“Can you get that for me?”
“Let me make some calls.” But he pauses. “Look, Kate, one thing we need to keep in mind is that Edna Lambright confessed. She tried to murder you. We can’t ignore that either.”
“Tomasetti, what if she was trying to protect someone?”
A too-long pause ensues, and then, “Viola Stutzman? Were they that close?”
Mamm loved Emma like a daughter.
“I don’t know. She’s close to the girls…”
The next thought that strikes me fills me with such repugnance that it makes me nauseous. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I shift the air-conditioning vent to my face, crank it up.
“Tomasetti,” I whisper. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“And where is that?”
I close my eyes. “Look, if you could check on those latents for me. I need to check a couple of things on my end.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go back to The Mercantile.”
* * *
It’s nearly six P.M.—a few minutes before closing at The Mercantile. The lavender hues of evening settle over air fragrant with the smells of burning leaves and a backyard barbecue somewhere nearby. I’m sitting in my Explorer in the side parking lot. My police radio is turned down low. I’m listening to an old Alan Parsons Project tune, feeling more than is prudent, wishing I could walk away from this. Like so many other times, I can’t.
I didn’t hear back from Tomasetti until nearly four P.M. The news wasn’t what I wanted to hear. The latent prints found on the mason jar that was discovered in Chris Martino’s garage, and the prints lifted from the key found at the scene of the Gingerich barn fire, did not belong to Edna Lambright. He also took the time to have the latent-print expert compare the prints to those of the Gingerich family members, including the children. Again, there were no matches.
I get out of the Explorer and walk into the shop. The now-familiar aromas of vanilla, citrus, and bergamot greet me. Neva Lambright stands at the cash register, ringing up a sale for a Mennonite couple. I head toward the back of the shop. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for until I find myself in an aisle jam-packed with kitchen décor: glass pitchers, vases, votives, and other appealing items that draw tourists from as far away as Pennsylvania.
I grab four votives. They’re about two inches tall and made of smoked glass. Unusual-looking, but pretty, just like everything else in The Mercantile. I tug a tissue from my pocket, take a moment to wipe each of the votives clean, and start toward the front of the store.
Neva Lambright stands at the cash register, listless, a ghost of her former self. Her shoulders are slumped. Her complexion is pale and mottled. Her nose glows pink, as if the skin is chafed from blowing. She gives me a double take on spotting me, and offers a poor imitation of a smile. “You’re back.”
“I forgot to buy these when I stopped in earlier.” I set three of the votives on the counter, hand the remaining one to her.
She takes the votive, turns it over in her hand. “I love these.” Her smile is sad. “For your sister?”
“These are for me.” I watch as she upends the votive, looks at the price sticker and enters the SKU number and amount into the cash register.
“You’re becoming one of our best customers, Chief Burkholder.”
“I know a good thing when I see it.” My smile feels plastic on my face. I’m keenly aware of how she’s handling the votive.
“Would you like a gift box?”
“Yes, I would. Thank you.”
She tugs tissue paper from a box, sets it on the counter, and carefully wraps each of the votives.
“Are Ina and Viola around?” I ask.
“You missed them by about twenty minutes. Left early today.” She sighs. “Datt’s going to help me close up.”
I’d been hoping to catch the other girls, too. I’m going to have to settle for what I’ve got—and hope to hell I’m wrong.
“Thanks.” Making eye contact with her, I reach across the counter and touch her arm. “Take care of yourself,” I tell her, and head for the door.
* * *
Once I’m in the Explorer, I call Tomasetti. “Where are you?”
“I’m standing in our kitchen, trying to decide on the Brie or Manchego, and letting this nice Spanish Rioja breathe.”
“Will it keep?” I ask.
“That depends. What do you have?”
“Fingerprints. I need to process them for a comparison with the latents found on the mason jars and the key.”
“You’ve been busy.”
I hesitate and then say, “Tomasetti, I don’t want to be right about this.”
“You mean about Viola Stutzman?”
“I mean about any of them.”
He sighs. “I know the lab supervisor in the latent print unit in Richfield. Let me give her a call. Can you meet me up there?”
“I’m on my way,” I tell him, and disconnect.
* * *
When I was a teenager, my mamm told me that it was usually a bang gvissa or “worried conscience” that kept people up nights. I think she may have been trying to goad me—or guilt me—into behaving myself. It didn’t work, of course. I’ve been an insomniac long enough to know that while conscience can play a role, it’s those other troubles piled on top of it that wreak havoc on a person’s peace of mind.
After leaving The Mercantile, I met Tomasetti at the BCI field office in Richfield, where he works. He got me through security and we met with the supervisor of the latent print section of the lab. Margaret Brooks is a certified latent print examiner. I don’t know how Tomasetti did it, but she agreed to process and extract the prints from the votives, do the comparison, and get back to us.
It’s nearly five A.M. now. I’d planned on grabbing a few hours of sleep, but after two hours of tossing and turning I gave up on the idea. Bang gvissa, a little voice whispers, and I find myself thinking of my mamm.
