The first thing I notice is the tall grass. It’s hip high and chock-full of weeds, with bits of trash scattered throughout. I take the Explorer over a huge rut where someone drove through mud and let it dry jaggedly. The driveway is semicircular. In the middle of the circle is a rusty fifty-gallon drum someone shot up with a large-caliber firearm and used to burn trash. The drum is lying on its side, a waterlogged pizza box and several containers of auto oil spilling onto the ground.
We wade through a jungle of grass and nondescript bushes and take a broken sidewalk around to the front porch. The wood decking is warped, the gray paint peeling. A lawn chair lies on its side next to a hanging basket that’s fallen and smashed to bits. Standing slightly to one side, I knock and wait.
I hear the thump of footsteps, and then the door swings open. Chris Martino is forty years old and wearing faded blue jeans and a plaid shirt he didn’t bother buttoning. I try not to notice the smattering of silver hair on a fleshy white chest. He’s holding a beer in his right hand, his eyes skating over me and my uniform and then moving to Glock.
“I was wondering when you guys were going to show up,” he says.
I show him my badge. “Why is that?”
“When the shit hits the fan around here, who else you gonna hassle?”
“Mr. Martino, can we come in and talk to you for a second?”
He looks past me at Glock and frowns. “I reckon you ought to just stand right there and tell me what the hell this is all about.”
I give him the basics of the barn fire. “Daniel Gingerich was inside. He didn’t survive.”
“Whoa. Man.” He manages to look genuinely shocked. “I knew there was a fire. Saw all that smoke and the trucks. I didn’t know the kid got burned up in it. Damn.”
“I understand you had words with Daniel over some horse tack.”
He blinks at me. “Who told you that?”
I try a more direct approach. “Did you have an argument with Daniel Gingerich?”
“What are you insinuating exactly?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m simply asking you if you argued with Daniel Gingerich.”
“Well, if I know you cops, you’re going to try and blame that fire on me ’cause you don’t feel like looking for the real guy who done it. I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
Glock sighs. “If you’d just answer the question, sir.”
His eyes flit to Glock and back to me. “Lookit, that kid might be Amish and all that, but he ain’t no fuckin’ angel. In fact, he’s a real asshole when he puts his mind to it.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Well, he marched over here one day a couple months ago and accused me of stealing a bunch of shit from his barn. Like I got a use for a buggy harness.”
“What happened?”
“I told him I got better things to do than steal crap outta his barn.”
“You were angry with him?”
“Yeah, I was pissed. He was being a pushy little shit. Let me tell you something, when someone gets pushy with me I push back.”
“How exactly did you push back?” I ask.
“I told him to hit the fuckin’ road. I ain’t going to let anyone accuse me of stealing. I don’t care if he’s Amish. That little snot-nosed shit accused me of taking it up to the auction in Millersburg and selling it.” He huffs. “Like I got the time to do crap like that.”
“Did you take the harness?” I ask.
He glares at me as if I’m being purposefully dense, which I am. In reality I’m listening to him, watching his body language, trying to get a feel for his personality, what makes him tick.
“What did I just tell you, lady?”
Glock cuts in. “That’s Chief, dude.”
Martino looks at him as if he’s spoken a language he doesn’t quite understand. “Well, I didn’t take a damn thing outta that barn. I done told you that twice now.”
“Did the argument get physical?” I ask.
“No, it was just a bunch of mouth flapping mostly.”
“Did you threaten Daniel?”
“I told him if he didn’t leave I’d pick him up and throw him off my property. That wadn’t no threat; it was a promise and I’da made good on it, too.”
“Where were you two nights ago?” I ask.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He gapes at me. “You going to try to hang that fire on me just because we had a little argument? Or because I got a record?”
Glock steps up beside me. “Why don’t you just calm down and answer the question.”
Martino’s eyes flash black and go mean. Itching for a fight. No thought past the next thirty seconds and an impulse that has his hands clenching into fists.
