After the Storm

  “I’m overreacting because I love you!” he shouts.

  The tension snaps like a steel cable. The words deflate the anger that had been building in my chest. I look at him, loving him, wanting desperately for things to be right between us. But I don’t reach out. This isn’t going to be settled easily. Maybe not at all.

  “Female police officers get pregnant and have babies all the time,” I tell him. “It’s not an ideal situation, but they don’t quit their jobs or give up on their careers.”

  “You can compromise. Take light duty. Cut out the late-night patrols.”

  “You can’t ask me to do that.”

  He says nothing, and the floor seems to crumble beneath my feet. I stare at him, flummoxed—and more upset than I’ve been in a very long time. “Tomasetti, don’t do this to me. Don’t make me choose.”

  “We’ve both been thinking about it, Kate. All I did was open the box and let it out.”

  I look down at my keys lying on the table. “I have to go,” I say as I snatch them up.

  Spinning, I yank open the door. Then I’m down the steps in a single bound. Running toward the Crown Vic. Aware that I left my equipment belt and weapons. The interior light comes on as I hit the remote to unlock the doors.

  I hear the door slam behind me. The pound of Tomasetti’s feet. “Kate. Kate!”

  I reach the car, yank open the door. Out of the corner of my eye I see him coming around the rear, gaze steady and latched on to me. Sliding into the car, I jab the key into the ignition, turn it.

  “Don’t go,” he says.

  I try to close the door, but he’s standing in the way so I can’t. Gently, he sets his hand on my arm and bends to me. “Please,” he says. “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”

  “Tomasetti, what the hell are we doing?”

  “I think the official term is ‘fighting.’”

  I choke out a laugh. “Don’t make me laugh, damn it. This is serious.”

  “I know.”

  I don’t turn off the engine. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Letting his hand slide down my arm, he takes my hand and steps back. “For starters, you can come here.”

  I turn the key and get out of the vehicle. He closes the door and then eases me backward until I’m leaning against it, and he falls against me.

  “I was out of line,” he tells me. “I’m sorry.”

  When I look away, he raises his hand and cups my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. “This scares me,” he says. “I’m not very good at being scared.”

  “Neither am I.” I stare at him, trying to untangle the emotions thrumming inside me and the words sticking to my tongue. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “You mean about us?”

  “I mean if you need some space, I’ll give it to you.”

  “I don’t need any goddamn space. I need you.”

  “Tomasetti, there’s no easy solution to this.”

  “I know.” He leans closer and kisses me, his mouth lingering on mine. “We’ll figure something out.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The call from Dr. Alan Johnson comes as I walk through the door of my office at just before 9:00 A.M. Setting my laptop case on the floor, my coffee on the blotter, I catch the line on the third ring.

  “We finally received our archived records for Leroy Nolt,” the doctor begins.

  “Do the serial numbers match?” I ask.

  “Yes, they do. That plate is the same one my father used to repair Leroy Nolt’s broken arm.”

  I’d known that would be the case; there were too many coincidences for the remains not to belong to Nolt. Still, this makes it official. Now all I need is the cause and manner of death from the coroner.

  “Thank you for checking on that for me, Doctor Johnson.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information confidential until I can notify the family.”

  “Certainly, Chief Burkholder. Good luck with the case.”

  I’m still on my first cup of coffee, thinking about Sue and Vern Nolt, when Glock calls me on my cell.

  “Any luck with Kester?” I ask him.

  “I hooked up with Trumbull County and a state park officer. We spent the night out at Mosquito Lake State Park, but Kester never showed.”

  “You search his place?”

  “He and his wife are staying with his father-in-law, Chief. I got the warrant and Skid and I went out there. But Kester took his stuff and left. Wife’s gone, too.”

  “Shit.” I think about that a moment. “He own a .22 rifle?”

  “We didn’t find anything. No gun. No ammo. His father-in-law said he doesn’t own a weapon, but you know how that goes.”

