In Painters Mill, the Brass Rail Saloon is the heart of that underground, and it’s the first stop on my list after Pickles and I leave the Krause place. I’m surprised to see the parking lot half full. Then it strikes me that the Farnhall plant’s first shift lets out at four o’clock. It’s a quarter past, so the booze is just beginning to flow. Tongues will be loosened. Inhibitions will wane. Drugs will be snorted, swallowed, injected, bought and sold. We’re right on time.
I park next to a vintage VW with a bumper sticker that reads: If you don’t like my driving call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. In the back of my mind, I hear the clock ticking down those crucial first forty-eight hours. The passage of time taunts me. The Planks have been dead for over fourteen hours now and still I have nothing.
“So is Drew as big as his brother?” I ask Pickles as we get out of the Explorer.
“No, but he’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“Terrific.”
“Smells better, though.”
“Something to look forward to.”
Ten yards from the entrance, I feel the bass rumble of rock music vibrating beneath my feet. I push open the door and we step inside. The place is as dark and dank as an underground cave. I look up, half expecting to see bats hanging from the ceiling. Cigarette smoke hovers like fog. On a lighted dance floor a dozen or so bodies undulate to some chainsaw rock music I don’t recognize.
My eyes have barely adjusted when Pickles jabs a finger toward the bar. “Speak of the devil,” he says.
I follow his point and spot Drew Krause. Pickles was right; he’s not as big as his brother. Maybe six feet. One-eighty. He wears faded blue jeans and a navy T-shirt with the phrase I didn’t do it emblazoned on the front. He looks like a normal guy, enjoying happy hour after a long day. But I learned a long time ago just how deceiving appearances can be. That’s particularly true in the drug world.
Leaning against the bar as if he owns the place, he watches Pickles and me approach with the amusement of a parent watching a toddler take his first steps.
“Drew Krause?” I ask.
“Chief Burkholder.” He turns his gaze to Pickles. “Officer Shumaker. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I bet.” I show him my badge.
“What’d I do now?”
“We’d like to talk to you.”
Smiling disarmingly, he taps an index finger against the T-shirt. “Can’t you guys read?”
I invade his space, letting him know we’re serious. “We can do this here or I can embarrass you in front of all your buddies by cuffing you and hauling you down to the station.”
“Well, to be honest, I’m not easily embarrassed.”
I pull the cuffs from my belt. “Neither am I.”
“Hey. Come on.” Smiling, he raises his hands. “I’m just kidding around.”
“Here’s a newsflash for you, slick,” Pickles says. “We’re not amused.”
“I’m getting that.” Sobering, he looks from me to Pickles and back to me. “What can I do for you?”
“Where were you last night?” I begin.
He assesses me, a wily teenager poking fun at his clueless, overbearing parents. The bartender moves to within earshot, picking up a glass I know is already dry, and running his dingy towel over it.
“I was here,” Drew replies.
“Can someone substantiate that?”
He looks at the bartender. “Hey, Jimmy. Where was I last night?”
The man behind the bar, rail thin and sporting a goatee that’s going gray, concentrates on his glass. “You were here, running your mouth and your tab, as usual.”
I give Jimmy a hard look, wishing I’d gotten Drew outside where we could be alone with him. Get him out of his element. Away from all his fair-weather friends. If he’s the man with the drugs, there’s no doubt his regulars would lie, cheat or steal to maintain a steady flow.
I glance at Pickles, lower my voice. “Go talk to the skinny shit behind the bar. I’ll take Mr. I-didn’t-do-it.”
Reaching over a row of shot glasses lined up on the counter, Pickles snags the barkeep’s shirt. “C’mere, slick.”
I turn my attention back to Krause. “What time were you here?”
“Till closing.”
“Were you alone?”
“Just me and about fifty of my closest friends.” He makes a sweeping motion that encompasses everyone in the bar.
“Can anyone else vouch for you?” I pull out my notebook. “I want names.”
