It’s just after noon, and I’m sitting in my office sucking down coffee, wishing I had a clean change of clothes because the ones I’m wearing reek of smoke. I’m wishing even more fervently that I’d gotten a decent night’s sleep. Tomasetti, Sheriff Rasmussen, and I spent seven wet and cold hours at the Hartzler farm. The CSU and fire marshal were on-site when I left. The firefighters had begun the task of combing through the rubble. I’m praying Ed Hartzler shows up, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they find his body—what’s left of it anyway.
Earlier, I put a call in to the Connersville, Indiana, Police Department to check out Mose’s story about his parents’ accident. The officer I spoke with hadn’t lived there very long, but he said he’d check the records and call me back. Next, I contacted the Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office to see what I could find out about Abel Slabaugh. I spoke to a young deputy sheriff by the name of Howard, who basically didn’t know shit about Abel Slabaugh or any of the Amish. He was, however, familiar with the bishop, a man he knew only as Smucker. He didn’t know if Smucker had a phone, but offered to drive out to the bishop’s farm to put me in touch. I’m not holding my breath.
I’d barely hung up the phone when I received a call from Ricky Coulter’s attorney, threatening to sue the township if his client wasn’t released within the hour. I assured him we would either charge Coulter or cut him loose, but neither of those things would be happening within the hour.
And so I’m sitting here, smelling of smoke, exhausted, waiting for official word on Edward Hartzler. Outside my window, the rain has transformed to snow. The wind has picked up and the flakes stick to the glass like glitter to glue, obscuring my view. Through the open door of my office, I hear Lois at the switchboard, arguing with some journalist wanting information on the Slabaugh case. My money’s on Lois.
The Slabaugh family has been dead for over forty-eight hours now. The case is growing cold, and I’m no closer to knowing who did it now than I was when I walked into that barn and found them dead in the manure pit.
My phone jangles, startling me. Expecting some pushy young reporter—or the fire marshal’s office—I glance down at the display. I see Tomasetti’s name and snatch it up, hoping for good news. “Yeah.”
“You sound like how I feel.”
“It’s comforting to know someone else is as miserable as I am.”
“Glad I could help.” He pauses. “Ed Hartzler is dead, Kate. One of the firefighters found his body twenty minutes ago.”
I close my eyes, surprised by the hard twist of dread in my gut. “Damn it.”
“Looks like one of the big timbers fell on him. Probably knocked him unconscious.”
Or pinned him, I think. Images fly at me. A man trapped, screaming, as the flames cook him alive … Rising abruptly, I grab my parka off the back of my chair. “I’m going to go talk to the family.”
“I already did.”
The words stun me. Notifying next of kin is one responsibility I have never delegated, never shirked in any way. That Tomasetti would do that for me brings forth an unwanted rush of emotion so strong that for a moment I can’t speak.
“Kate? You okay?”
I clench my jaws, stave off the tears waiting at the gate. “How’s his wife?”
“You know. Pretty broken up. But her father’s with her. He was going to try to get the bishop out there.”
“Damn it, Tomasetti, I want this son of a bitch. I think I could kill him with my bare hands.”
“You might just get your chance,” he says. “I think we might have our first break.”
“Solid?” I’m almost afraid to get my hopes up.
“CSU found a can of Skoal at the scene. Hasn’t been there long.”
“Amish kids have been known to sneak dipping tobacco.”
“We questioned them separately and away from their parents. None of them claims the can. If we can lift some latents and we get a hit, we might have a name.”
Mentally, I shift gears, grasp hold of the last shred of optimism. “How long will that take?”
“We couriered it to the lab. Maybe late this afternoon if I call in some favors.”
“Do whatever it takes.”
“You know I will.”
“Any prints on the rifle?” I ask.
“Not even a smudge.”
“Someone was being careful.”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “Glock get anything on the dark pickups?”
“He’s still working on it. Nothing yet.” The phone jingles again. I look down and see all four lines blinking. “I’ve got to go.”
“You want to grab some lunch later?” he asks.
“I’d like that.” I end the call and hit the first blinking light. “Burkholder.”
“Katie.” It’s Bishop Troyer, and his usually unflappable voice is harried. “Mose has been injured.”
Concern steamrolls over me. “What happened?”
“One of the Slabaugh boys rode the horse over to my place. He was very upset. He says Mose has been beaten.”
“Beaten?” The news jolts me. “How badly is he hurt?”
“I do not know.”
“Who did it?”
“I do not know. I’m on my way there. I thought you should know.”
My mind spins through what I’ve just heard. “What was he doing at the Slabaugh place, Bishop?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice.
“I do not know.” I can tell by the guilt in his voice that the bishop knows exactly why Mose was there. “He must have left when I was in town earlier.”