Deputy Rowlett cocks his head, studies me a moment. “You interested in the murder, or what?”
Careful, a little voice whispers.
“I just wanted to get a few things straight in my head, I guess.”
“Did you?” he asks.
“Enough so that I can put it to rest.”
A call comes over his radio. He responds via his shoulder mike and then turns his attention back to me. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he says. “Look, if you need any information on any of this stuff, let me know and I’ll send it your way.”
“Do you have any idea where I might find Sidney Tucker?” I ask.
He looks surprised that I know the name of the detective who worked the homicide of Naomi King. “Last I heard he was living out to Mosquito Lake.” He pauses, ignoring his radio. “Haven’t seen Tuck since he retired. If you talk to him, tell him I said hello, will you?”
“Honestly, I’m probably not going to make it over that way. If I do, I’ll tell him.” I offer up my best sheepish smile. “At some point I’m going to have to get back to work, too.”
He’s staring at me as if he isn’t quite sure whether to believe me; then he motions toward the stairway. “Feel free to finish what you were doing, Chief Burkholder. Look around as much as you like.” He grins. “Be careful, though. I hear there are ghosts out here.”
After tipping his hat, he turns away and disappears through the mudroom.
CHAPTER 16
There’s not much a cop dislikes more than to receive conflicting information in the course of a case. Precious time is wasted sorting through the half truths or outright lies to get to the facts. Then you waste more time figuring out who’s feeding you false information and why. I’m not even officially working on the Naomi King murder case and yet that’s exactly what’s happening.
After my conversation with Salome Fisher I have to wonder: Is it possible the domestic-violence charges against Joseph King were, at least in part, the result of some kind of disconnect between Naomi King and the sheriff’s department? Is it possible that neither she nor Joseph fully understood the seriousness of the charges and therefore made little effort to fight them? Was he charged and later convicted because no one stepped forward to set the matter straight? It seems implausible. But having grown up Amish, I understand the attitude that might put such a scenario into play.
The Amish community’s disdain for litigation could have dissuaded both Joseph and Naomi from eliciting the services of an attorney. The separation tenet could have discouraged them from asking questions that should have been asked. As a whole, the Amish seem to hold themselves to a higher level of accountability. While they’ll be the first to forgive, that forgiveness doesn’t always lend itself to tolerance, especially when it comes to a man like Joseph King, who repeatedly found himself on the wrong side of all those Amish rules, not to mention the law.
But while the domestic-violence conviction was a crucial part of the prosecution’s case, it wasn’t the only evidence presented against Joseph King in the course of the trial. The shotgun had been recently fired. There was gunpowder residue on his clothes. Naomi’s blood was on his jacket. There was circumstantial evidence as well as the dubious timeline of his fishing trip to Lake Erie.
I’m about to call Lois to see if she was able to get an address or phone number for Sidney Tucker when a call comes in from Auggie Brock.
“Hey, Auggie. What’s up?”
“Kate, I’m glad I caught you.” He pauses with a little too much drama. “The town council asked me to call you.”
“If this is about the covered bridge, I got sidetracked by the King situation and—”
“This isn’t about the bridge. It’s about that photograph of you and Joseph King.”
The initial fingers of uneasiness press into the back of my neck. “All right.”
“Look, it’s all over the Internet, Kate. Did you see the headlines? ‘Sleeping with the Enemy’? ‘Kiss of Death’? Good Lord. Three newspapers have picked up the story two days in a row now. If the Plain Dealer or Columbus Dispatch jump on the bandwagon, the shit is going to hit the fan. We’re going to have some fallout.”
“Auggie, I can assure you there was no misconduct—”
“Kate, the council members want to see you.”
Silently, I count to ten. “When?”
“Now would be great.”
He starts to say something, but I hang up on him.