I’m sitting at the table in my big farmhouse kitchen, a cold cup of coffee in front of me. I actually considered breaking out the bottle of whiskey we keep above the fridge, but I have a sinking feeling I’m facing a busy morning. I’m going to need to keep my wits about me, because I also know that none of it’s going to be pleasant. In fact, if my hunch is correct, it’s going to break my heart.
The window above the sink is open and I can hear the cacophony of the bullfrogs from the pond. The hoot of an owl on the hunt. The occasional squawk of a goose that overnighted in the pond. They’re comforting sounds I’ve grown to cherish in the past months. Tonight, they don’t quite penetrate the darkness surrounding my heart.
“Kate.”
I look toward the door to see Tomasetti come through and squint at me. Despite my mood, the sight of him conjures a smile. Mussed hair. Scruffy whiskers. Sweatpants and a faded police academy T-shirt. He’s not a morning guy and he’s not shy about letting me know. This morning, he’s mindful of my presentiment, so he does his best to be civil.
“You get any sleep?” he asks.
“A little.”
“Uh-huh.” He knows better.
I motion toward the coffeemaker on the counter. “It’s fresh. Milk in the fridge.”
He pads to the counter and pours.
“I figured Margaret would have called by now,” I say.
“If anything, Margaret Brooks is thorough and a perfectionist to boot,” he says. “But you can rest assured that when she calls, there will be no question.”
“She must have owed you a big favor.”
“She did.” He carries his cup to the table and sits across from me. “Now I owe her.”
One of many benefits of living with John Tomasetti, who’s been with BCI for several years now, is that when I need help—whether it be on a personal or professional level—he’s there for me. He’s good at what he does, he has a lot of connections, and he has no qualms about putting them to work for me.
I look
at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time. My cell phone on the table next to my cup. Leaning forward, I set my hand over Tomasetti’s. “Thank you.”
He meets my gaze and a shadow of a smile touches his mouth. “Lovers with benefits.”
I try to smile, but don’t quite manage. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I sip cold coffee and make an effort to keep my eyes off my cell.
“Daniel Gingerich was a serial sexual predator.” I say the words without looking up from my cup. “He ruined countless lives. He indirectly caused the death of at least one young Amish woman and her unborn child. Maybe the Petersheims. Tomasetti, if I’m right about this, if I follow through, where is the justice?”
He sets down his cup. “You and I have been around the block enough times to know that Lady Justice doesn’t always get it right. We make the hard choices. We do the best we can. We pick up the pieces and we move the fuck on.”
“Those girls are barely out of their teens. They’ve got their entire lives ahead of them.”
“They should have thought of that before they locked that son of a bitch in the barn and burned him to death.”
The words make me wince despite my resolve to remain detached. “They knew what he was. They knew he wouldn’t stop.”
“In the eyes of the law, that is not a justifiable homicide.”
“Gingerich was a threat. If he’d escalated—”
“He was not an imminent threat.” He gives me a hard, assessing look. “There are a lot of ways to look at what might’ve happened. Maybe Daniel Gingerich got what he deserved. Those girls—if they did it—served up a little street justice, Amish style. We don’t get to judge, Kate. We enforce the law. The rest is up to the courts.”
“I hate this.”
Tomasetti scowls at me, unmoved.
I rub my hands over my face, realizing I’m too tired to think clearly, and too mired in my own history to maintain any semblance of distance.
After a moment, he reaches for my hand, waits until I make eye contact with him. “Look, if you’re right and all of this plays out, if it goes to court and those girls are put in front of a jury…” He shrugs. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’ve been involved in enough trials to know there’s such a thing as extenuating circumstances. If other women—other victims—come forward.” Another shrug. “Furthermore, even if those girls are convicted, they may not draw long sentences. They may not do time. We don’t know.”
I jump when my cell phone chirps. I hesitate, let it ring two more times, and snatch it up. “Burkholder.”
“Kate, hi. It’s Margaret Brooks. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“Figured as much.” She sighs. “Look, since we were dealing with a nonporous surface, I did a straightforward cyanoacrylate process in the chamber, which netted damn near perfect prints. I photographed everything and lifted the most complete prints with tape. It took some extra time, but I know this is important so I did dual comparisons. One with the computer. And a side-by-side visual comparison using the ACE-V method. It is my determination that those prints came from the same source. Of course I’ll still need to have my findings verified by another…”
I don’t hear the rest of the sentence. I look at Tomasetti. He’s watching me intently.
It is my determination that those prints came from the same source.
“Chief Burkholder? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I hear myself say. “Margaret, thank you so much for doing this. For staying up all night. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome, Kate. Just tell that Tomasetti character he owes me big-time.”
“Will do.”
I end the call. I don’t look at Tomasetti as I drop the phone into my pocket. I take that moment to shore up, slip back into my cop persona. I rise and look at him. “The prints on the key and the mason jar belong to Neva Lambright.”
“It’s enough.” He rises, too. “You got her.”
I look at the clock on the wall. Not yet six A.M. “I’m going to grab a shower and head that way.”
I start to turn, but he reaches out and stops me. “You want me to go with you? Or meet you there?”