“I didn’t do shit to that little punk-ass bitch,” the felon spits.
Glock has faced down worse than the likes of Chris Martino. He doesn’t talk about the things he saw in Afghanistan, the things he did. But there’s been a few times in the years I’ve known him that I’ve seen it in his eyes. I think on some instinctive level, he knows we’re kindred souls.
“You better think real hard before you make a move,” Glock says quietly.
“Chris.” I say his name firmly.
Martino blinks, seems to snap out of it.
“Come on,” I say. “I have to ask the same questions of everyone who knew or had contact with Daniel. If only to eliminate them from my list of suspects.”
The statement isn’t exactly true, but it’s enough to break him out of street-fighter mode. Martino’s brows knit and he seems to think about it. “I went bowling with my ex–old lady, then we went down to the Brass Rail.”
The Brass Rail is a bar just outside Painters Mill. There’s a live band every weekend. Beer by the pitcher. Dollar shots on Wednesday. Fights in the parking lot. Drugs sold out of the men’s room. One-stop shopping for any knucklehead looking for a good time or trouble or both.
I pull out my notebook. “What time did you leave the Brass Rail?”
“We stayed till close. Two or so. Bunch of people saw us. You can ask.”
“Did you go straight home?”
“Yeah.”
“Alone?”
He sighs and for the first time looks inexplicably embarrassed. “My old lady was with me.”
“She stay all night?”
“Yup.”
“Ex–old lady got a name?” Glock asks.
“Trisha. Last name’s still Martino.”
I jot it down and then look at him. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Martino.”
Glock and I turn away and start toward the Explorer. As we get in, Glock makes eye contact with me. “That guy has killed a lot of brain cells in his time.”
“Drugs and alcohol have a tendency to do that.” I start the engine.
“You think he did it?”
“I think he’s capable.” I ease the Explorer through high grass, hoping I don’t run over anything that might puncture a tire. “He doesn’t seem like much of a planner.”
“More like a punch-first, think-later kind of guy.”
We smile at each other.
“When we get back I want you to go talk to the ex-wife,” I tell him. “See if she can corroborate Prince Charming’s alibi.”
“So we’re going to keep him on the list for now.”
“For now,” I say.
* * *
Daniel Gingerich’s girlfriend, Luane, is just sixteen years old. She lives with her parents, Mose and Sue Raber, and six siblings on a farm seven miles south of Painters Mill. The Rabers are Swartzentruber Amish, one of the Old Order sects that maintains a vise grip on the long-standing traditions. Untrimmed beards for the men. Black bonnets for the women. Windowless buggies. They refuse many modern conveniences used by other Amish. Things like indoor plumbing, milk machines, and linoleum floors. Unfortunately for me, they’re also known to maintain the so-called wall of silence when it comes to dealing with outsiders, a practice that promises to make the extraction of info
rmation an exercise in frustration.
The use of gravel for their lanes is another convenience the Swartzentruber Amish choose not to make use of. The Raber lane is a quarter-mile track of pitted dirt with potholes large enough to swallow a tire. By the time I pull up to the house, the Explorer has developed a rattle. I park behind three buggies, the horses still hitched. Two young hostlers with dirty bare feet and flat-brimmed straw hats eye me suspiciously.
“Wie geth’s alleweil?” I say to them. How goes it now?
The boys exchange looks as if I’ve just spoken to them in Swahili.
Despite my mission, I’m smiling as I take the sidewalk to the front door, cross the porch, and knock. A pretty girl not yet into her teens pushes open the screen, her young face solemn.
“Sinn du eldra haymet?” I ask. Are your parents home?
Without responding, she calls out over her shoulder, “Mir henn Englischer bsuch ghadde!” We have a non-Amish visitor!
Before I can say anything else, she turns and runs back into the house.
They don’t keep me waiting. A heavyset Amish woman in a gray dress walks cautiously to the door and gives me a once-over. “Can I help you?”