  “We have to assume he’s armed and dangerous.” I sigh. “I’m going to put out a BOLO on Kester.”

  “Probably a good idea at this point.”

  “Get some sleep,” I tell him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  I’ve just finished putting out the BOLO on Nick and Paula Kester, when T.J. peeks his head into my office. “You got a minute?” he asks.

  “Sure. Have a seat.” I motion to the visitor’s chair adjacent my desk.

  Taking the chair, he raises the papers in his hand. “I know you’re dealing with the Kester thing, Chief, but I was looking over some of these old police reports from around the time Leroy Nolt went missing.” He flicks the paper with his index finger. “I think I hit gold.”

  I take the paper and read. It’s a poor copy of a handwritten incident report for an “unknown disturbance” from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s Department dated August 29, 1985. Deputy Mack Pelletier wrote:

  Responded to disturbance call in the 3500 block of County Road 600 south of Charm. Concerned neighbor reported “screams and yelling” coming from the farm next door. Child witness reported an unknown individual falling into livestock pen with possible serious injury. Child’s mother, SuAnne Ferman, heard nothing but stated child witnessed the accident at Kaufman farm next door and was frightened. Responding deputy arrived on scene and spoke with property owner, Reuben Kaufman, who stated the child sneaked onto property and became upset after witnessing the butchering of hogs. No citation issued. No further action required. End.

  “That is interesting.” I look at T.J. “Do you have an address for SuAnne Ferman?”

  “I checked. Ferman passed away a few years back.”

  “Well, shit.”

  He grins. “Daughter’s around, though.”

  “The kid who saw it?”

  “Yep.” He looks down at the paper in his hand. “Sally Burris lives in Berlin. She’s owns a shop called Homespun.”

  I smile back at him. “How old was she when this happened?”

  He checks the paper in his hand. “Nine, according to the report.”

  “Old enough to remember.”

  * * *

  Homespun is located in the front half of a small cottage-style home just off of Main Street in Berlin. The bell jangles when I open the beveled-glass door. I’m welcomed by the warm aromas of sandalwood, bergamot, and patchouli, and find myself surrounded by old-fashioned wooden shelves jammed with handmade candles of every shape and size and scent. Mason jars, martini glasses, hurricanes—even seashells. The wall to my left is plastered with dozens of cuckoo clocks, some in the shape of the iconic red-and-white barn, others in the form of an Amish buggy. At the rear, a plump red-haired woman wearing a purple cardigan is ringing up a sale for a customer.

  I browse salt and pepper shakers, hot pads, and homemade dog biscuit kits while the two women chat about the tornado. I find an amber-scented candle in a sea-glass hurricane I like. When the customer leaves, I approach the counter and set it next to the antique cash register. “You have some beautiful things,” I begin.

  The woman behind the counter beams a smile and picks up the candle. “Oh, I just love the sea glass. It’s one of my favorite pieces in the whole store
. And the scent is to die for.”

  “It’ll look good on my dining room table.”

  “Look good anywhere.” She’s got dimpled cheeks and a gumdrop nose spattered with freckles.

  I pull out my badge and identify myself. “I’m looking for Sally Burris.”

  “You found her.” She gives me an exaggerated look of surprise. “What did I do?”

  “I’m working on a cold case and ran across an old police report from the Coshocton County Sheriff’s Office from 1985. Your mother had filed a complaint—”

  “Oh! This must be about our old neighbors! Those Amish people, the Kaufmans.”

  “So you remember?”

  “Heck, yeah, I remember.” She gives a hearty belly laugh. “Gave me nightmares for a month. Nine-year-old kid doesn’t forget something like that.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She chuckles as if at herself, then looks at me from beneath her lashes. “Well, I used to sneak over to their farm. It was dumb, I know, but when you’re nine and bored…” Rolling her eyes, she shrugs. “Anyhoo, I sneaked over there one afternoon. That old bank barn in the back. I climbed through the hay chute and I’m poking around on the second level, when these three Amish guys came out.” She sobers and I can see the memories taking her back to a place that’s not quite comfortable. “They were speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, so I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I could tell they were arguing.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “I was down the hay chute with the hatch open a few inches, so I couldn’t see their faces. All I could see was their legs and feet.”