His eyes narrow. “Usually I know why you guys are fuckin’ with me. This time, I don’t have a clue.” He grins. “Whatever you’re pissed about, I really didn’t do it.”
Grinding my teeth, I try not to think about the Plank family, their bodies slowly decomposing atop the stainless-steel gurneys at the morgue. “Names. Now.”
He rattles off six names. Some I’m familiar with. Some I’ve never heard before. I plan to contact all of them. Drew had better hope they have good memories. “What time did you arrive?”
“Six or so.”
“Did you leave at any time?”
“No, ma’am. I drank. Played some pool. Danced with a couple of chicks. That’s it. I swear.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I have a lot of girlfriends.”
“Do you know Mary Plank?”
He stares at me, realization dawning. “I know I ain’t got the greatest reputation in this town, but I ain’t no killer. I didn’t have nothing to do with those murders.”
“How do you know about the murders?”
“Everyone’s talking about it.” He grimaces, but it looks rehearsed and insincere. “Look, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I don’t even know those people. Are you guys fuckin’ desperate, or what?”
I get in his face. “That’s right. We’re desperate. We can make things desperate for you, too, since you’re on parole. So if I were you, I’d get real serious about cooperating.”
“Okay, okay.” For the first time, he appears uncertain. “Look, I got off work around four. Went home to shower and change—”
“Where’s home?”
“I live with my brother. On the farm.”
“Then what?”
“I came here. Had a few drinks. Stayed until closing.”
“Do you know any members of the Plank family?”
“I’m not trying to be a smart-ass or anything, but the Amish and I don’t run in the same circles.”
“Are any of your drug-dealing buddies whacked out enough to kill an entire family?”
He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to chop off his little toe. I know the one thing he won’t talk about are his druggie friends. Even among thieves, there is a code of honor. If that’s what you want to call it, anyway.
“Look it, I got a job now. I’m legit.”
I roll my eyes. “Everyone knows you and your brother are cooking meth at the farm.”
“That’s bullshit. A bunch of damn rumors from people who don’t like us.”
“Do yourself a favor and answer the question, Drew. Have you heard anything? Are any of your freaky friends desperate enough to do something like that?”
“I don’t have any freaky friends. I’m outta the drug business. I learned my lesson.” For the first time he looks rattled. Joe Cool losing his cool.
“You’re full of shit.” I jab my finger in his shoulder hard enough to send him back a step.
“Hey.” He knows I’m daring him to make a move, but he doesn’t take the bait. He’s too smart to hit a cop.
“What about your brother?” I ask.
“He don’t run with the dealers no more, either. I swear.”
“Give me a name.” I jab his shoulder with my finger again, harder this time. Vaguely, I’m aware people are staring at us. Happy hour revelers giving us a wide berth. “Give me one name.”
“I don’t know anyone.” He takes another step back. “Not even the hardcore guys would do something like that. Seven people? And
for what? Fifty bucks? No way.”
He’s right, but I’m not ready to let him off the hook. I have a particularly strong dislike for drug dealers. “Don’t leave town, Drew.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sooner or later, you will.” I step closer and whisper. “When you do, I’ll be waiting.”
His face darkens. A tick quivers beneath his right cheekbone. In that instant, I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the I’m-just-a-farm-boy façade, and I know that if I didn’t have a badge and a gun he’d wrap his fingers around my neck and kill me with his bare hands.
I smile at him. “See you around.”
His cheek quivers; he doesn’t smile back.
As I walk away, I hear him mutter something nasty about Amish cops behind my back. Pickles starts toward him, but I snag his jacket and keep him with me. “Let it go.”
“I don’t like that son of a bitch’s mouth,” he grumbles.
“Don’t worry, Pickles. If either of the Krause boys had anything to do with this, they’ll get what’s coming to them even if I have to dish it out myself.”
