“Last time you guys had me in here, you were trying to squeeze me out the door,” Tomasetti said. “You were willing to send me into the field to achieve that end.”
Rummel grimaced, put on the face of a man owning up to a painful mistake. “Try to put yourself in my position, John. You went through a terrible ordeal. Nobody’s blaming you, and you’re not being punished for that. We’ve got a vested interest in your well-being. We want you well and back at work. But you’ve got to do this.”
“I’m glad everyone has my best interest at heart,” Tomasetti said, but the cynicism in his voice was unmistakable.
Rummel shot a pointed look at the personnel file in front of Bogart.
The human resources director opened the file and removed a sheet of paper and a form and slid both across the table to Tomasetti. “We’ll need for you to sign the form. For the file, of course. The other sheet contains a list of doctors. You choose which doctor and call them at your convenience.”
When Tomasetti made no move to pick up the papers, she added: “All of this will be kept in the strictest of confidence, John. You know that.”
What he knew was that they had him backed into a corner. His reputation and career were on the line. As badly as he wanted to tell them to go to hell, he knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to salvage what was left of his life.
He reached for the papers. The single sheet contained the names and contact information of six accredited psychiatrists located in the greater Columbus area printed neatly on BCI letterhead. The form was a human resource application for leave filled with legalese, already signed and approved by Jason Rummel.
“It’s a good deal,” Denny said.
Tomasetti picked up the pen.
Bogart leaned forward, put a red nail on the line at the bottom. “Sign right there,” she said. “Press hard. It’s in quadruplicate.”
John Tomasetti signed his name on the dotted line.
CHAPTER 7
The October sun has burned through the clouds by the time Glock and I leave the Zook place. As I speed down the lane, I glance toward the Plank farm a mile to the north. The barn roof and the top of the grain silo are visible, but the hedge apple trees growing along the fence line block my view of the yard, house and outbuildings.
“Witness would have been nice,” Glock says.
“Murder’s never that easy.”
He looks around. “We going back to the Plank place?”
“I thought we’d swing by David Troyer’s farm first.”
“Neighbor?”
“Bishop.”
Glock arches a brow.
“Amish version of a priest.”
“Gotcha.” He pauses. “You think he might know something?”
“The Amish talk to their bishops. They confess. If there was something going on with the Planks—some kind of problem or crisis—there’s a good chance he knows about it.”
“Let’s hope he’s a good bishop.”
“He is.” I know this because he was my family’s bishop. He was instrumental in placing me under the bann when I refused to confess my sins, but I never held it against him.
We find Troyer in the cornfield in front of his house, astride an antique corn thresher, driving his team of gray Percheron geldings. The thresher is an awkward-looking contraption that cuts and bundles cornstalks. A few yards behind the binder, the bishop’s three grown sons stack the bundles into neat rows. Farther back, dozens of bundles of dry yellow cornstalks litter the field, and I know they’ve been at it since the wee hours of morning.
“They’re trying to beat the rain,” I say.
Glock looks up at the cloudless sky. “How do you know it’s going to rain?”
“Checked the weather online this morning.”
“For a second I thought you were going to reveal some ancient Amish secret for weather predicting.”
We both grin. It’s the first semblance of humor I’ve felt all morning, and it’s a welcome diversion.
I park on the shoulder and we traverse the bar ditch. Standing at the fence, we watch the men work. Autumn harvest is a busy time for an Amish farmer. The days are long and the work is backbreaking. Though female chores most often take place inside the house—canning, cleaning, sewing and baking—I always managed to end up outside with my datt. I never told anyone, but I secretly enjoyed the sweat and dirt and physical labor. It was one of many ways I didn’t fit in.
Spotting us, Bishop Troyer waves, letting us know he’ll hand the reins over to one of his sons and stop to speak to us next time around.
“Is he bound by any kind of confidentiality?” Glock asks after a moment. “I mean like a priest and the confessional?”
I shake my head. “If he knows something, he’ll talk.”