I have my badge at the ready. “Sue Raber?”
“Ja.”
“I’m looking into the fire at the Gingerich place,” I tell her. “I’d like to ask you and your husband a few questions.” I glance past her and see four girls standing in the shadows of the hall behind her, eyes wide, watching the exchange with curiosity. “Luane, too, if that’s all right.”
The woman lowers her gaze to the floor with a great deal of solemnity. There’s no surprise in her expression; she’d known about the fire, and I’m reminded how quickly word travels among the Amish.
“We heard about the fire,” she says quietly. “Sweet Danny, too. Such a terrible thing.” Her eyes flick to the girls and she motions in the general direction of the next room. “Gay kinner hiede misse.” Go mind the children.
“Mrs. Raber,” I begin, “I’m talking to everyone who knew or had contact with Daniel in the days before he died. I’ve been told Daniel and Luane were close. That they were planning to get married.” When she only raises her gaze to mine and stares, I add, “May I come in?”
A few minutes later, I’m seated at the big table in the kitchen with Mose and Sue Raber. It’s a somber assemblage. There’s no offer of coffee or iced tea. They are polite, but one thing is clear: I’m an outsider and the sooner I leave, the better.
From all indications the Rabers thought the world of young Daniel. They liked him as a person as well as a prospective son-in-law. They approved of his relationship with their daughter. In fact, when I asked them about the engagement they seemed anxious to marry her off. Whether they’re looking forward to grandchildren or simply one less mouth to feed, there’s no doubt they believed the two were destined for marriage.
“Would it be possible for me to speak with Luane?” I ask.
The couple exchanges a look.
“She’s been … umshmeisa,” Sue tells me. Upset.
“Ich fashtay,” I tell her. I understand. “I won’t keep her long.”
Mose looks at his wife and shrugs. “Ich hab nix dagege.” I don’t object.
The Amish woman rises and disappears into the living room. A minute later she returns with one of the Amish girls who’d been watching us when I first arrived. Now that she’s closer, I recognize her as the girl in the photo I found beneath Daniel’s mattress. She’d looked a lot happier back then.
“This is Chief Burkholder with the police,” Sue tells her daughter in Deitsh. “They’re looking into the fire over to the Gingerich place and she wants to ask you some questions.”
Luane visibly winces at the mention of the Gingerich name. Clasping her hands in front of her, she fastens her gaze to the floor. She’s a pretty thing with flawless skin and cheeks prone to flushing. Her almond-shaped eyes are the color of faded denim and fringed with lashes so long and perfect, they look fake. Like her mamm, she’s slightly overweight, but even in the homemade blue dress she’s wearing, her curves are appealing.
Generally speaking, the Amish are stoic when it comes to displays of emotion, and that includes grief. They believe that death is part of God’s plan. But sixteen-year-old girls—whether they’re Amish or English—are not predisposed to emotional self-control, and Luane Raber looks as if she’s spent the last two days crying. Her eyes are puffy. Her cheeks are red. And her nose looks as if it’s been blown enough times to chafe skin.
“I know this is a difficult time for you,” I begin. “When’s the last time you saw Daniel?”
“Four days ago. He helped Datt cut corn and then stayed for supper.”
“He was courting you, right?”
Luane blushes prettily, looks down at her hands where she’s slowly shredding a tissue that’s long since served its purpose. “Ja.”
“How long have you known him?” I ask.
“Since I was nine or ten.”
“You’ve been friends most of your lives then?”
“Ja.” A smile touches her mouth. “Once he stopped picking on me, anyway.”
“Tell me about him,” I say, hoping to get a feel for what kind of relationship they had.
Her smile expands and for the first time she looks animated. The way a girl her age should look. “He was … goot-maynich.” Kind. “Funny, too. Always making people laugh. We were going to get married.” She closes her eyes and another round of tears squeezes between her lashes and rolls over her cheeks. “Next fall. After harvest.”
