When he finally raises his eyes to mine, they’re filled with tears. “That’s what my datt would have wanted.”
“Your datt would have wanted an adult to care for you until you’re old enough to care for yourself.”
When he says nothing, I sigh. “Turn around.”
He obeys, and I use my key to unlock the handcuffs. “Children Services is not the bad guy, Mose.”
“They’ll separate us. Take the farm. Datt told us that’s what the Englischers want.”
“I don’t believe that,” I tell him.
“That’s because you’re one of them.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Maybe it’s because I understand so very well. To the Amish, the Englischers—particularly those in the government—are outsiders and not to be trusted. “I won’t let anyone harm you or your brothers and sister,” I say quietly. But I don’t think I’m going to convince him of anything.
His hands curl into fists at his sides. For an instant, I think he’s going to slug me again, and I regret removing the cuffs. Instead, his face screws up and he chokes out a sob. “Don’t break up what’s left of us.” He uses his fist to wipe at the tears. It’s an embarrassed, angry gesture that makes me feel as if I’ve just kicked a puppy. “Please don’t take my brothers and sister away from me. They’re all I have left.”
The statement moves me more than it should. I know better than to get sucked into the plight of these kids. I’m a cop, not a social worker. I have faith that Children Services will do the right thing and place these kids with a good family, at least until Adam Slabaugh is cleared of any suspicion. I know they’ll do their utmost to keep the children together. But I know from experience that sometimes kids fall through the cracks. I’ve seen it happen. What’s right for one family can mean heartache for another.
I set my hand on Mose’s shoulder and squeeze. “Think about what I said, okay?”
He nods, crying silently, humiliated.
I don’t want to leave him like this, but I don’t have a choice. I have a murder to solve. Taking a deep breath, I turn away and start toward Skid and Adam Slabaugh.
Skid starts toward me. “So which one are we taking to jail?” he asks.
“Neither one.” I stop a few feet from Slabaugh. “Don’t come back here until an official decision has been made about the kids.”
“You cannot keep me from my family,” Slabaugh says. “They are my blood.”
“If you come back here again, I’ll put both of you in jail,” I snap. “You got that?”
Slabaugh skewers me with a stare so cold, I look over my shoulder twice on my way to the Explorer.
*
Back at the station, I go directly to my office and call the Holmes County Department of Job and Family Services. I’m put on hold twice before being transferred to the program manager of Children Services. The conversation goes much as I’d imagined. Once a social worker is assigned the case, he or she will drive out to the Slabaugh farm and “assess” the needs of the children. When I ask about placement, I’m told they almost always try to place orphaned children with family members. In the case of the Slabaughs, blood trumps religion. I wonder if Adam Slabaugh knew that would be the case.
I’m barely finished with the call when Glock appears at the door to my office. “A 911 just came in, Chief. Someone out on Township Road 2 says they found a half-naked Amish guy tied to his buggy.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?” I ask as I hang up the phone.
“That’d be pretty hard to make up.” Glock shakes his head. “The motorist who called it in says the victim looks like he’s had the crap beat out of him.”
Hate crime. The words flash like red neon in my brain. In an instant, I’m on my feet and grabbing my keys. “Get an ambulance out there,” I snap. “And call the sheriff’s office.” That makes me think of Tomasetti, and I unclip my cell phone, flip it open.
“Sure thing.” Glock watches me cross to the door. “Want me to go with you?”
I shake my head and tell him about my earlier conversation with Jerome Rankin. “I want you to go talk to Lauren Walker and verify Rankin’s alibi.”
He gives me a mock salute. “I’m on it.”
Then I’m down the hall and heading toward the reception area. Lois stands when she sees me. “Tomasetti just called for you.”
I don’t stop. “I’ll call him on the way.”
Then I’m through the door and jogging across the sidewalk to the Explorer. I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti’s number as I slide behind the wheel. He answers just as I crank the engine. “I think we have another hate crime,” I say without preamble.
“Where?”
I give him the location. “I’m on my way now.”
“I’ll meet you there.”