“I didn’t touch that bitch!” he shouts. “You can ask her.”
“What’s her name?” I snap. But I already know. I read the emergency room report before leaving the station. Two weeks ago, Rankin’s current girlfriend, Lauren Walker, made a trip to the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital with broken ribs and a broken nose. Suspicious, the attending physician asked her what happened. She claimed she fell down some stairs. It’s an old story, one that’s retold far too often. The doctor notified me, but the next day when I went to her apartment for a statement, she was nowhere to be found.
I look at Rankin, daring him to make a move. “You know we’re going to check with Lauren.”
“Go for it. I was here. All fuckin’ night. We slept late.”
“I find her marked up, and we’ll be back for you,” I say.
“You guys don’t have shit on me.” He looks from me to Skid, gives an incredulous huff. “You’re fishing. Well, I ain’t biting, so hit the fuckin’ road.”
There’s nothing I’d like more than to cuff him and haul him into town. He’s a rude, drug-using, woman-beating son of a bitch. Unfortunately, none of those things make him guilty of murdering the Slabaughs.
“Don’t leave town,” I say.
Muttering obscenities, he yanks the door open, goes inside, and slams it in our faces.
“Now there goes a model citizen,” Skid comments.
I glance at him and lower my voice. “Did you really see a meth pipe in there?”
“I saw something.” He grins. “Might’ve been a pen.”
“I can see how a trained police officer could get those two items confused.” I punctuate the statement by rolling my eyes. “Let’s go find Lauren Walker.”
CHAPTER 9
Skid and I are in my Explorer a few blocks from the station. I’m thinking about swinging by the sheriff’s office to talk to Tomasetti, when my radio crackles. “Chief, we got a ten-sixteen out at the Slabaugh place,” says Lois.
We use the ten-code system in the department. A 10-16 is the code for a domestic dispute. I’ve been the chief of police for three years now, and I have yet to take a call for any kind of domestic problem at an Amish farm.
Skid and I exchange “What now?” looks, and I pick up my mike. “You got details on that, Lois?”
“CSU guy called it in. Said there was a bunch of Amish people out in the yard and there was some kind of argument. He said it looked like a fight was going to erupt.”
“I’m ten-seven-six.” Pulling into the parking lot of a Lutheran church, I turn around and hit the emergency lights.
“Well, that’s a first,” Skid says. “What about Lauren Walker?”
“She’ll have to wait a little while.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the Slabaugh farm. Sure enough, a dozen or so Amish men and women are standing in a group between the barn and the house. Quickly, I park and Skid and I get out. As we approach, I identify Bishop Troyer’s grizzled form in the center of the group and then see Adam Slabaugh, who’s wearing his English work clothes. I notice Salome’s slight form in her blue dress and white kapp. Several Amish women stand at the perimeter of the group, hovering like nervous hens.
I reach them in time to see Mose Slabaugh charge his uncle. Head down, the teenager butts the larger man like a bull, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. I hear a whoosh of breath, and then the elder Slabaugh reels backward, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his butt. Snarling, Mose drops down on top of him. He draws back and lands a blow to his uncle’s cheekbone. Behind me, Skid mutters, “Shit,” and I lunge at the boy.
“Mose!” I bring my hands down on his shoulders, try to haul him back. “Cut it out!”
It’s like trying to wrestle a steak from a starving rottweiler. He twists hard. My hands slide off his shoulders. I see him draw back, hear the wet-meat slap of his fist connecting with his uncle’s face. Vaguely, it registers that Adam makes no effort to protect himself.
“Stop it!” I shout. “Right now! Get off him!”
“He killed my mamm and datt!” Mose screams. “He killed them!”
“Mose! You need to calm down.”
The next thing I know, Skid is beside me. Simultaneously, we lock our hands around the boy’s biceps and drag him back. Mose’s head swings around. Blind, furious eyes connect with mine. His teeth are drawn back and his contorted face is the color of raw hamburger.
Lightning fast, he draws back. I duck an instant before his knuckles careen off my left temple. It’s only a glancing blow, but it’s enough to whip my head around and make me see stars.
Skid thrusts himself between us, jostling me out of the way. I fall to the right and watch in dismay as Skid takes the boy down, flips him onto his stomach, and snaps the cuffs into place. “You just hit a police officer, partner,” he says.
“He killed my datt!” Mose screams.