A knock sounds on the back door. Before Miriam can get to her feet, it opens and Tomasetti enters the kitchen. He makes eye contact with me and I see the answer in his eyes before he speaks.
Miriam stands. “Did you find him?”
Tomasetti shakes his head. “We’re still looking, ma’am.”
I excuse myself and Tomasetti and I go outside. Standing on the small porch, we look out at the emergency vehicles and firefighters. The barn is still burning, but not as ferociously now. Smoke and steam pour into the night sky. The rafters are visible, much of the roof eaten away by the fire.
“Did they lose any livestock?” I ask.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I look at him, puzzled.
“I talked with Gideon Gingerich a few minutes ago. He told me at about eight P.M., he and Danny put their two buggy horses and four calves in the barn for the night.”
I know what he’s going to say next and a slow rise of dread wells in my chest.
“We found the two horses and calves out in the pasture behind the barn,” he tells me.
“Someone released the livestock,” I murmur.
“Looks like it.”
“One of the firefighters? Maybe one of the first responders?”
“Gingerich told me that by the time the fire department got here, the barn was already engulfed. The livestock had already been let out.”
“That’s interesting.”
“According to the fire chief, a little too interesting.”
I wait.
“Kate, someone let those animals out. It wasn’t Gideon Gingerich. And it wasn’t a firefighter.”
“Maybe it was Daniel,” I say. “Maybe he woke up, smelled smoke. Got up to check it out and saw the fire.”
“Or maybe he was pissed off about something or angry with his parents and decided to torch the barn. Maybe he couldn’t bear the thought of killing those animals.”
“If he took off, he would have taken his car.”
“I agree.” Tomasetti gives me a hard look. “We need to find him, Kate.”
“For a lot of reasons.”
“The fire chief called the fire marshal’s office. They’re going to take a hard look at this.”
“He suspects arson?” I ask.
“He’s suspicious enough so that he made the call.” He slants a look at me. “Chances are the fire chief is just being thorough. More than likely, someone left a lantern burning. The globe overheated or a barn cat knocked it over.”
“Or maybe Danny Gingerich started the fire by accident and panicked.”
“That’s a possibility. I mean, we’re talking about a barn full of hay. Gingerich had thirty bales stored in the hayloft. They went up like kindling.” He shrugs. “But with the kid missing and those animals released, he thought the situation warranted a thorough once-over.”
I nod in agreement, but I’m troubled by the possibilities. “The kid’s car is parked at the end of the lane.”
“I saw it when we pulled in.” His brows knit. “Why would he park it there?”
“His parents don’t approve and don’t allow him to bring it onto the property. I’ve seen it happen before.”
“Any bad blood between Daniel and his parents?”
“No one has said anything, but I’ll dig a little, see what I can find out.”
My cell vibrates against my hip. I glance at the display, see T.J.’s name come up. “What do you have?” I ask.
“I’m out here at the Raber farm, Chief,” he tells me. “Talked to both the parents as well as the daughter, Luane. Daniel Gingerich hasn’t been here for a couple days.”
“Thanks for checking.”
“You bet.”
“Can you do one more thing for me before you call it a day?”
“Name it.”
“I want you to canvass the area around the Gingerich farm. Take a drive around the perimeter. Knock on some doors, talk to the neighbors to see if anyone has seen Daniel.”
“You got it.”
I end the call and look at Tomasetti. “If Daniel Gingerich took off, not only did he leave his car behind, but his girlfriend.”
“Doesn’t sound like something an eighteen-year-old boy would do.” Tomasetti reaches for his phone, glances at the display, and then drops it into his pocket. “I’ve got to go. Keep me posted, will you, Chief?”
“Thanks for coming along.”
“Any time.” He glances left and right, but there are too many people around for him to risk kissing me. Instead, he offers up a grin. “See you later.”
CHAPTER 3
It’s noon by the time I arrive at the police station. Before leaving the scene I talked to the fire chief from Millersburg. I’ve met Fred Achin on several occasions over the years. He’s a family man, a good chief, and an experienced firefighter. The interior of the structure was still too hot for them to make entry, but they laid down over five thousand gallons of water and Fred thought they’d be able to start sifting through the rubble this afternoon.
At first light I spent a couple of hours walking the property, but there was nothing there. No sign of a vehicle, no unusual footprints. Law enforcement doesn’t get too excited right off the bat about an eighteen-year-old boy going missing, but in light of a suspicious fire and the passage of so much time without contact, we’re actively looking for him. I also spent some time with Gideon and Miriam Gingerich. The Amish are generally stoic in the face of adversity. Even so, the couple was understandably distraught about their missing son. I sat down with them and they supplied me with a list of Danny’s friends as well as places he might’ve gone. I promised them I would leave no stone unturned. Even if he had something to do with the fire—whether it was accidental or deliberate—locating him is job one.
My uniform reeks of smoke as I slide behind my desk and boot up my computer. I’ve just taken my first sip of coffee when my phone jangles. It’s Fred Achin.
A wave of foreboding rolls over me at the sound of the fire chief’s voice. In my heart of hearts, I know there’s news—and it’s not good.
