or even their preacher or bishop—but that’s not always the case. Some Amish women have no one to turn to. Nowhere to go. Far too often issues like domestic violence are glossed over, dressed up to look like something else, or ignored.
Closing the file, I head toward the war room. My small force of officers is already assembled. At twenty-seven years of age, T. J. Banks is the rookie of the group. He’s lounging in a green paisley task chair, thumbing something into his smartphone. Word around the station is that he’s got a new girlfriend, and this time it’s serious.
Next to him, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, resident practical joker and smartass extraordinaire, is embroiled in a retelling of a PIT maneuver he performed while involved in a high-speed chase back when he’d been a patrol officer in Ann Arbor. I’m pretty sure there’s some embellishing going on. Judging from Mona’s face, I’m pretty sure she knows it.
“Pickles” is sitting across from T.J., sipping coffee with a reverence usually reserved for fine whiskey. He has over fifty years of law enforcement experience on his résumé, a good deal of that time spent working in an undercover capacity. He’s the oldest officer to ever serve Painters Mill. But you won’t catch him admitting to his age, which, according to his personnel file, is seventy-five years. He dyes his hair to cover the gray and stays in damn good physical condition. This afternoon, he’s wearing a crisp uniform and well-worn Lucchese boots that glisten with polish.
But it’s the attitude more than anything that keeps him young. He doesn’t take any shit from anyone, including me. Pickles might look like some kindly grandfather, but rub him the wrong way and you’ll quickly figure out he’s got a titanium spine and a tongue capable of laying open even the toughest of shells.
Sitting at the head of the table, Rupert “Glock” Maddox is scrolling through his phone, smiling at something, probably photos of his kids. He’s got two now and a pretty wife named LaShonda. A former marine with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, he’s a solid cop, the first African American officer in the history of the Painters Mill PD, and my go-to guy when I need something done right.
I step behind the half podium set up at the head of the table. Mona has taped a chalkboard-size road map of Holmes County behind me and left a marker in case I need to spotlight a specific area. She also set up the mike, but I don’t need it, so I flip off the power. News travels fast in a small town; I can tell by the way everyone’s looking at me that they already know why we’re here. I want to make sure they have all the right information.
“I got a call from ODRC this morning,” I tell them. “Sometime last night, convicted killer Joseph King escaped from Mansfield. Amish male. Thirty-eight years old. Last seen at nine P.M. The next headcount was
at three A.M., so we have to assume he’s had a six-hour head start. The Richland County Sheriff’s Department brought in dogs, but evidently they lost his scent at the highway northeast of the prison.”
Turning, I indicate the area on the map. “It’s believed King reached the highway here, so law enforcement is operating under the assumption that he has access to a vehicle—jacked or stolen or else someone picked him up. If he had help from someone on the outside, we also have to assume he’s had a change of clothes and, more importantly, that he may be armed.
“Normally, we wouldn’t get involved in something two counties away, but King’s got family ties in Painters Mill. His five kids are living with his deceased wife’s sister and her husband, Rebecca and Daniel Beachy, out on Left Fork Road, that dirt track off Hogpath.” Again, I turn to the map, and I use the marker to circle the general location of the Beachy farm.
“I know the place,” Pickles says. “Clarice bought a quilt from her a couple years back.”
“You expect King to show up here?” Glock asks.
Looking at the map, I take a moment to consider the logistics of the prison in relation to Painters Mill. “Most of the law enforcement I’ve talked to believe he’s likely on his way to Cleveland or possibly the Canadian border. Still, we have to be prepared in case he tries to make contact with his kids.”
“Any bad blood between him and the Beachys?” Skid asks.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I tell him, “but you never know what’s in someone’s mind. With the kids involved we need to be prepared.”
I look at Mona. “You have those photos of King?”
“Hot off the press,” comes Lois’s voice from her place at the door, where she’s been listening in on the meeting while keeping an eye on the phones in reception.
Mona is already up and out of her seat, mouthing a thank-you to her counterpart and then passing the photos to the rest of the team.
I glance down at my notes and continue. “Joseph King is six feet one inch in height. Two hundred pounds. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Full beard. He was last seen wearing a prison-issue blue jumpsuit. White sneakers. Possibly a gray hoodie. Be aware that he may have changed his appearance by now.”
“Easy enough to shave a beard,” T.J. comments.
“If he keeps the beard and gets his hands on Amish-type clothing,” Pickles drawls, “it might be even more difficult to recognize him.”
“You’re not suggesting that we start profiling the Amish, are you, Pickles?” Skid spouts off.
Chuckles erupt around the table.
Leave it to Skid to go there.
I jump in before they can take it too far. “King is from Geauga County,” I tell them. “His main connection to Painters Mill is the kids.”
“Was he close to them?” Glock asks.
I recap my visit with Daniel and Rebecca Beachy. “It’s my understanding that King did not have a close relationship with his children.”
“Do they know what he did?” T.J. asks.
“Parents did not tell them.” I shrug. “But people talk. Kids may have heard something.”
“You think he might try to harm them?” Glock asks.
“Don’t like the sound of that,” Pickles growls.
“If King, for whatever reason, blames his sister-in-law or her husband for his woes, if he condemns them for taking custody of his kids, if he believes they interfered in some way or helped the police…” I shrug. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Or he might go to them for help.” Skid spreads his hands. “Money. Clothes. Safe haven.”
“I got the impression he won’t find much in the way of help from the Beachys,” I say. “I think King knows that.”