* * *
The Painters Mill City Building is on South Street half a block from the traffic circle. The two-story brick structure was built in 1901 and has gone through several renovations since. It housed a post office in 1954. There was an elementary school on the first and second floors in the 1960s, while the new school was being built. The Painters Mill town council moved in after a fire gutted the top floor back in 1985. Citizens can pick up city permits, vote on issues, pay traffic citations, and attend council meetings.
I’m running later than I intended, so I opt for the stairs in lieu of the notoriously slow elevator. By the time I reach the outer chamber I’m breathless. The administrative assistant is already gone for the day, so I cross to the double doors and let myself in without knocking.
Six sets of eyes sweep to me when I enter the room. Mayor Auggie Brock sits at the head of the cherrywood conference table, a stack of folded newspapers in front of him. Councilwoman Janine Fourman sits next to Auggie, bejeweled fingers pecking on a sleek laptop. She owns several of the Amish tourist shops in town. She’s the most vocal of the group, has political aspirations to become Painters Mill’s first female mayor, and would like nothing more than to replace me with someone a bit more malleable.
The remaining council members are part-time volunteers. Dick Blankenship is a local farmer. Bruce Jackson owns a tree nursery on the edge of town. Ron Zelinski is a retired factory worker. Neil Stubblefield teaches high school algebra and coaches the football team.
“Chief Burkholder.” Auggie rises and motions me to the only vacant chair. “Thank you so much for coming. I know you’re busy wrapping up the Joseph King fiasco.”
I don’t take the chair. “What can I do for you?”
Auggie reaches for the newspaper, snaps it open, and turns it so I can see the photo and the headline. KISS OF DEATH. “I take it you’ve seen this?”
I glance at the paper, cringing inwardly at the sight of Joseph trying to kiss me. “I’ve seen it.”
Ron Zelinski looks down at the coffee cup in front of him as if suddenly fascinated by its contents. Bruce Jackson shifts uncomfortably, his chair creaking beneath his weight. I don’t miss the smirk on Janine Fourman’s face, a teenager watching her favorite slasher film, and I’m the one who’s about to venture into the basement.
“We’re getting … calls,” Auggie tells me. “Lots of them. Citizens wanting to know how their police chief was caught in such a … compromising position.”
Janine Fourman jumps in. “They want to know how it is that a city employee, the chief of police at that, is engaging in such inappropriate conduct.” She flicks the newspaper with her finger. “The man kissing you murdered his wife and took five children hostage, for God’s sake.”
“A man who was later shot dead by the police,” Blankenship adds.
“It looks bad, Kate.” Auggie eyes me as if it pains him to say the words. “We’re fielding calls from reporters as far away as Cincinnati. I’m sure they’re calling your office, too. If this thing catches fire, we could be in for a shit storm.”
I want to point out that he’s mixing his metaphors, but I know it would only make the situation more contentious, so I bite my tongue and remain silent.
“What exactly are we supposed to tell the folks?” Auggie asks.
“In all fairness, we thought we should hear from you,” Zelinski says. Mr. Reasonable.
“We have city leaders calling for your resignation,” Janine interjects.
“That’s not to mention the prisoner-right
s groups,” Auggie adds. “I hate it, but this thing could conceivably get pretty ugly.”
I take a moment to make eye contact with each council member. Auggie is having a tough time meeting my gaze. Stubblefield and Jackson look as if they’d rather be getting colonoscopies. As usual, Janine has blood in her eye. I’m pretty sure Auggie was railroaded into this.
“With that photo making the rounds, I believe we need to do some damage control,” Auggie says.
When no one says anything, Janine jumps in. “Do you have an official explanation you’d like to share with us, Chief Burkholder?”
This is my chance to defend myself. That’s why I’m here. Why I’ve been waylaid by these people I’ve worked with for over four years now. But as I look from face to face, the reality of the situation becomes clear, and the anger I’d been experiencing gives way to a deep sense of disappointment.
“Apparently, all of you have already made up your minds about what happened,” I say.