CHAPTER 9
Neither Painters Mill nor Millersburg have a morgue per se, so when an autopsy is required, bodies are transported to Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, which has morgue facilities and now receives funding from two neighboring counties.
It’s nearly six P.M. when I pull into the lot and park illegally in the emergency parking area. I’m hyperaware of the passage of time as I stride through the glass doors. The day is nearly gone and I’ve accomplished only a fraction of what I’d intended. I’d planned to speak to the manager at the tourist shop where Mary Plank worked, but I got tied up with other things and now it will have to wait until tomorrow.
A young African-American man waves at me from the information desk as I pass. I return the wave and head directly to the elevator that will take me to the basement. I’ve visited this part of the hospital more times than I want to recall in the last year. I keep hoping I’ll get used to the sights and smells of death, but I don’t think I ever will.
The elevator doors whisper open and I step into a hushed tiled hall. I pass a yellow and black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads: Morgue Authorized Personnel. At the end of the hall, I push open dual swinging doors and find myself in yet another hall. A middle-aged woman in a red power suit looks up from her computer when I enter. “Chief Burkholder?”
“Yes.” I extend my hand and we shake.
“Doc Coblentz is expecting you.”
The nameplate on her desk tells me her name is Carmen Anderson. “You must be his new assistant.”
“I’m part of the new budget. Started last Tuesday.”
I glance toward the door that will take me to the morgue foyer. “Hell of a way to start your first week.”
“Doc says it’s the first time he’s had a full house since that semi hit that family out on the highway three years ago.” She grimaces. “You guys know who did it yet?”
“We’re working on it.” I motion toward the door. “Is the tech still here?”
“Oh, yeah.” She smiles. “Cute kid. He ought to be on soaps instead of hanging out with a bunch of dead people.”
I feel a tad more upbeat as I go through the swinging doors. The autopsy room is straight ahead. To my right is a small alcove where the doc stores supplies, including biohazard protection. To my left, I see Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. As usual, the mini-blinds are open. He’s sitting at his desk. A young man wearing lavender scrubs sits in the visitor chair jotting notes on a chart. Both men look up as I cross to the office door.
Rising, Doc Coblentz extends his hand. “Chief Burkholder.”
The technician stands. The receptionist is right; he’s cute. And he looks young enough to be in high school. Or maybe I’m just getting older. “I’m Dr. Rohrbacher,” he says.
“You look too young to be a doctor,” I comment.
“I get that a lot.” He offers a Whitestrip smile. “I always tell people I began my residency when I was fourteen.”
“The real Doogie Howser.” I smile back, but it feels stiff on my face. My mind has already strayed to the dead family in the next room and the chore ahead. “You guys have anything for me?”
“We’ve completed two of the autopsies.” Rising, Doc Coblentz motions toward the hall. “You know the drill.”
I go directly to the alcove and don the requisite disposable shoe covers, a blue gown, hair cap, and latex gloves. The men, gowned, gloved and capped, are waiting for me when I emerge.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Doc Coblentz says as we move down the hall. “We finally got budget approved for fresh paint.”
At the end of the hall, I notice the stepladder, drop cloth and institutional blue paint. “I like the blue better than the gray,” I say.
“It’s supposed to be a calming color.” Coblentz pushes open the swinging doors.
I don’t feel very calm as we enter the autopsy room. It’s one place most cops go to great lengths to avoid. When I worked homicide in Columbus, I saw more than one veteran detective ralph his breakfast or break down and cry. Tough guys who would rather shoot themselves in the leg than display any kind of perceived weakness. My own response to death is visceral and more emotional than physical, especially when it comes to murder. I can only describe it as an intense feeling of outrage and a sense of indignation that burrows under my skin like some giant parasite. No matter how hard I try to keep those emotions at bay, they dog me day and night until the case is solved.