  “What exactly did you see?”

  Her mouth tightens. “At first the men were just talking. Then things got loud. They started yelling and there was some scuffling, and, oh boy, my heart was pounding like a drum. Then things got really weird. I mean, I always thought of the Amish as gentle and religious, you know? Well, let me tell you something, Chief Burkholder, that day they were neither. They were yelling like a bunch of drunken bikers. I heard cursing. There was some pushing and shoving and hitting. Then I swear I saw a guy fall out that big hay door in the back and into the hogpen below.” She shivers. “I’ll never forget the way his body sounded when it hit the pipe fence, then the concrete below. I’ll tell you this: He didn’t get up, and I swear all those pigs ran over to him and started crowding and squealing and God only knows what else. The whole thing scared me something awful.”

  “Did you see the face of the man who fell?”

  “Just a glimpse.”

  “Can you ID him?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got the heck out of there. Ran home as fast as I could and told my mom. She called the sheriff. They came out to the house, asked me a few questions and wrote everything down. My mom told me later that Mr. Kaufman told the police that he was slaughtering hogs and that must have been what traumatized me.”

  “Is that what happened?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No, ma’am, it’s not. He lied to the cops. Those men were fighting. I saw someone fall into that pen, and I’m pretty sure he was pushed.” She hugs herself as if against a chill. “And all those big hogs? I saw blood, Chief Burkholder. Either he cut himself in the fall or those hogs went after him.” She huffs out a laugh, but it’s a grim sound. “I never sneaked over there again, and to this day I can’t drive past that old farm without breaking out in a cold sweat.”

  CHAPTER 21

  In the course of a homicide investigation, one of the most important components a cop must establish is motive. Once he understands the why, he can usually come up with the who, and the rest of the case will eventually fall into place. The question of motive has been forefront in my mind since speaking with Sally Burris earlier in the day. Since, I’ve locked myself in my office, filled half a legal pad with supposition, and, after a lot of thought, drafted an affidavit for Judge Seibenthaler in the hope of getting a search warrant for Reuben and Naomi Kaufman’s farm.

  Is it possible that as a teenager Abigail Kaufman (Kline), a Swartzentruber Amish, became involved with Leroy Nolt, a New Order Mennonite? Is it feasible that their illicit affair educed the wrath of her father? I know from experience that some Amish are rigid in their belief systems and intolerant of those who differ. Some can be quite cruel to the fallen. But murder?

  No one wants to believe a member of a group he or she admires and respects is capable of something so heinous. But as I gaze through the window and watch the Main Street merchants close up shop for the day, I realize that’s exactly where my mind has gone—into that murky, dank place where fanaticism overrides religion, where hatred trumps tolerance, and something as sacred as the Ordnung is twisted into an unrecognizable and hideous command.

  Rising, I leave my desk and stride to the reception area. My dispatcher, Lois, glances up from her computer screen when I enter. “You look troubled,” she tells me.

  “Call Judge Seibenthaler and tell him I’m on my way over.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let everyone know there’s a briefing in an hour.” I glance at the clock on the wall and sigh. “And while you’re at it, if you could throw in a little bit of good luck, I’d really appreciate it.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I’m standing outside the chambers of the honorable Judge Harry Seibenthaler at the courthouse in Millersburg. It’s just after five o’clock, so he doesn’t keep me waiting. His administrative assistant ushers me through her office and into his inner sanctum.

  “Chief Burkholder! What a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?”

