“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 Naomi’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.”
*
Despite my best efforts, I’m still frustrated when I arrive back at the station. I make a conscious effort not to slam the door when I walk in.
“Everyone’s here, if you’re ready.” At her dispatch station, Lois stands, eyeing me cautiously as I stalk past. “I take it your meeting with Seibenthaler didn’t go well.”
“That would be an understatement.”
In my office, I snatch my notes off my desk, then make my way to the storage-room-turned-conference-room. My temper settles when I find my entire team assembled and waiting. I can’t help but smile when I see Pickles sitting at the end of the table, a large McDonald’s coffee steaming in front of him. I catch a whiff of English Leather when I walk past him. “Glad you could make it, Pickles.”
He grunts as if it’s business as usual for a seventy-six-year-old to be a cop. “Any word on who took a shot at you?” he asks.
“No.” I hand him the mug shot of a grinning Nick Kester. “We’re looking for this guy, though.”