Ensconced in gray ceramic tile, the autopsy room is maintained at a cool sixty-two degrees. Though the ventilation and air-conditioning system is state of the art, the smells of formalin and decaying flesh are ever-present. Stark fluorescent light rains down on seven stainless-steel gurneys, all of which are occupied.
“We didn’t have enough gurneys for all the bodies, so we had to borrow from another department,” the doc comments as we enter.
Stainless-steel counters line three walls. I see white plastic buckets, trays filled with instruments I don’t want to think about, and two deep sinks with tall, arcing faucets. A scale, similar to the kind you see at the grocery store for weighing produce, hangs above the counter to my left. It seems obscenely out of place here.
I’m not exactly sure why I do this to myself, this revisiting of the dead. There is some information a cop gleans from seeing a body up close and personal, but most truly useful information comes from the autopsy report. Still, I come here. I pay final homage. Maybe I do it because seeing the victims reminds me that there are real people behind every crime. I work for them now.
Two of the gurneys stand separate from the other five. I see a dark stain on the sheet cover, and I know those are the two autopsies that have been completed. “Which vics are finished?” I ask.
The technician looks at his clipboard. “Bonnie Plank. And Mary Plank.”
“Did you get slugs?” I ask.
Rohrbacher nods. “Dug one out of the mother. It was pretty wrecked, but I sent it to the lab.”
“You check for gunshot residue on the adult male?”
“We sent the clothing and skin surface residue to the lab. Should know something in a few days.”
Doc Coblentz crosses to the nearest gurney and pulls down the sheet. Mary Plank’s body looms into view. She’s lying supine. A slender-limbed girl who had once been pretty. Her face is gray now. My gaze drifts to her mouth. It’s slack and partially open, exposing straight, white teeth. Her left hand hangs limp over the side of the gurney.
I force my gaze to the rest of her body. The Y-incision is ghastly beneath the bright lights, the dark stitches running like tiny railroad tracks over pale flesh.
I move closer to the gurney. “Cause of death?”
“She bled to death.” Using a long, cotton-tipped swab, Doc Coblenz indicates the wound on her lower abdomen. “Her uterus was removed.”
Shock tears through me, like fabr
ic being torn violently in half. “He cut it out?”
“Hacked is a better term. Cutting was extremely primitive. There was severe internal bleeding. She went into shock and ultimately expired from cardiac arrest.”
“Why would he do that?”
Doc Coblentz looks at me over the tops of his glasses, and I sense he’s about to fling something terrible my way. “Upon internal examination, we noticed what was left of the cervix was bluish in color, which is a sign of pregnancy, so we ran a few routine blood tests,” he says. “This girl was pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Shock rattles through me, a punch that hits close to home and sinks in deep. Mary Plank was fifteen years old. She was Amish and unmarried. Premarital sex is rare among Amish teens, but it happens. They’re human beings; they make mistakes. They keep secrets. I know this secret would have borne a terrible weight.
My own past sweeps unbidden through my mind, a rogue wave churning with murky silt and debris. I know intimately what it’s like to be young and Amish and different. I remember the isolation and loneliness and the crushing weight of shame secrets can bring down on young shoulders. And I know that in the weeks before Mary’s death, she would have suffered great emotional stress.
For a moment I’m so profoundly stricken, I can’t speak. All I can think is poor, poor child.
“Kate?”
Giving myself a mental shake, I force my mind back to the matter at hand. I recall Bishop Troyer telling me that Bonnie Plank had wanted to speak to him about Mary. Had Bonnie known about her daughter’s pregnancy? No one I spoke to remembered a boyfriend. Who fathered the child? Did Mary have a lover? Was she raped and never reported it? Even to her family or bishop?
“How far along was she?” I ask.
“Without the fetus, there’s no way to tell.”
“Did anyone find the missing uterus?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “Once we realized she was pregnant, we took vaginal swabs, cervical swabs and did what’s called a vaginal wash. On the outside chance she’d had recent sexual intercourse, Jason prepared a wet-mount slide.”