“Joseph? Has he been hurt? Has he—”
Her words are cut off when a tall Amish man emerges from the kitchen. He’s clad in typical garb—blue work shirt, dark trousers with suspenders, and a flat-brimmed straw hat. I estimate his age to be around forty or so.
“What happened to Joe?” he asks.
No smile for me. He doesn’t acknowledge his wife as he brushes past her to confront me.
I tell them about the call from the prison. When I finish, they both fall silent, their expressions troubled.
“Eah is am shpringa,” the Amish woman whispers. He’s running.
I nod. “Yes, he is.”
“You think he’s coming here?” Daniel asks. “You’re here to warn us?”
“I don’t know where he’ll go,” I say. “The police are looking for him. But I thought you should know, so you can stay alert and keep your family safe.”
“The children.” Rebecca’s hand goes to the collar of her dress. Her fingers flutter nervously over the fabric. The couple exchange a look.
They’re spooked, I realize. After everything I’ve heard about King, they should be.
“Is there a place we can sit and talk?” I ask.
Daniel motions to the door. “Dess vayk.” This way.
Rebecca leads us to a big country kitchen with cabinets painted seafoam green, off-white Formica countertops, and a pitted porcelain sink. It’s a typical Amish kitchen, large and plain and cluttered with the tools of everyday living. An old-fashioned percolator coffeepot sits upside down in a dish drainer. A Dutch oven rests atop the stove. There’s a bottle of vitamins on the windowsill. A rosemary plant flourishes in a terra-cotta planter. A lantern sits in the center of a rectangular table draped with a checkered tablecloth and surrounded by eight chairs.
When the three of us are seated, Daniel says, “You’re the one who used to be Amisch.”
“Yes.” I don’t miss the flash of disapproval in his eyes. But it’s fleeting and tempered with curiosity. We’re not here to talk about me or debate my decision to leave the fold. I turn my attention to Rebecca. “Naomi was your sister?”
She nods. “She married Joseph when she was just eighteen. He was still on Rumspringa. And so handsome. But there was a darkness inside him. And anger, I think. I tried to tell Naomi that something wasn’t right with him. But she was crazy about him. All she talked about was getting married and starting a family. She couldn’t wait to have children. She’d loved them so…” She breaks off, shaking her head.
“You were close to your sister?” I ask.
“Especially when we were younger. After she married…” She shrugs. “Things … changed.”
“How so?” I ask.
“We didn’t approve of him,” Daniel says flatly. “Especially later.”
His wife presses her lips together and continues. “Daniel and I visited them as often as we could. Especially after the babies came. And of course we always saw them at worship.”
“How was her relationship with Joseph?”
“At first, everything seemed okay. Naomi said he was a good husband. I could see for myself he was good with the children. He yelled at them a lot, but … I just thought he was strict.” Another shrug. “Some men are just that way, you know.”
“He was good to her when others were watching,” Daniel interjects.
I keep my eyes on Rebecca. “And when no one was watching?”
“There were … problems,” Rebecca tells me. “Joseph had a weakness for alcohol and a temper to boot.”
Bad combination, I think. “Was he abusive to her?”
“The police arrested him for it,” Daniel replies.
“Did he hit her?” I press.
The couple exchange another look and shake their heads. “He was careful not to let anyone see that side of him,” Daniel tells me.
“But we think he was cruel to her.” Rebecca’s voice falters. “Mean, you know.”
We fall silent. Through the open window, I can hear the children playing outside. The puppy barking. A rooster crowing from someplace nearby.
“Did either of you visit Joseph in prison?” I ask.
Daniel shakes his head. “After what he did to Naomi, we washed our hands of him.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I ask.
“The trial,” Daniel says.
“We wanted to believe him at first,” Rebecca tells me. “He seemed heartbroken that Naomi was gone. But … there were just too many bad things against him.”
“He was a leeyah.” Liar. Daniel grimaces. “What happened … it was … gottlos.” Ungodly. “What kind of man wants his wife gone? What kind of man kills in cold blood?”
“We prayed for him up until the end,” Naomi says. “We didn’t want to believe Joseph could do such a thing.”
“We still pray for his soul, but we’re done with him,” Daniel says.
“Er is ganz ab,” Rebecca whispers. He was out of his mind.
“Has he had any contact with the children?” I ask.
“No,” Rebecca replies.
I look at Daniel. “Does he want to see them?”
“Throughout the trial,” he tells me, “Joseph claimed to miss them. He seemed desperate. He wanted to see them. We always made an excuse.” The Amish man shrugs. “After what he did … Finding their mother the way they did. It was so bad.”
“How are the kids doing?” I ask.
“Better,” Rebecca tells me. “They miss their mamm, of course. Crazy as it sounds, they miss their datt, too.”
“Do they understand what happened?”
Daniel shakes his head. “We thought it best not to tell them.” He shrugs. “Maybe when they’re older.”
Tears gather in Rebecca’s eyes. “Can you imagine? Your datt killing your mamm? Mein Gott.” My God.
“Shush now,” Daniel tells her, as if sensing the approach of some emotional storm. “They’ve adjusted, they way kids do. We keep them busy. With work. Worship.”