Realizing his daughter is in distress, Mose steps in. “Daniel was a hard worker. Put in ten hours on the farm with his datt and then went to his regular job down to the farm store in town.”
“He’s been like a son to us for years,” Sue adds.
“Ate like a horse,” Mose puts in with a smile.
Luane doesn’t bother wiping the tears that have begun to roll down her cheeks; she doesn’t look at me. Her misery is palpable, her grief all-encompassing. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. He was … everything.”
“Gott immah havva en planen,” her mother says quietly. God always has a plan.
“Did Daniel have any disagreements with anyone recently?” I ask. “With any of his friends? Or family? A customer at the farm store? Anything like that?”
The three people exchange looks, their expressions perplexed and searching. Finally, Mose answers, “He wasn’t the kind of young man to have an argument with anyone.”
“He was easygoing,” Sue adds. “Even if he disagreed with something, he wouldn’t say.”
“Too polite, probably,” Mose puts in.
Interestingly, Luane has remained silent. I turn my attention to her. “Luane?”
My question seems to jolt her. She lifts her gaze to mine. “Everyone loved Danny.” Her eyes fill. “Everyone.”
Someone didn’t, a little voice whispers.
I wait, but no one attempts to fill the silence. “Luane, did any of the other boys want to court you before Daniel came along?”
Mose makes a sound of disapproval, letting me know he doesn’t like the question. I don’t look at him. I don’t take my eyes off his daughter.
“Daniel was always the one,” Sue cuts in. “Always.”
I maintain my focus on the girl. She can’t seem to make eye contact with me. I can’t tell if she’s shy or uncomfortable or too upset to answer, or if there’s something there she doesn’t want to discuss with me—or in the presence of her parents.
I rephrase the question. “Were any of the other young men jealous of your relationship with Daniel?”
“I don’t think so,” she mumbles.
“What about the girls? Were any of them jealous?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Once again her mother interjects. “The Amisch aren’t that way, Chief Burkholder.”
I nod, keep my attention focused on Luane. “Is th
ere anything else you want to tell me? Something that might be helpful in terms of figuring out who might’ve set the fire?”
No one speaks. Luane picks at a hangnail that’s begun to bleed. Her mother fusses with the kitchen towel in her hand. Mose makes eye contact with me. Something in his expression tells me he wants to say something in private.
I rise. “Thank you for your time.”
Mose walks me to the door and follows me outside. He doesn’t speak until we reach the Explorer. “Daniel had an argument with his best friend,” he begins.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Milo Hershberger. Trains horses up in Millersburg now.”
The name pings my memory. I recall Daniel’s father mentioning Hershberger. He hadn’t said anything about a quarrel. “What was the argument about?”
“What else are two young men going to argue about?” The Amish man’s lips twist into an ironic smile. “A girl.”
I can think of plenty of things that might set off a young male, but I know where this is going. “Luane?”
He tosses a glance over his shoulder, toward the house, and nods.
“Any idea why she didn’t mention it?”
“I think it’s an uncomfortable thing for her to talk about, especially with a stranger.”
I nod. “How bad was the argument?”
“Bad enough. They were best friends since they were little. Practically grew up together. Neither boy ever uttered a cross word.” Grimacing, he shakes his head. “But boys grow into men. And when there’s a woman involved…” Shrugging, he lets the words trail. “They haven’t spoken since it happened. I reckon if you want the details, you ought to talk to Milo about it.”
* * *
I call my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, on my way to Millersburg and have her run Milo Hershberger through the various databases. He comes back clean. Never been arrested. Not even a parking ticket.
It’s nearly dusk when I pull into the gravel lane of the double-wide mobile home where he lives. It’s a pleasant little ranch located in a rural area a few miles west of Millersburg. I park behind an older Ford F-250 to which a horse trailer is hitched. The property is well tended, the grass mowed, the trees trimmed. Behind the double-wide, I see a small raised garden with a dozen or so tomato cages and a couple rows of corn.