“Maybe. And not the kind of girls we took to the bridge, if you know what I mean. Someone he respected.”
“Did he ever talk about her? Mention her by name?”
“Nope.”
I nod. “All right.” I offer a handshake. “Thank you.”
He looks down at my hand as if I’ve just passed him a hundred-dollar bill and his hand isn’t quite clean enough to snatch it up. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Do me a favor, Clarence, and behave yourself, will you?” I ask.
His grin reveals a missing eyetooth and a lower one that’s been capped in gold. “I’ll do my best, but I ain’t making any promises.”
Back on the street, Glock and I are standing between our vehicles, watching the group of boys play Horse. “You think Underwood was involved in Nolt’s disappearance?” he asks.
“I think he was up to no good for a lot of years,” I reply. “But I don’t think he knows what happened to Nolt.”
“Do you have any idea who Nolt was seeing?”
I shake my head. “No, but I’m starting to get curious. Nolt’s parents mentioned some mystery woman, too, but no one seems to know who she is.”
“Married?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I sure would like to find her, though. I bet she could fill in some of the blanks.” I pause. “Thanks for backing me up. You heading to lunch?”
He gives the group of boys a contemplative look. “I think I might shoot some baskets for lunch.”
I want to hug him, but since anything so personal would be the epitome of unprofessional for a chief, I grin. “Have fun,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.
* * *
After leaving Glock, I drive to the Roselawn Cemetery for the funeral of sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger, the Painters Mill resident who was fatally injured when his car was flipped over by the tornado. He was a retired dentist and had lived his entire life in Painters Mill, leaving behind his wife of thirty-six years and four sons, all of whom still live in the area.
The funeral of Juanita Davis was out of town. Lucy Kester’s is tomorrow afternoon. I’d been thinking about her on and off all day, trying not to dwell too much. As chief, I’d wanted to attend the funerals of the dead to show my support for the families and the community. Because of the hostility displayed by the Kesters, I won’t attend.
I walk in the door of the police station to find it blissfully quiet. Lois is sitting at her desk, eating a turkey sandwich from LaDonna’s Diner. A glass of iced tea sweats atop a cork coaster next to her computer.
“What did you do with all the media people wanting to know about the human remains?” I ask as I pluck messages from my slot.
“I arrested them and put them down in the jail.” She takes a bite of the sandwich and rolls her eyes.
“Any luck getting contact info for Doctor Alan Johnson in Millersburg?”
Nodding, she swallows. “The bad news is he retired in 2004. The good news is his son, Alan Junior, took over the practice.” She passes me a handwritten note. “Phone number, address, and e-mail are there.” She glances at the time on her monitor. “Said he’d be there until five o’clock or so.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” I take the note and motion toward the sandwich. “Carry on.”
Two minutes later I’m at my desk, punching in the number for Dr. Alan Johnson Jr. An overly enthusiastic receptionist puts me on hold, and Barry Manilow fills the line for a full two minutes. I’m about to hang up and try again, when Johnson comes on the line. Quickly, I identify myself and give him the fundamentals of the case.
“Was Leroy Nolt a patient of your father’s?” I ask.
“I had my office manager check the archived records, and, yes, he was.”
“Doctor Johnson, I spoke with Leroy Nolt’s parents and they informed me their son had broken his right forearm and your father surgically implanted a plate to repair the fracture.”
I hear rustling on the other end of the line, and I get the feeling he’s not giving me his full attention. “What is it you need from me, Chief Burkholder?”
“I have the serial number of the implant,” I tell him. “I’m wondering if you can look at your records and tell me if the plate recovered was the one used for Leroy Nolt’s broken arm.”
“How long ago was the surgery done, exactly?” he asks.
“I think the surgery was performed in 1982 or 1983.”
“That’s a long time ago.”
“Do you have the records, Doctor Johnson? It’s important.”
He sighs. “Well, I don’t have them on the computer, but I bet we have them in archive. My dad was pretty good at keeping records.” Another sigh lets me know he’s put out. A doctor who has no time for the dead. “Let me put Diane to work on this, and I’ll have her call you.”
I give him my cell as well as the number of the station. “The sooner the better,” I tell him. “I’d like to positively ID this individual as quickly as possible.”
“Everyone’s in a hurry,” he mutters.
* * *
An hour later, I’m sitting at my desk, a ham sandwich from LaDonna’s Diner and an iced tea in front of me. Next to my dinner is the list of Holmes County hog farmers assembled by my dispatchers. Extracted from multiple government agency data, both county and state, as well as local veterinarians, the list encompasses the five-year period before and after Leroy Nolt’s disappearance. It consists of thirty-nine names with addresses and contact information. I doubt it’s a comprehensive list; I happen to know that many of the local Amish are resistant to reporting information to any government agency. But it’s all I have, and for now it’s enough to get started.
If Dr. Nelson Woodburn’s assertion is correct and Leroy Nolt’s body was partially consumed by domestic pigs, where did Nolt come into contact with them? According to Herb Strackbein, the barn where the remains were found was never used for swine, so he had to come in contact with them somewhere else. The hog operation where he worked?