“We got a body in the barn,” he tells me.
“Shit.” I get to my feet. “Are you sure?”
“We’re sure.”
My mind spins through the repercussions. “You got ID?”
“No.”
“Has anyone talked to Gideon or Miriam Gingerich?”
“No. Look, the investigator just discovered the remains a few minutes ago. I knew you’d want to know right away.”
“The fire marshal is on scene?”
“Investigator got here an hour ago.” He pauses. “Look, we don’t have anything official yet, but he thinks the fire is suspicious. There was an accelerant used. Gasoline.”
“How do you know?”
“You can smell it.”
That the fire may have been intentionally set casts an even darker shadow over an already terrible situation. “Have you called Doc Coblentz?” I ask, referring to the coroner of Holmes County.
“That’s my next call.”
“Fred, can you hold off a few minutes?” I pick up my keys. “I’m ten minutes away. Even though we don’t have a positive ID on the body, the family needs to know about the remains.” I struggle to find the right words. “I think it would be best if I was there to explain the situation to them before they see the coroner’s vehicle arrive.”
“Shit, Chief, I don’t envy you that chore.” He heaves another sigh. “I’ll hold off a few minutes, but you’d better get over here quick.”
* * *
I run my lights, blow the stoplight at Main Street, and make it to the Gingerich farm in record time. I take the lane too fast, gravel pinging inside my wheel wells, tires raising a cloud of dust. A single fire truck from the Painters Mill volunteer fire department is parked thirty feet from the burned-out shell of the barn, probably in case a hot spot flares. There’s a black SUV I don’t recognize. A red Suburban. A red and white van with STATE
FIRE MARSHAL emblazoned on the side. Fred Achin and two men I don’t know are standing next to Fred’s vehicle, talking. A nice-looking bay gelding hitched to a buggy stands tied to a post a few yards from the house. There’s no sign of the coroner’s van, and I’m relieved Fred kept his word.
I park behind the buggy and head toward the back door. I’m midway down the sidewalk when the door opens. Gideon Gingerich steps onto the porch, his eyes fastened to mine, his expression beseeching.
“You bring word of my son?” he asks.
His wife Miriam stands in the doorway, looking at me as if she’s about to wrench information from me by the sheer force of her stare. “Did you find him?”
I reach them, dividing my attention between them. “Can we go inside and sit down for a few minutes?” I motion toward the door. “Please.”
Without speaking, Gideon pushes open the door and ushers me inside.
A cop never knows how someone is going to react to that initial punch of grief. All I can do at this juncture is relay the facts and emphasize the point that we have no definitive proof the body is their son.
I nod at the middle-aged Amish couple sitting at the kitchen table. I suspect they’re the Gingeriches’ neighbors. They’re solemn-faced and wearing their best clothes. Here to support the family, I think, but then that’s the Amish for you.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gingerich,” I begin, “may I speak with you privately?”
“This is my brother and sister-in-law.” Gideon sends a nod toward the couple. “Whatever news you’ve come to relay, Chief Burkholder, they can hear it.”
I nod at the couple, and turn my attention back to the Gingeriches. “Let me preface by saying I do not have definitive news about your son.” I pause, giving the statement time to sink in. “But you need to know that the fire chief discovered a body inside the barn.”
Miriam Gingerich makes a noise that sounds like some small animal being slowly crushed to death. Raising her hand as if to stop me from saying anything more, she bends slightly and backs away from the table. “No. No.”
“We do not know that it’s Daniel,” I say firmly. “There’s been no positive ID. But I wanted you to know that human remains were found and the coroner is on his way. Once the body is recovered, we’ll begin the identification process.”
Gideon opens his mouth as if to speak, his lips quivering, but he doesn’t make a sound.
The visiting couple lowers their gazes to the tabletop. They don’t speak. They don’t move.
“An investigator from the fire marshal’s office is here now. He’ll be investigating the fire and will hopefully be able to find the origin and the cause.”
“The … dead person in the barn…” The Amish man’s words come out as a hoarse whisper. “You think it’s Daniel?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I wish I could give you a better answer. We just don’t know yet.”
“Who else would it be?” Miriam chokes out the words. “Our sweet Danny. I can’t believe it.”
The Amish woman at the table rises, goes to her, and sets her hands on Miriam’s arms. “Du moosht ohheicha net da Deivel.” You must not listen to the devil. “Believe the best until you know for sure.”
Movement from the doorway snags my attention. Fannie Gingerich is standing in the hall just outside the kitchen, her hands on the shoulders of her two little sisters, about four or five years of age. Three sets of eyes flick from me to their parents and back to me.
“What happened?” the girl asks.
When no one answers, she begins to cry. The little girls look up at her and, seeing their older sibling’s face, begin to cry as well.
“Hush now.” Miriam opens her arms to the two little ones, who rush to her and bury their faces against her bosom. “You just shush now. You hear? All of this is in the hands of the Lord and we trust Him to show us the light.”
I turn my attention to Gideon. “Can I speak with you outside for a moment?”