“They’re happy here with us, I think.” Rebecca smiles, but tears shimmer in her eyes. “Naomi is surely watching over them from heaven. Keeping an eye on all of us.”
“The two of you probably know Joseph better than anyone.” I divide my attention between them. “Did he ever mention escape?”
“Like I said,” Daniel replies, “we haven’t seen him since the end of the trial.”
Realizing that sometimes people know things and don’t even realize it, I try another approach. “Do you have any idea where he might go?”
Daniel tightens his lips. “To hell, maybe.”
“Do you think he might come here?” When they don’t respond, I get more specific. “To see the children?”
When Daniel speaks, his voice is reverent and low. “You were raised Amish, Kate Burkholder. You know that forgiveness is our way.” He ducks his head slightly, not proud of what he’s about to say next, but deeming it too important to remain unsaid. “None of the Amish here would raise a finger to help Joseph. Not after what he did. To his wife. His children. To all of us. He has no friends among the Amish.”
“What about English friends?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he tells me.
The sound of children’s laughter from outside fills the silence. It’s an innocent, carefree sound that only serves to remind us of all the things that have been taken away from them, of what’s at stake.
“I’ll be stepping up patrols in the area,” I tell them, “especially here around the farm. The sheriff’s department, too. Just in case Joseph shows up. I want to make sure you and your family stay safe.”
“We don’t need the English police,” Rebecca replies. “God will take care of us.”
Daniel’s gaze slides to mine and he gives me a minute nod. “Ich hab nix dagege.” I don’t object.
I know what the answer to my next question will be, but I ask it anyway. At the very least, I have to plant the seed.
“Do you own a fi
rearm, Mr. Beachy?”
“I have an old muzzle-loader,” Daniel replies. “An antique that belonged to my grossdaddi.”
Our gazes lock. An unspoken understanding passes between us. Nothing else needs to be said. I’m well aware that the Amish are pacifists. They believe it is a sin to take a human life regardless of the circumstances. But the Amish are human, too; I know from experience that the will to survive—the need to protect yourself and those you love—trumps religion.
“Will you do me a favor and keep it loaded?” I ask.
Another barely discernible nod.
“Do either of you have a cell phone?” I ask.
“We have no need for such things,” Rebecca tells me.
“The payphone on Hogpath Road is more than a mile away,” I tell her. “If Joseph shows up, you’ll have no way to call for help.” When they say nothing, I add, “You’ve got the children to think of.” I reach into my pocket and hold out a cheap cell phone I picked up at the Walmart in Millersburg. “In case there’s an emergency.” I give a casual shrug. “No one’s using it. I’ve got my cell number, nine-one-one, and the sheriff’s department number programmed in already.”
“We do not need a phone,” the Amish man maintains.
“If you were to look away for a second, I could accidentally leave it on the counter or maybe drop it into the drawer. You could just forget about it.”
My words are met with a smile from both of them, but they shake their heads. “We have God to watch over us,” Rebecca repeats. “He will take care of us and the children.”
Rising, I cross to the counter and set down the phone. I then extend my hand first to Rebecca and then Daniel. “Thanks for your time.”
As I walk back to my vehicle, worry follows me, like a rash at the back of my neck that’s starting to itch.
CHAPTER 3
I’ve just settled behind the wheel when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display and smile. “I take it you got the call?” I begin without preamble.
“I’m on my way to Mansfield now,” John Tomasetti tells me, referring to the prison from which Joseph King escaped. “We’re going to be assisting Richland County.”
Tomasetti is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and works out of the field office in Richfield, Ohio, which is half an hour north of our farm in Wooster. We met in the course of my first big case five years ago—the Slaughterhouse murder investigation—right here in Painters Mill. We became involved in the course of that horrific case. Early on, things were pretty rocky between us. That’s what you get when you throw two damaged individuals—cops no less—into the midst of a high-stress case. Tomasetti had recently lost his wife and two children. My frame of mind wasn’t much better; I had personal ties to the case—ties that came within a hair of destroying me and nearly cost me my life. Somehow, we overcame all of it.
Of course, life is never without complications. Fraternization is frowned upon by most law enforcement agencies, including the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and my own small department. That’s especially true when our jurisdictions intersect. Even though we’re not working together directly, we’ll need to be cautious.
“What’s the latest on King?” I ask as I turn onto Hogpath Road.
Tomasetti reiterates what I’d already learned from Sheriff Rasmussen earlier. “I talked to the warden about an hour ago. King was in his cell for the nine P.M. headcount. He got out sometime after that. No one knows how he circumvented the fence alarm. Perimeter patrols were on duty, but no one saw shit. Next headcount wasn’t done until three A.M. so it’s possible King got a six-hour head start.”
“Any indication where he might be headed?” I ask.
“According to the warden, it rained up there last night. The ground was soft and muddy. First guys on scene found tracks that headed northeast from the prison. There’s a wooded area there, so King may have been looking for cover. Richland County Sheriff’s Department brought in dogs, but they lost the scent at the highway.”