It may be something as innocuous as his entering a pen to feed the hogs and collapsing from some medical condition—an aneurism, for example. Over a period of hours, the curious—and hungry—hogs may have begun to feed on his body. Or maybe he fell and was knocked unconscious—with the same end result. All semblance of benevolence ends there, because if we’re reading the evidence correctly—mainly the presence of the garbage bag—someone moved the body and made an effort to conceal it.
But it’s the more sinister possibilities that haunt me this early evening. Did someone assault Nolt and throw his unconscious—or dead—body into the pen? Did they do it because they believed the animals would consume the body and in the process hide any evidence of foul play? Or did someone simply lock him in a pen with aggressive and hungry animals in an attempt to commit the perfect murder?
I think back to my own experience with hogs as a kid. We didn’t raise them, but over the years we kept a few for butchering. My datt would buy the occasional piglet at the auction in Millersburg—cute little pink babies my ten-year-old self fell in love with on sight. But those pink babies grew quickly into four-hundred-pound animals, not all of which had amicable personalities. The boars in particular, which commonly weighed in at five hundred pounds or more, became aggressive. When I was eight years old, I remember one of our big sows finding a chicken in her pen. She chased the hen down, cornered it, and proceeded to eat it alive while I screamed for her to stop. In the context of Leroy Nolt’s death, the memory makes me shudder.
It’s been a busy, eventful day, and so far I’ve been relatively successful in keeping my personal problems at bay. Tomasetti has called twice; both times I let his call go to voice mail. I know it’s stupid. I’ve been living with him for seven months now. I love him. I trust him. He’s my best friend and confidante. Despite all of those things, I don’t know how to tell him about my pregnancy. I want to believe it will be a happy moment for both of us, but I honestly have no idea how he’ll react.
Setting the list
aside, my appetite for the sandwich waning, I pick up my phone and dial his cell. I nearly hang up after two rings; in some small corner of my mind I’d hoped it would go to voice mail. Then I hear his voice, and in that instant I’m certain everything’s going to be all right. Good or bad or somewhere in between, we’ll deal with this.
“I was starting to think you were avoiding me,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice.
Usually we share an easy camaraderie that includes a good bit of verbal jousting. But for an instant I can’t conjure a comeback, and I feel a slow rise of what feels like panic because I don’t know what to say. Finally, I land on the truth, hoping it comes out right. “I was.”
“If it’s about my eating that last Hershey’s Kiss…”
“So you’re the culprit.”
“Busted.” But his words are halfhearted. He’s an astute man; he knows something’s up.
We fall silent. I can practically feel his concern, gentle fingers coming through the line, pressing against me to make sure I’m all right.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I need to talk to you. I mean, in person. Tonight.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I say automatically, then think better of it and add, “I’m not sure … exactly.”
“Okay.” A thoughtful silence ensues. “You want to talk now?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Do you want me to drive into town? I can be there in half an hour.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ve got a couple of things to tie up here before I can leave.”
He sighs. “Kate.”
“Look, I’ve got to run. Seven o’clock or so?”
“Sure.”
I disconnect before either of us can say anything more.
CHAPTER 12
There’s no more beautiful place in the world than northeastern Ohio in the summertime. The drive to A Place in Thyme Bed-and-Breakfast is as calming and picturesque as a Bill Coleman photograph. Rolling hills of farmland with big red barns and neat farmhouses interspersed with thick forests and ponds alive with weeping willow and cattails. By the time I arrive, I’m feeling settled and optimistic.
The cottage is nestled in a wooded area just off of Spooky Hollow Road. I take the narrow gravel drive and park next to a golf cart adjacent to a small garage. I emerge from the Explorer to a cacophony of birdsongs—cardinals and sparrows and red-winged blackbirds.
The Tudor-style cottage is storybook pretty with a steeply pitched roof, cheery yellow paint, and shutters the color of old brick. Red geraniums bloom in profusion at the base of the screened front porch. Flowers with delicate pink blooms overflow from earthenware pots set on concrete steps. A gingerbread picket fence surrounds the front yard. I’m walking through an arbor dripping with antique roses, when a voice calls out: “If you’re looking for a rental, we’re booked through August!”
I look to my left to see a plump woman in a floppy hat rising from her place on the ground where a flat of petunias are in the process of being planted. I guess her to be in her late forties. Clad in blue jeans and an oversize denim tunic, she pulls off leather gloves and starts toward me.
“I’m looking for Rachel Zimmerman,” I say.
“You’ve found her.” Her stride falters as she takes in my uniform. “You must be Chief Burkholder.”
I cross to her and extend my hand. “Sorry to disturb your planting.”
“Oh, I needed a break, anyway.”
I look around. “This is a lovely bed-and-breakfast.”
“Thank you. We love it here. My husband and I both have a passion for historical homes. When it came up on the market we couldn’t resist. We’ve been running the place for almost five years now. And, of course, it’s a bonus that the winery is so close. The tourists love it.” She tilts her head, looking at me more closely. “My parents called me with the news.”
