“How long until DNA results come back?” Pickles asks.
“Tomasetti is pushing, but he can only do so much. The lab is backlogged. It’s going to be a few more days.” I grimace. “Too damn long. This killer is an animal. Savage enough to cut a fetus from a woman’s body for the sole purpose of keeping us from doing a paternity test.”
The men nod in unison.
“I think I figured out a way to smoke this bastard out of his hole,” I say.
“How?” T.J. asks.
“We set a trap with bait he won’t be able to resist.”
He looks around as if wondering if he’s the only one who’s not following. “What bait?”
“Billy Zook.”
A stir goes around the room. Not a stir of alarm. A stir of anticipation. The kind hunters feel in the moments before they embark on the pursuit of a dangerous animal.
“Does the killer know the Zook kid witnessed the murders?” Glock asks.
“Not yet. But if I release that information to the press, you can bet he’ll be aware of it by the end of the day.”
“The media’s kind of a wild card, isn’t it?” T.J. asks.
“Not if I feed them exactly what we want them to report.”
“If we make it too easy and name the witness outright, the killer will smell a trap,” Pickles says.
“I won’t use names. But I’ll mention the disk and the face in the window. I’m betting the killer kept a copy of that disk.”
Skid nods. “First thing he’s going to do is take a look at it.”
“If we found the kid’s face, he can find it,” T.J. adds.
I nod. “It’ll take some doing on his part. He’ll need to review the disk, magnify the image. Identify and find the kid. But if we make it too easy, he’ll know it’s a trap.”
Glock leans back in his chair. “How do you know the killer will be able to identify the kid? Hell, how do you know if he’ll even read the newspaper?”
“It’s not a perfect plan,” I tell him. “But Painters Mill is a small town. Even with the kid being Amish, it’s reasonable to think the killer will somehow learn about the witness. Once he does, he should be able to ID him.”
“Lotta ifs in there, Chief,” Skid says.
“I know,” I reply. “But if you look at the killer’s profile, I think he’ll go for it. He’s ruthless. He’s smart. Cunning. Billy Zook can put him in prison for life. Maybe even get him lethal injection. This killer has already murdered seven people, including a toddler.”
“Eight people if you include the baby Mary Plank was carrying,” Pickles adds.
“Pretty solid motivation,” Glock says.
T.J. raises his brows. “The killer could run.”
“True. But I don’t think he will. I believe he’s established here. His life is here. He doesn’t want to give it up. That’s why he killed Mary Plank and her family.” I shrug. “If you look at the situation through the eyes of a psychopath, it’s a hell of a lot easier to eliminate a threat than it is to start over in another country.”
Skid rakes his hand through his hair. “That’s some cold shit.”
“Have you run this by the Zooks?” Glock asks.
The thought makes me sigh. “It’s going to be a hard sell.”
T.J. looks from face to face. “But won’t the boy be in danger?”
“No,” I reply.
“How can you guarantee that?”
“Because he won’t be anywhere in sight. I will.”
Ten minutes later I’m on my way to the Zook farm. Glock offered to ride along, but I declined. The odds of my convincing this conservative Amish family to help are better if I do this alone. Even then, I have my work cut out for me. My Amish background will only go so far, particularly since I’m no longer a member of the church district. I’m an outsider encroaching on a society I turned my back on a long time ago.
The morning sun beats down from a severe blue sky as I head out of town. I pass an Amish man and a team of mules raking hay. I’m in such a hurry, I barely notice the scent of newly cut alfalfa. In that moment it strikes me there was a time when I had no concept of urgency. Life was slow and simple; my life path set on a course that would have been much the same as my mother’s and grandmother’s before me. All that changed the day I shot and killed Daniel Lapp.
I wave to the Amish man as I pass. I smile when he returns the wave. Turning into the gravel lane that will take me to the Zook farmhouse, I hope I’ll be able to convince William and Alma to help me.
I park behind a black buggy. Midway to the house, I hear my name. I turn to find William and his youngest son walking toward me from the barn. Man and boy wear typical Amish work clothes—trousers with suspenders, blue work shirts and flat-brimmed straw hats. Their boots are covered with muck, and I realize they’ve been cleaning the hog pens and transferring manure to the pit.
William greets me in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder Mariya.” Good morning.
I respond in kind. “I’m sorry to disturb your work.”