“We asked you to come here because we’d like an explanation from you,” Auggie says, trying to sound diplomatic, but it comes across as whiny and insincere.
“All right.” I motion toward the pile of newspapers lying on the tabletop. “Regardless of what you or anyone else might think, I did not engage in any form of misconduct while in that house with Joseph King.”
“We believe you, of course,” Stubblefield says quickly. “But that photograph is … damning.”
“One of the prisoner-rights groups has called for an investigation,” Jackson puts in. “A couple of the shop owners in town have already weighed in on this.”
“Kate, Painters Mill is a tourist town,” Auggie adds, as if I’m somehow not aware of the fact. “You know how important that is to our economy.”
“We don’t want tourists thinking our police department is … engaging in any kind of … dubious behavior,” Stubblefield adds.
My temper stirs in earnest. This is a witch hunt and I’ve had enough. “In that case I suggest you put your heads together and figure something out.” I take a step back and reach for the doorknob. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Looking alarmed by the possibility that I’m going to walk out, Janine stands. “We’ve already come up with a solution.”
Ron Jackson looks at the mayor. “For God’s sake, Auggie, tell her.”
All eyes turn to Auggie, including mine.
“Kate, I hope you know we’re on your side,” he says. “You have a lot of fans in this room.”
“I can see that.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Janine Fourman roll her eyes.
“But that photo presents a problem for Painters Mill and the image we want to project. As mayor, it’s my responsibility to deal with it and make the hard decisions. We’ve looked at that photo carefully. While you may not have done anything inappropriate, it appears you did. Appearances are important when you’re in the public eye.”
He pauses dramatically. “After much discussion, the town council and I decided to place you on restricted duty.”
I tamp down another rise of anger, keep my voice level. “Restricted duty?”
“That means you can continue with your duties as chief, but you can’t be on patrol,” Auggie explains.
“I know what it means,” I snap.
“With pay,” Stubblefield adds quickly.
I ignore him, focus my attention on the mayor, saying nothing.
He’s one of those people who can’t bear silence. “Come on, Kate. Don’t look at me like that. You’ll be back to full duty in no time. A few days. This is mostly for appearances. You know, until this thing blows over. Think of it as a vacation.”
I barely hear the final sentence. I’m not sure which is worse, the sense of betrayal or the humiliation.
Without a word, I turn and open the door. Auggie calls out to me, but I leave the room and cross through the outer chamber without looking back.
* * *
Knowing Auggie will come after me if only to make nice, I take the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. He calls my cell twice on the way down, but I don’t answer. I like Auggie; he’s a decent mayor. Before this, I’d begun to think of him as an ally—and a friend. The problem is he doesn’t have the fortitude to stand up for what he believes is right when he’s outnumbered. This isn’t the first time he’s let a self-interested town council or group of merchants browbeat him into throwing me under the bus.
I jog down the hall and smack both hands against the exterior door. It swings wide and crashes into the wall with a satisfying bang! Hitting the fob, I slide behind the wheel of the Explorer, slamming the door a little too hard. It helps.
Anger is such a waste of time and energy. It takes a monumental effort, but I shove my temper aside, put the vehicle in gear, and pull onto the street. I’m not going to let this sidetrack me. I’m not going to let it stop me. And I’m sure as hell not going to let it keep me from getting to the truth.
“Damn it.” I rap my fist against the steering wheel.
By the time I reach the first traffic signal, I’m calm enough to call Jodie, my second-shift dispatcher. “Do you know if Lois left contact info for Sidney Tucker?”
It’s too late for me to drive back to Geauga County this evening. But at least I’ll have the address; I’ll be able to make the trip first thing in the morning.
Papers rattle on the other end. “Got it right here, Chief.” She recites a Cortland, Ohio, address along with a phone number. “How’d it go with the mayor?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Oh boy.”
“Thanks for the address.”
“Hang in there, Chief.”
