“I know. I just … I wish they’d listened to me. I knew King. I knew the good side of him. There was a possibility I could’ve talked him down or defused the situation. Tomasetti, they wouldn’t listen to me.”
“I know.” He hugs me against him. A beat of silence and then he asks, “Did you love him?”
The question makes me smile. “I’m not sure that’s the right word. I mean, I had no concept of love when I was thirteen years old. Puppy love, maybe.”
“When you’re that age puppy love doesn’t feel like puppy love.”
“Tomasetti, you’re not jealous, are you?”
“Should I be? I mean, there was that kiss…”
I elbow him. “There was no kiss.”
For the span of several minutes we lie against each other. Then Tomasetti says, “Look, I may not agree with what you’re doing. I don’t have as much faith in Joseph King as you do. But will you let me know if you need help? I may not have what it takes to save your favorite cow, but I have resources.”
We both fall into laughter and I put the moment to memory, knowing it’s precious, a snapshot in time that will stay with me the rest of my life.
“Have I told you I love you recently?” I ask.
“Not recently,” he says.
“Well, I do.”
“In that case…” Setting his hands on either side of my face, he lowers his mouth to mine.
CHAPTER 18
The graabhof lies on a stretch of road lined with quaint farms southeast of Burton, Ohio. It’s a small cemetery filled with neat rows of plain headstones and surrounded by a three-rail wood fence. A solitary maple tree stands sentinel on the left side of the entrance gate. It’s a bucolic scene made all the more melancholy because of its beauty.
The Amish generally turn out in droves when a member of their community passes away, sometimes traveling for miles to pay their final respects. Usually, there’s a funeral service at the home of the family. The minister or bishop will give a sermon that oftentimes includes some type of moral lecture. There’s no singing, but Bible passages are recited and at the end of the service an obituary is read, usually in Deitsch.
The plain casket is then transported to the graabhof. Family members and friends follow in what is usually a long line of buggies. Most funerals garner so much in the way of buggy traffic that I sometimes dispatch an officer to deter any disputes between the slow-moving buggies and impatient drivers.
There was no funeral service for Joseph King this morning. As I make the final turn onto Jug Street, I pass only three buggies and a lone couple walking alongside the road, and I realize with a deep sense of sadness that, in light of recent events, few have turned out to mourn him.
I pull onto the narrow gravel shoulder and park behind a buggy. A few yards away, half a dozen men and women clad in black stand among the neat rows of pale headstones. Next to them, the wagon containing the casket lies in wait. More than likely the grave was dug by hand last night or early this morning—well before the mourners arrived—by two or three young Amish men.
I leave the Explorer and walk through the gate. Curious eyes descend upon me as I approach the group. There are no children present, just three couples and a group of men who are probably the pallbearers. I’m midway to the gravesite when the sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. I turn to see a silver Toyota pull up behind my Explorer. A bittersweet pang sweeps through me when Jonas King and his partner, Logan, get out and start toward me.
I stop and wait for them, extending my hand to both of them when they reach me. “I’m sorry about Joseph,” I tell him.
“Thank you, Katie. And thank you for coming. I’m still trying to process it.” Jonas blows out a breath and I realize he’s quite upset. “I knew something like this could happen. I just…” He lets the words trail as if not sure how to finish the sentence. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, Joe was always such a fixture in my life. Even while he was in prison. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I nod, understanding that unexpected punch of grief, of disbelief, all too well. “Does Edward know?”
He nods. “I told him but … He’s not coming.”
“How did you find out?” I ask.
“Sheriff sent a couple of deputies out to the house right after it happened.” He looks at me. “Were you there?”
I nod and for an instant, I’m back at the Beachy farmhouse with Joseph and the kids, and I can’t meet his gaze.
“I saw the photo,” he says.
“Jonas, I’m sorry—”
He notices my reaction and chokes out a laugh. “It’s okay,” he says easily. “Joe was.… a rascal.” He hefts another laugh, but it comes out with a sob. “He never said it, never said anything, but I think he was always a little bit in love with you.”
Feeling more than is prudent, I wait a beat, and then change the subject. “I saw your nieces and nephews last night.”
He flashes a smile at Logan. “We’re heading that way next. How are they doing?”
“Good. Rebecca and Daniel are taking good care of them and getting them back into a normal routine.”
“They were there, too, that night, weren’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. Poor kids.” Jonas brings his head forward and pinches the bridge of his nose, but quickly regains his composure. “The thing is, those kids have already been away from their datt for two years. Sad as it is, it’ll probably make their adjustment easier.”
It’s true, but we both know their scars will run deep.
“Jonas, I know this isn’t a good time to talk, but I want you to know I went to see Salome Fisher.”
His gaze jerks to mine. “You did? What did she say?”
I take him through my visit with her. “She doesn’t believe Joseph was physically abusive to Naomi.”
“I thought that would be the case.” He shakes his head. “But if that’s the truth, why didn’t she speak up? I mean, during trial?”