He nods and follows me onto the back porch. I give him a moment to collect himself and we look out across the driveway where two men in protective suits are already inside the blackened remains of the barn. Doc Coblentz has arrived on scene. His Escalade is parked just outside the caution tape.
“Mr. Gingerich,” I begin, “according to the arson investigator, there may have been an accelerant used to start the fire. He thinks it was gasoline.”
The Amish man looks at me, misery boiling in his expression. “Are you saying someone did this thing? They burned our barn on purpose?” He looks down at the ground, raises his hand to his face, and scrubs it over his eyes as if all of this is too much for him to take in. “Mein Gott.” My God. “Danny…”
I ask gently, “Do you keep gas in the barn? Do you store it anywhere on your property?”
He shakes his head. “The Ordnung forbids the use of gasoline. We use only diesel for the generator.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have done this? Either intentionally or accidentally?”
He shakes his head adamantly. “No.”
“Have you had any disagreements with anyone? Any problems with neighbors or acquaintances? Strangers? Family members?”
“No.”
“Has anyone been angry with you or any of your family members?”
Another shake. “We get along with our neighbors just fine.”
“What about business associates? English? Amish? Anyone?”
“No. No.”
I choose my next words carefully, knowing they will not be received well. “Mr. Gingerich, have you had any problems or disagreements with Daniel?”
“Danny?” He looks at me as if I’ve just admitted to pouring the gasoline and striking a match myself. “Never,” he says, his mouth trembling. “He’s a good boy.”
“Has Danny—”
“No!” he says abruptly, the word as much a cry as a warning. “No more questions.”
“Mr. Gingerich, please—”
“Enough!” He cuts me off and then turns away, opens the door. “If you want to help us, Chief Burkholder, I suggest you get out there and find my son.”
Casting a final look over his shoulder, he goes into the house, letting the door slam behind him.
* * *
Ten minutes later I’m standing outside the yellow caution tape surrounding the barn, watching two investigators wade through ash and debris. Most of the exterior walls are still standing, but some of the rafters have collapsed, bringing down a segment of the roof.
“Good thing the fire department got here when they did or this place would have burned clean to the ground.”
I glance over to see Ludwig Coblentz toddle toward me, a suitcase-size medical bag at his side. He’s a portly man prone to bad fashion choices and the occasional fedora, and has a well-known weakness for fast food. He’s one of six doctors in Painters Mill; he’s been coroner for nearly twelve years.
“Hi, Doc.” I cross to him and we shake hands. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
He sends a pointed look toward the barn. “I understand we have an as-of-yet-unidentified body.”
“The homeowner’s son is missing.”
His expression darkens. “A child?”
“Teenager. Daniel just turned eighteen.”
“Chief Burkholder?”
We turn to see one of the investigators approach, peeling off his gloves, his head covering, and the outer layer of protective clothes as he crosses the remaining distance between us.
“Bob Schoening, Department of Commerce.” He sticks out his hand and we shake. “I’m the investigator for the state fire marshal’s office.”
“Any idea what happened here?” I ask.
“I just completed my initial walk-through. We’ve got one body. Badly burned but intact, so we’ll probably be able to extract DNA, if necessary.”
“Any ID on the body?” I ask.
“I don’t believe any type of plastic ID, like a driver’s license or credit card, could have s
urvived the temps of that fire. That said, if the victim was wearing metal jewelry that can be identified by family members or some type of metal medical ID bracelet, we might be able to get an unofficial ID.”
He shrugs. “I got a pretty good look at those remains and I didn’t see any jewelry. But I need to get in there, thoroughly document the scene, and take my samples before I release the scene to the coroner.”
I nod. “How long?”
He glances at his watch. “A few hours.”
I sense there’s more coming. “Look, this is all preliminary,” he tells me, “but just so you know … I found intense localized burning outside what looks to be a tack room.”
“Tack room?” I ask.
“There was a leather horse saddle, some halters, and other equipment that’s still recognizable. That’s where the body is located.”
“I understand there was an accelerant present.”
“Plenty of it. So much that I could smell it the instant I entered the scene and you know how fallible the human nose is. I’ll know more once I get in there with the hydrocarbon sniffer.” He produces a small electronic device about the size of an old-fashioned telephone handset. “It can sniff out even trace amounts of ILRs.”
“ILRs?”
“Ignitable liquid residues.” He pockets the device and leans close. “Let me tell you—there’s nothing trace about any of this. I got a pour pattern right outside the tack room door. Worse, the door appears to have been locked and barricaded with some kind of debris. Hay maybe. It burned, of course, but the baling wire was left behind.”
“So the victim was in the tack room and had possibly been trying to keep someone out?” I ask. “Some threat maybe?”
His laugh is a humorless sound, like the scrape of dry wood against stone. “Preliminarily speaking? It looks to me like someone locked that poor son of a bitch in the tack room, barricaded it with hay, some cinder blocks, and a wheelbarrow. Then they soaked all of it with gasoline, including the door, and set it on fire.”
It takes a moment for the horror of the scenario to sink into a brain that doesn’t want to believe. “Is there any way it could have been some kind of … freak accident?” I hear myself ask. “Or a prank gone wrong?”