My anger drops off on the drive to the Beachy farm. I want to check on the family, on the children, and it won’t help if I walk in foaming-at-the-mouth mad. This is about Joseph King’s kids, not me. By the time I turn in to the gravel lane, I’ve composed myself.
There are indelible reminders that just forty-eight hours ago, the farm was the scene of a barricaded-gunman-and-hostage situation. At the height of the standoff, there were a couple of dozen vehicles parked along the road, and on either side of the lane. The traffic left tire ruts on the shoulder and the grass trampled to dirt.
I park at the rear of the house and take the flagstone path that’s overgrown with henbit and clumps of fescue to the front. I ascend the steps, cross the porch, and give the door a firm knock. The door flies open. I glance down to find myself face-to-face with Little Joe, and I’m struck anew by how much he looks like his father.
“Little Joe,” I say. “Wie bischt du?” How are you?
“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” He looks over his shoulder. “Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde!” We have another non-English visitor.
I heft a smile. “Been getting a lot of them?”
“Too many, according to Aunt Becca.”
“Chief Burkholder?”
I look past the boy to see Rebecca Beachy come out of the kitchen, her hands busy with a raggedy dish towel. “What brings you here this evening?”
“I just wanted to see how everyone is doing,” I tell her.
Reaching over the boy, she pushes the door open and ushers me inside. “Come in.”
The house smells slightly of bleach, some kind of pine cleaner, and freshly brewed coffee. I brace as Rebecca takes me into the kitchen, half expecting to see some sign of the shooting’s aftermath, but the room is tidy and clean. There’s no sign of the carnage I saw last time I was here.
“I made coffee if you’d like some,” Rebecca says. “Date pudding, too.”
“That would be great.” I don’t want either, but I need something to occupy my hands. “Thanks.”
I’m trying not to look at the place on the floor where I found Joseph when movement in the doorway catches my attention.
Levi and Sadie are standing just inside the living room, hiding behind the wall, peeking out at me. Levi grins and turns away, his little feet pounding up the stairs as he flees. Sadie gr
ins and starts toward me. “Hi, Katie.”
The instant I lay eyes on the little girl, something melts inside me. She looks fragile and sad, her eyes far too old for a five-year-old. I don’t know if she’s been told about her father, but I can tell she knows something.
Cradling her doll against her chest, Sadie stops a couple of feet away and looks at me expectantly. “I was wondering if you’d come back.”
“I had to check on you to see how you’re doing.”
“You mean after what happened to Datt?”
“Yes, baby,” I say quietly. “You doing okay?”
She nods vigorously. “Aunt Becca made date pudding and let me lick the bowl. That helped a bunch.”
“It doesn’t get any better than that.” I turn my attention to the doll she’s holding against her. “How’s Dottie doing?”
Another grin emerges and I catch a glimpse of tiny baby teeth. “She’s doing good, too.” She uses a little fingernail to scrape at a stain on her doll’s dress. “Did you know my datt went to heaven and how he’s with my mamm?”
The question knocks me off-kilter. Such a sad comment from a five-year-old kid. For a moment, I’m not sure how to respond. I look at Rebecca; the Amish woman gives a somber nod.
“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry.”
“I think he’ll like it there.” Her brows go together as she gives the notion serious consideration. “I mean, he gets to be with Mamm and Jesus.”
At a loss for words, I glance at Rebecca, but she just shakes her head. “I think you’re right about that.”
The little girl is still thoughtful; she’s looking at me closely, studying my face as if she’s going to have to recall every detail later. “My datt liked you, too, even though you’re an Englischer.”
“The feeling was mutual,” I say.
Rebecca sets two small bowls of date pudding and two mugs of coffee on the table. “Sadie, why don’t you run out to the barn and tell your brothers to come in and wash up for bed?”
The little girl eyes the pudding. “May I please have one, too, Aunt Becca?”
“You already did.” The woman punctuates the statement by brushing her hand over the girl’s cheek. “You’re like a little bottomless pit.”