“I was left with the impression that the bishop thought it might a good lesson for Joseph to spend some time in jail.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “You know, Katie, those two domestic-violence charges played a big role during the murder trial. The prosecutor hammered it home every chance he got.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t see how Joe was convicted.”
“The one thing I can tell you is that domestic violence doesn’t always mean someone got punched,” I explain. “According to Ohio code, if you put your hands on someone, you’re probably going to jail. There are gray areas. Cops make judgment calls.”
Sighing, he looks past me at the group of Amish that have congregated around the gravesite. “I don’t believe he put his hands on her. My brothers and I weren’t raised that way.”
An awkward silence descends. I can tell by the way Jonas is fidgeting, not meeting my gaze, that he’s got more to say, but he’s debating whether he should.
“If you’ve got something to tell me, I think now would be a good time,” I say.
Jonas tightens his lips, but says nothing.
Beside him, Logan sets his hand on Jonas’s arm. “This has been eating you alive for two years. This is your chance. Tell her.”
Jonas takes a deep breath, like a free diver about to descend into the depths, and then the words start to pour out. “I don’t know how or why, but I think Joseph was railroaded. I think the meth was planted. I think the domestic-violence charges were … exaggerated.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. But I knew Joe. He did not do meth. If you knew him … Katie, that’s just crazy.”
“Look, when someone has a problem—with drugs or alcohol or whatever—sometimes loved ones are the last to know. Some people are good at keeping secrets. They’re able to function even when their life is spiraling out of control.”
“He didn’t have a drug problem,” Jonas says testily.
I don’t respond.
“And who called the cops the times
when Joseph and Naomi were supposedly arguing?” he asks. “They didn’t have a phone. They lived too far away for the neighbors to overhear them, if, indeed, they were arguing. How did the cops know to show up?”
I stare at him, silently acknowledging that the question has been bothering me as well. “I thought of that.”
“I can tell by the look on your face.”
I take a moment, look past him at the group of mourners. I wonder how many of them knew Joseph. How many of them are here simply because he was Amish and they are bound by duty.
I turn my attention back to Jonas. “Did Joseph have any enemies that you know of?”
“Pissing people off was one of his specialties.”
“Can you be more specific?” Now it’s my turn to get testy.
He gives me a tired smile. “He’d ticked off a few people in his day, but nothing serious that I recall.” He thinks about it for a moment. “The only people who hated Joseph were the cops.”
“What about Naomi? Did she have any enemies?”
He laughs at the notion. “God no. The woman was a saint.”
Movement where the graveside service is about to be held draws my attention. I glance over to see four young Amish men removing the casket from the wagon with two long poles.
“We’d best get over there,” Logan says.
The two men start toward the gravesite.
“Jonas?” I call out.
He turns and raises his brows.
“I’m going to talk to the detective who handled the murder investigation.”
Tears fill his eyes, but he doesn’t let them spill. “Joe never had anyone to look out for him when he was alive. Not me. Not Edward. Now it’s too late. What an epic fail.”
I hold my ground, watching as the two men join the rest of the mourners.
“It’s not too late,” I whisper.
* * *
I stayed for the graveside service, watching most of it from a distance. It left me feeling depressed and unsettled. It was too brief, the minister reading just a single hymn. By the time the first shovel full of dirt was tossed onto the casket, the mourners were already heading to their buggies. Duty done. Time to call it a day. Good-bye, Joseph.
It’s not yet noon when I climb into the Explorer and pull onto Jug Street. I’d decided to heed my own good judgment and head back to the farm. Maybe take a nice, long, exhausting run to work off some of the melancholy that’s been dogging me. But my mind isn’t on home or running or even my job. I can’t stop thinking about Joseph King, the circumstances of his life and death and those final hours we spent together in the farmhouse.
Joseph never had anyone to look out for him.
Jonas King’s words ring hard in my ears as I head toward Wooster.
“Shut up, Jonas,” I mutter.
I’m southbound on Ohio 44 when I realize I can’t go back. I make a sudden turn into the parking lot of a heavy equipment dealership. I sit for a moment, reminding myself I’m on restricted duty; it doesn’t help. Gravel spews from beneath my tires as I make a U-turn and head east instead of west.
The last thing any cop welcomes is some yahoo from another jurisdiction coming in and questioning his work. Of course, I’ll do my best not to be obvious about it, but that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Forty-five minutes later I’m idling down Lake Shore Drive on the west side of Mosquito Lake near Cortland when I spot the street number on the mailbox. I make the turn into a neat asphalt drive and park in front of the attached two-car garage. The house is a split-level brick built back in the sixties. It’s quiet and nicely kept with a dozen or so massive maple trees in the front. A row of lilac bushes that will be covered with blooms in the summer delineate the property line to the south. A hedge of barberry bushes runs the length of the driveway and adds yet another layer of privacy.
I go to the front porch, walk past two Adirondack chairs, and knock on the storm door. I wait, listening for a radio or television, but no one answers.
“Crap,” I mutter, wishing I’d called before making the drive. But I know why I didn’t; I wanted to catch the former detective off guard and unprepared. So much for best-laid plans.