“So he’d be foolish to risk his neck coming here to Painters Mill,” T.J. says.
“Still, we have to be vigilant and take every precaution.” I scan the faces of my officers. “In the interim, I’m going to talk to the mayor about overtime. Volunteers?”
T.J. raises his hand. “I’m in.”
Skid grins. “Gotta impress the new squeeze with all that cash.”
I smile. The population of Painters Mill is just over 5,300, a third of which is Amish. With the sheriff’s department operating with a skeleton crew owing to budget constraints, we pick up a lot of slack and take county calls as well as those in Painters Mill proper. But my small force has been stretched thin for years. With vacation time and sick days at a premium, I’m unduly grateful T.J. has a penchant for overspending and a new girlfriend to impress. He’s my OT go-to guy.
I turn my attention to Mona. “Will you contact ODRC and see if they have a list of people who visited King while he was in prison?”
“You got it, Chief.”
I scan the faces of my small team. “There are multiple law enforcement agencies actively searching for King. BCI, State Highway Patrol, Richland County. Holmes and Geauga Counties are on alert. Our department is pretty much on the periphery of the operation. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he’s apprehended. Still, we need to keep our eyes open and stay alert.”
I page through the papers in front of me, looking for the most recent schedule for the department. “Who’s on tonight?”
“I’m on now,” Skid tells me.
T.J. pipes up. “I come on at midnight.”
I smile at them. “I’ll buy the doughnuts.”
CHAPTER 4
There are a thousand places a wanted man could take refuge in northeastern Ohio. The countryside is a plethora of vast forests, small towns, and farmland with dozens of abandoned houses, barns, and silos sprinkled throughout. There are roadside motels and campgrounds where a man could hide out for days and no one would be the wiser.
It’s three A.M. and, as of the last update I received from ODRC, Joseph King is still at large. BCI set up a tip line and a steady stream has trickled in; so far none have panned out.
Painters Mill sleeps like the dead as I idle down Main Street. The storefronts are darkened, the lights dimmed. Some of the awnings have been folded down, the shutters or blinds closed up tight. It’s a clear night—I can see the stars and a sliver of moon—but lightning flickers on the horizon to the west, and I know by dawn we’ll have storms. I consider stopping in at the police station to say hello to Mona as I drive past, but I want to get out to the Beachy farm, where T.J. is keeping an eye on things.
I just left the Butterhorn Bakery. The place isn’t open at this ungodly hour, but I happen to know that the owner, Tom Skanks, arrives at 2:30 A.M. to start the doughnuts. I found the front door unlocked and Tom at the rear prep kitchen, pulling his first batch of apple fritters from the oven. I reminded him there’s a convicted murderer on the loose and suggested he keep his front door locked, at least until King is apprehended. He gave me a baker’s dozen on the house for the good advice. T.J. is still young enough to appreciate the sugar and fat.
I pick up my radio. “What’s your twenty, T.J.?”
“I’m parked in front of the Beachy farm, Chief.”
“Any activity?”
“Bull got frisky with one of the cows a little while ago.”
“I guess at this hour, we’re not too picky about our entertainment.”
“You got that right. To tell you the truth, I’m starting to feel like a voyeur.”
I laugh. “Stay put,” I tell him. “I’m ten-seven-six.”
A few minutes later I pull up beside T.J.’s cruiser and lower my window. His windows are already down. I suspect he’s using the cool night air to stay awake. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
He grins. “I’ll take the fifth on that.”
I glance toward the darkened farm. Set back a hundred yards from the road, the house is barely visible through the trees. I don’t see any lights in the windows. As a whole, Amish country is incredibly dark at night. There are no streetlamps or porch lights and there isn’t much in the way of headlights or taillights. Even with a police officer parked at the mouth of the lane, it woul
d be easy for someone to slip by and not be seen.
“I drove around the block a couple of times earlier,” T.J. tells me. “Didn’t see a soul, but honestly the farm could be approached from any direction.”
He’s right; I looked at the aerial map earlier. “We can only cover so much area.” I pass him the bag of doughnuts. “I’ll take it from here.”
He looks into the bag. “Damn, Chief, apple fritters from the Butterhorn Bakery are like cop heroin.”
“Try not to OD.”
“Tall order when I have thirteen of these suckers in striking distance.”
“Get some sleep and I’ll see you tonight.”
Giving me a mock salute, he pulls onto the road and drives away.
I watch his taillights until he makes the turn onto Hogpath Road; then I shift my attention to the Beachy house. It’s a big farmhouse with a lot of windows. The front yard and pasture are heavily treed, which not only blocks my view, but throws the entire area into shadows. I can just make out the hulking silhouettes of the barn and silo behind the house.
It’s a pleasant night, cool and humid, so I leave my window down and turn off the engine. A chorus of crickets and spring peepers from the swampy area near the creek rides on the breeze. Aside from the cattle in the pasture, there’s no movement anywhere. The storm to the west is closer now. Distant thunder rumbles and for the first time I smell rain. Keeping one eye on the house, I flick on the radio for some music and slink down in my seat.
I’m watching the cattle, wishing I’d kept one of those apple fritters for myself, when Mona’s voice comes over the radio. “Chief, I got a ten-seventy.” Code for a fire.
Sitting up, I snatch up the mike. “What’s the twenty on that?”
“Abandoned barn next to Amos Yoder’s place out on Dogleg Road. RP said the whole structure is on fire and burning like hell.”
The word “abandoned” flutters in the forefront of my mind and refuses to settle. “You call the fire department?”