“The identification won’t be official until DNA comes back, but we think it’s Leroy. I’m sorry.”
“My poor brother. He was such a good kid. But kind of a lost soul, you know?” Putting her hands on her hips, she sighs. “I guess the good news is we know where he is now. He’s no longer lost. At least now we can give him a decent burial.”
“I know it was a long time ago, Rachel, but I was wondering if you could answer a few questions. I’m trying to piece together his final days and figure out what happened to him.”
Her eyes sharpen on mine. They’re an interesting shade of green and made up prettily with eye makeup. “Are you saying his death wasn’t an accident?”
“The coroner hasn’t ruled on cause or manner of death yet. In fact, we may never know for certain.”
“If it was an accident, you wouldn’t be here, though, would you?”
I don’t respond.
We spend twenty minutes going through the same questions I posed to his parents and his former best friend, but Rachel is unable to offer much in the way of new information.
“Do you know if he was seeing anyone?” I ask. “Did he have a girlfriend?”
Her eyes brighten. “I wouldn’t have thought of it if you hadn’t asked, but I do remember him seeing a girl. In fact, I walked up on them smooching in the woods across the street from our house, you know, before the grocery store was built. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, him or her or me.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know. Leroy got all flustered and angry and just sort of shooed me away. But let me tell you, for a nine-year-old girl, I got an eyeful.” Her thoughts seem to turn inward and she smiles. “I’d never seen two people kiss like that before. And I’d never seen my brother look at anyone the way he looked at that girl.”
“What way is that?”
She pulls herself back to the present and nods her head. “Like they were in love. Big time.”
“You have no idea who she was?”
“If it’s any help, she was Amish.”
It’s the last thing I expected her to say, and my curiosity surges. “Are you sure?”
“Not positive, but pretty sure. We’re Mennonite, you know. Mom and Dad left the Swartzentruber Amish when they were young. Right after they were married, I think. Mom still dressed plainly back when I was a kid. In an Old Order Mennonite kind of way.” She smiles. “But I remember looking at that girl’s dress and kapp and thinking how different it was than my mom’s. So, yes, she was Amish.”
* * *
I’m at my desk, looking down at the list of hog farmers my dispatchers collected. Orange marker in hand, I’m highlighting the names I know are Amish. Seven o’clock has come and gone. The clock on the wall taunts me with every tick of the second hand. I want to believe I haven’t left for home because I’m busy with this case. Because I’m only halfway through the list and I want to finish before I pack it in.
I’m lying to myself. Again. Surprise.
Tomasetti hasn’t called, but I didn’t expect him to. He’s home, waiting for me, trying to give me my space and wondering where the hell I am.
Way to go, Kate.
Finally, at just before 9:00 P.M., I pack my laptop into its case and head for the farm. Twenty-five minutes later I walk through the door. The television is on in the living room. I see the table set with two plates, a bottle of cabernet sitting untouched in the center, and guilt takes a swipe at me with big sharp claws. For not being here when I said I would, for being a coward. For not having the guts to face this head-on.
I make it through the kitchen and into the bedroom. I’m sitting on the bed, unbuckling my equipment belt, when Tomasetti comes to the door. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me a little too closely, trying to figure out why I can’t meet his gaze.
When I can stand the silence no longer, I put my elbows on my knees and look down at my boots. “I’m pregnant,” I tell him.
It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud, and they shock me all the way to my core. This is the ki
nd of thing that happens to other women. Women who have normal lives and normal jobs and live with husbands who’ve never taken the law into their own hands. Women who don’t carry a gun and have never killed anyone.
The silence is deafening. I can’t look at him. I’m terrified of what I’ll see. Of what he’ll see in my own eyes. There’s no way I can protect myself or prepare for what he might say. Even after knowing him for over four years now, I haven’t a clue how he’ll react.
“How far along?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Six or seven weeks. I have to go to the doctor.”
“Okay, so you haven’t been to the doctor yet?” He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding the optimism in his voice. The hope that I’m wrong and all of this is a false alarm that we’ll laugh about later. It pisses me off.
“I took a pregnancy test,” I snap. “Last night. It was positive.”
Another silence that goes on too long and then Tomasetti says, “I guess that explains why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I’m just trying to absorb all of this.”
I raise my head and look at him, trying to decipher his frame of mind, discern any sarcasm or dark humor. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he gives me nothing. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“How did it happen? I thought you were taking the pill?”
“I am.” That I’d fail to do that one small, simple thing, more than anything, makes me feel like an idiot. “There were a couple of times when I missed a dose. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? How could you not know?”
“I was busy with work. I pulled a couple of all-nighters.” Misery presses down on me. I feel like crying. But I’m angry, too. Angry because he’s not making this any easier.
“I take it you’re not pleased,” I say, after a moment.
“I’m not sure how I feel. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Neither was I.”
He’s still standing at the door, his hands on the jamb on either side of him, looking at me as if I’ve betrayed him.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I tell him.