I’m nearly to the Explorer when I decide to check the backyard. I’m pretty sure this property backs up to the lake. With Tucker being retired, there’s a decent chance he might be outside working in the garden or something.
I go around to the side, walk past a gazebo and a shed. The backyard is huge and backs up to a wooded area. It’s unfenced, so I start across the grass toward what looks like a trailhead. It takes me just a few minutes to reach the lake. It’s a pretty spot with an abundance of birds and sixty-foot-tall trees. The water is as smooth as glass. A corpulent man wearing khakis, a fishing hat, and sunglasses is standing on the bank, fishing.
“Catching anything?” I ask as I approach.
He glances at me over his shoulder and continues reeling. “You should have seen the largemouth bass I just tossed back in. Had to be six pounds of him.”
Sensing a fish story, I smile. “Why’d you throw him back?”
“Never liked fish,” he tells me. “But I damn sure like to catch them.”
Upon reaching him, I extend my hand. “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief down in Painters Mill.”
Eyes narrowed, he wipes his hand on his pants. “Nice to meet you, chief of police Kate Burkholder. I have a feeling you’re not here to check my fishing license.”
We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Hands callused and dry. Slow, easy release. He’s about sixty years old with a kindly face and grandfather eyes. I can tell by the way he looks at me that while he possesses the countenance of some harmless senior citizen, the part of him that is a cop is alive and well.
“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about the Joseph King case,” I tell him.
“Joe King, huh? Read about what happened.” Holding the line with his left forefinger and thumb, he draws back and casts beautifully. “You’re the cop spent some time with him in the house with the kids?”
I nod, watch the spinning lure catch the sunlight a couple of feet beneath the surface. “Joseph asked me to look into his case.”
“Did he now? Huh. So that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m here because I know some cases have two files: a sanitized file and a street file.”
That gets his attention, like a dog that’s been deemed too old to fetch, but still can’t take his eyes off the ball. Tucker finishes reeling in the lure, leans the pole against a tree, and goes to the small cooler at his feet. “Want a beer? It’s cold.”
“No thanks.”
“I know it’s only noon, but I’m retired, so…” I wait while he pops the top on a Budweiser and drinks deeply. “Geauga County not share the file with you?” he asks.
“Some of it,” I say vaguely. “Wasn’t much there.”
He slants me a look, a sly smile overtaking his expression. “That photo of you and King didn’t help, did it?”
I look out over the water, embarrassed, saying nothing.
“Then again, cooperation and the sharing of information isn’t exactly a hallmark of the detective unit.”
“Mr. Tucker, I just want to get your take on the investigation. Your observations about the case as a whole. If you’re pleased with the outcome.”
He takes his time answering, seeming to consider every word before speaking. “Joseph King was a son of a bitch. He was a drunk. Irresponsible. Spent money like it was going out of style. Treated his wife and kids like shit. Didn’t deserve any of them if you ask me.”
It doesn’t elude me that none of those things have anything to do with the actual case. My curiosity piqued, I wait.
“I was a sheriff’s deputy for thirty years, Chief Burkholder. I was ready to retire long before I actually did. But I took the time to get my finances in order and all that.” He grins. “Get all that gnarly love-for-the-job crap out of my system.”
His grin falters and he turns thoughtful. “I wanted three things to happen when I retired. I wanted to do so with a clear conscience. I wanted to wake up every morning and have breakfast with my wife. And I wanted to spend my afternoons fishing this lake.
“My wife died of cancer right before I retired.” Shaking his head, he looks out over the lake. “One out of three ain’t exactly great.” He shrugs. “Still get to fish every day, anyway.”
I give him a moment to say more, but he doesn’t. He finishes the beer, reaches down and pops the tab on another. In the distance, I hear the whistle-like call of some large water fowl. He looks toward the sound and tells me, “That’s the tundra swan. Been watching them all spring. Beautiful animals.”
“Why didn’t you retire with a clear conscience?” I ask.
He looks down at the can in his hand. When he raises his eyes to mine, his kind grandfather demeanor has darkened. “I don’t think he did it.”
After everything I’ve heard about Joseph King—from the cops as well as the people who’d known him—I almost can’t believe my ears. “You don’t believe he murdered his wife?”
He looks at me, saying nothing.
“But it was your investigation,” I say.
“Was it?”
I feel myself blink. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying shit runs downhill and unless you’ve got some kind of fecal fetish you’d better get out of the fuckin’ way.”
“Mr. Tucker, are you telling me someone somehow influenced your investigation? Did someone try to intimidate you in some way?” I press. “Someone in the sheriff’s department?”
He hefts a bitter laugh. “Look, I’ve got two daughters left. Six grandkids. I’m retired now. I’m old and tired. I drink too much beer. Talk to myself.” He looks down at the can in his hand as if he’s lost his taste for it. He upends it and swigs again anyway.
“Look, Chief, I suspect you’re a good cop since you’ve driven all the way up here to ask me about Joseph King. But listen, it ain’t your deal and it ain’t your fuckin’ case. If you’re smart, you’ll let this go. Joseph King is dead. His wife is dead. Nobody gives a shit about either of them now.”