  The judge is a corpulent man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, a mottled complexion, and a gourdlike nose shot with broken capillaries. He weighs in at about 250, but he’s not much taller than me. He’s got a jovial personality and an appreciation for humor, but I know from experience he’s a tough son of a bitch in his courtroom, and not only with regard to those who break the law. I’ve seen him take more than one cocky young lawyer down a notch. In the years I’ve been chief, he’s denied more warrants than he’s signed, and I have a sinking feeling this one won’t make the cut.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Judge.”

  “You caught me walking out the door. My granddaughter has a piano recital up in Wooster in an hour.”

  “In that case, I’ll make this quick.” I pass him the affidavit. It includes the highlights of the case, the information I gleaned from Sally Burris earlier, the location and reason for the search, and what I’m looking for—in this case the titanium plate missing from the remains of Leroy Nolt. I also give him a copy of the original crime report.

  Slipping glasses onto his nose, he looks down at the affidavit, skimming, and then looks at me over the rims of his glasses. “Naomi and Reuben Kaufman, Kate? Seriously?”

  Argument prepared, I launch into everything I know about the case. “I have a witness that saw a man fall into the hogpen. I have remains with marks consistent with the tooth marks of domestic swine.”

  “The Kaufmans are pillars of the community! The Amish community, which happens to be the bread and butter of this town. For God’s sake, Kate, my wife buys stuff from them all the time.”

  “I’m aware they’re Amish.”

  Frowning, he turns to the second sheet of paper and then looks at me. “You’re looking for a titanium orthopedic plate? What the hell is that?”

  “It’s an orthopedic implant,” I tell him. “The decedent sustained a broken arm in which both the radius and ulna were broken. Two plates were surgically implanted. Only one was found with the remains.”

  “So you think this second missing plate is at the Kaufman farm?”

  “I do.”

  Taking off his glasses, he sets down the paper. His leather chair protests when he leans back. “You don’t have enough here for a warrant. You know that, right?”

  “Abigail Kline—Reuben and Nao
mi’s daughter—made the quilt Leroy Nolt gave his mother. When I asked her about it, she lied to me. She was involved with Leroy Nolt. Judge, I know there’s something there.”

  “Have these bones even been confirmed as Nolt’s? I mean, via DNA?”

  “Not with DNA yet, but the surgeon who did the surgery on Leroy Nolt matched the serial number with the plate we found.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Judge, Leroy Nolt went missing at about the same time Sally Burris saw a man fall into the pigpen in the course of an argument at the Kaufman farm.”

  “It says here she was nine years old! I don’t believe that’s a reliable age, especially when it’s been thirty years since the incident.”

  “She’s reliable.”

  He removes his glasses. “Kaufman said he’d been butchering hogs. That’s enough to upset any nine-year-old little girl.” Spitting out a sound of skepticism, he taps on my notes with a stubby index finger. “And she didn’t see their faces. She can’t even identify anyone. Come on. You know that’s not enough for a damn warrant.”

  “All I need is a few hours in the barn and pens with a metal detector.”

  “If you’re wrong, do you have any idea what this will do to relations between the Amish and the rest of us? Things are already strained. We’ve already got them selling out and moving to Upstate New York. You go out there and start searching for body parts, and all hell is going to break loose.”

  “Judge Seibenthaler, with all due respect—”

  He chops the air with his hand. “Not going to happen, Kate.”

  “What do you need?”

  “For starters you can produce DNA that proves those bones are Nolt’s. Until then, I’m not going to approve a search warrant for their farm or anyone else’s. Without a positive ID, I just can’t do it.”

  I tamp down annoyance, keep my voice level. “Judge, I believe Leroy Nolt was murdered. Someone has gotten away with it for thirty years. I think Jeramy Kline and Abram Kaufman are involved.”

  “You think? Kate, that’s not good enough. For God’s sake, we can’t go around shaking down Amish families. Bring me some proof. Bring me something more concrete than a theory based on something a nine-year-old girl may or may not have seen thirty years ago. Otherwise, I can’t help you.” He looks at his watch. “Now I have to go.”