“You think someone picked him up?”
“Or he jacked a vehicle.”
“Who the hell picks up a guy wearing prison clothes?”
“An idiot,” he mutters. “Or someone who knew he’d be there and was waiting.”
“If he had help in the form of tools, he could’ve gotten his hands on street clothes, too. Or maybe he had someone stash them someplace for him.”
“A lot of possibilities,” he says on a sigh.
“Which highway is that, by the way?” I ask.
“State Route 545 is just east of the facility. Meanders northeast.”
“Toward Cleveland,” I add.
“Good place to get lost if you want to. From there, it’s a short skip to the Canadian border.”
“Tomasetti, if he has a vehicle he could be anywhere.”
“If it was me, I’d get as far away from the prison as possible, then I’d concentrate on getting to my destination.”
“Any word on whether he might’ve had help from someone on the inside?” I ask.
“That’s what we’re looking at now. Going to interview all the officers who had contact with him. We’re going to look at visitor logs. If he had any visitors, we’ll be talking to them.” He sighs. “From what I hear, King’s a handy guy.”
“Most Amish men are. That would explain how he cut through that steel plate.”
“Evidently, he worked at a production shop at the prison where parts are cleaned and deflashed for Honda. I don’t know what kinds of tools the inmates have access to, but I’ll find out.”
“So he may have pilfered some tool from the shop.”
“Or someone could have smuggled it in,” he replies. “A visitor.”
“Or a corrections officer.”
“We’re going to be checking all of that.”
I pause, take a moment to get my words in order. “Tomasetti, I knew Joseph King. I mean, when we were kids. They lived next door to us for a while.”
“Small world.”
“Especially when you’re Amish.”
“You have some insight into what he might be thinking, Kate? Where he might go?”
“It was a long time ago. I haven’t talked to him in over twenty years.” We both know how much can happen—how much a person can change—in that length of time.
“He was a good kid back then,” I say. “A typical Amish boy, until his datt was killed in a buggy accident. I think he was fourteen or fifteen years old.”
“Tough age to lose a parent.”
“It changed him. That was when he started getting into trouble. Shortly after that, the family moved to Geauga County and I never saw him again.”
“I understand he has family in Painters Mill.”
I recap my conversation with Rebecca and Daniel Beachy. “They don’t want anything to do with him.”
“You believe them?”
I’ve considered the possibility that they lied to me; that they may have, in fact, helped King. Or they’ve offered him shelter. But I don’t think that’s the case. “The Amish may be forgiving, but after what he did … I suspect he knows he doesn’t have a friend in the world here.”
“The big question now is whether he’ll try to make contact with his children.”
“Surely he knows that would be foolhardy. Every law enforcement agency in the state is looking for him.”
“He’s not exactly father-of-the-year material anyway.”
“And what’s he going to do with five kids?” I say. “Throw them in the backseat and take them with him? I don’t think so. They’d only slow him down.”
“And the older children may know enough to either hate him or fear him. My bet is he’s on his way to Canada.”
“Going to be an interesting case.”
“Things are always more interesting when you’re involved,” he says.
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
“I’d feel even better if you’d do me a
favor and keep your eyes and ears open for this son of a bitch.”
“Count on it.”
* * *
Ten minutes later I walk into the Painters Mill police station. My first-shift dispatcher, Lois, mans the front desk, headset hugging her overprocessed curls, the switchboard humming a steady tune. As is usually the case, my third-shift dispatcher, Mona, has found an excuse to stay past her usual clock-out time. As chief, I’m obliged to give her a hard time about it. Today, I’m secretly pleased she’s here, because I have a job for her.
“Chief!” Putting a caller on hold, Lois rises and waves a dozen or so pink slips at me. “For God’s sake, you’d think Charles Manson had escaped.”
“Probably going to get worse before it gets better.” I pluck the messages from her hand as I pass by her desk.
“Something to look forward to,” she mutters.
Mona falls into step beside me. “The guys are all here, Chief.”
I slant a look her way. “Working kind of late this morning, aren’t you?”
“I thought you might need an extra hand in light of the Joseph King situation.”
“You know I can’t pay OT, right?”
“It’s okay.” She offers a sheepish smile. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to miss out on the excitement. Or the experience.”
I shouldn’t be such a pushover; payroll laws are explicit and strict. Still, I can’t help but smile. Mona recently graduated from the local community college with an associate’s degree in criminology. Much to my good fortune, she doesn’t mind the graveyard shift. One day, she’s going to be a fine police officer. Budget permitting, I hope to be the one to hire her.
“You know I appreciate that, right?” I say.
Her smile augments into an all-out grin. “I thought you might want these.” She shoves two file folders at me. “The first one contains everything I could find on King previous to the homicide. The second file is everything I could get my hands on with regard to the homicide of Naomi King. I’m still waiting to hear back from Geauga County Records. I’m running copies of the mug shot for the rest of the guys now. Oh, and I set up the half podium in the war room.”
“War room” is a term only Mona could have coined for our storage-room-turned-meeting-room. I use it occasionally for our weekly briefings, storing unused or broken furniture, and archived file boxes.