I think about that a moment. “I’ll call you.”
“You know where to find me.”
CHAPTER 25
The Mercantile doesn’t open until nine A.M., but when I roll into the parking lot a little after eight, I spot Neva Lambright’s car parked between the burned-out shell of the round barn and the shop. I pull up behind her car and call Tomasetti.
He picks up on the first ring. “You there?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“I’m twenty minutes away.”
“See you then.”
I disconnect and sit there a moment, trying to get a handle on my emotions, not quite succeeding. It’s not until I get out of the Explorer that I spot Viola inside the barn. She’s standing next to the foundation with her back to me. As I draw closer, I see the other two girls standing together on what’s left of the steps. Neva has lowered her face into her hands. Ina stands next to her as if she’s at a complete loss on how to help or comfort her.
Sighing, I step into the building. “Good morning,” I say as I enter.
Viola and Ina spin toward me, their expressions surprised. Neva raises her face from her hands, blinks upon recognizing me, and swipes at the tears with her fingertips.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder,” says Ina.
“Didn’t expect to see you here this morning,” Viola adds.
I stand just inside the building and look from girl to girl, my gaze lingering on Neva. Her face is blotchy and red, her eyes anguished. There’s so much misery there. But there’s guilt, too. Bang gvissa, I think, and I feel that same grief and guilt pressing down on me, expanding in my chest.
“You’re not here to buy something else for your sister, are you?” Viola asks.
“Actually, I’m here to see the three of you.” I make my way more deeply into the barn and look around. The stink of charred wood and wet earth hovers. The girls stand about ten feet away. They’ve fallen quiet, watching me, wondering why I’m here.
“This place looks different with all that sunlight streaming in,” I say.
“Datt says it’s not a complete loss,” Neva says solemnly. “He talked to the contractor yesterday. Mr. Graber says he can shore up the roof and the walls. It’s going to take some work. Probably cost a pretty penny, too. But we’re not going to lose it.”
“That’s good news,” I say.
“Mr. Lambright told us the café is still a go,” Ina proclaims.
Neva clasps her hands in front of her and looks down at the ground. “We’re going to call it Edna’s. After Mamm.”
“She would have liked that.” I walk the perimeter of the room, taking in the damage, thinking too much, feeling so much more. Most of the roof is gone. The siding will need to be replaced. The foundation will have to be repaired.
The girls watch me. I sense their curiosity and apprehension. Still, I take the time to circle the room. I stop when I reach them. “I think the café is going to have to wait awhile.”
Looks are exchanged, but no one speaks. It’s so quiet I can hear the traffic on the road in front of the shop. The moan of the wind as it eases through the rafters above.
“So much of life is about the decisions we make.” I say the words to no one in particular, struggling to find my way through the tangled jungle of emotion I don’t want to feel. “I’ve made my share of bad ones. I live with them every day. What do you do when there’s no way to make it right?”
Viola takes a step back, presses her hand against her stomach. She knows, I think. Ina stares at me, eyes wide, her mouth partially open. Neva raises her gaze to mine. In the depths of her eyes I see all the things I don’t want to see. Realization. Comprehension. A sense of betrayal. And fear.
“I need to talk to you about Daniel Gingerich,” I tell them.
r /> “We’ve already talked to you about him,” Neva says.
“We don’t know anything.” This, from Viola.
“I always wondered,” I say slowly. “What kind of killer lets the livestock out of the barn to keep them safe?”
Ina’s smile falters. Something unsettling flickers in her eyes. Alarm and the initial, cold fingers of panic. “We have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I don’t relent. “I know what you did. I know what all of you did. I have the fingerprints to prove it.”
My gaze settles on Neva. Her face is colorless now. She stares back, unmoving, her eyes wide, darting, searching.
“Your fingerprints were on the mason jar you planted at Chris Martino’s house,” I tell her.
“But … that’s not possible,” she says. “I didn’t go there. It’s not mine. It can’t be.”
Looking sick to her stomach, Viola sets her hand on a crossbeam and leans. “We didn’t do anything wrong.” But her voice has gone hoarse.
“Where does it end?” I ask.
A sob bursts from Neva’s throat. “My mamm put those jars there!” she cries. “I must have … touched them or something when they were in the cellar. That’s all.”
“I only mentioned one jar. How did you know there were two?”
Her eyes dart to her friends, begging for help, for backup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jar. Jars. What does it matter?”
“Your fingerprints are also on the key we found in the Gingerich barn.” I divide my attention among the three of them, so they don’t know which of them I’m addressing. “You were there and you lied to me.”
“We have no reason to lie about anything.” This, from Ina. But her eyes flit left and right, seeking some logical explanation that isn’t there.
“The Amish community is a small one, Chief Burkholder,” Viola tells me. “Maybe we made the key for him. Maybe—”
“Stop lying to me,” I snap. “Just … stop.”
The girls fall silent.
I look at the three of them. Young women with their entire lives ahead and I’m filled with an impotent mix of regret and anger and what I can only describe as grief. “Hate and shame are powerful emotions. The kind that can make good people do bad things.”