“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.”