“I didn’t kill them.”
“Nobody said you did.” I take a breath, reel in impatience. “Sit down. Please.”
“You’re treating me like a suspect, for God’s sake.”
Aaron is not a suspect at this point, but I’m not inclined to tell him. I need to know all the family dynamics before I let him off the hook, especially the ones nobody wants to talk about. “You have motive. You have a record. A shaky alibi. What am I supposed to think?”
“I haven’t seen my family for nearly four years!”
“That’s a long time for anger to fester. Sometimes those emotions don’t go away.”
“Look, do I need a lawyer?”
“That’s your prerogative.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m not going to let you or anyone else railroad me.”
I stare hard at him, trying to see inside his head, inside his heart. “Did you kill your family?”
“No!” His hand shakes when he scrubs it over his forehead, and he sinks back into the chair. “I loved them. All of them. I would never do anything to hurt them. Never.”
“You believe him?” Glock asks a few minutes later.
“I don’t think he did it.” I’m sitting at my desk, watching Aaron Plank through the blinds as he gets into a newish Camry. “But I think he might be holding out.”
Glock raises his brows. “You mean when you asked him about his sister having a boyfriend?”
I nod, relieved I’m not the only one who caught Plank’s moment of hesitation. “I think he’s lying about having been in contact with her.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
He nods. “Hard to tell when someone is lying.”
“That’s the thing about liars. There are good ones and there are mediocre ones. What separates the two is that the good ones convince themselves it’s the truth. It’s like the Big Lie theory, if you repeat a lie enough times, people will start to believe it.”
“Adolf Hitler,” Glock says.
I watch Aaron Plank pull away. “If someone convinces himself a lie is true, he’s basically not lying.”
I spend the next twenty minutes digging up everything I can find on Aaron Plank. Arrest record. Conviction record. Background check. But other than the juvenile record, the DUI and the assault, the information is unimpressive. He’s a graphic artist, living in an established Philly neighborhood of renovated old homes where a high percentage of his neighbors are young gay professionals. Not exactly the profile of a mass murderer. But I know how difficult excommunication can be for a young Amish person. At the age of seventeen, Aaron basically had to reinvent himself and start over. Hatred can be a strong motivator. Did he hate his parents enough to murder his entire family?
It’s hardly a viable theory. For one thing, I can’t see him torturing his sisters or cutting the fetus from Mary Plank’s body. In the short span of time I spent with Aaron, one thing I noticed is that he’s got plenty of emotions, including guilt; he’s not a sociopath. That’s not to mention the other loose ends: Mary Plank’s mysterious relationship, her pregnancy, and the sperm found inside her body. Of course, Aaron could have hired a paid killer. The torture could have been added for the sole purpose of misleading the police. But it’s far from a perfect fit.
I also run checks on Aaron’s partner, Rob Lane, but he comes back clean. I Google his name to find he’s got two books to his credit. Zipping to Amazon, I enter his name and click on the title Amish Country: A Place of Peace. It’s a lovely coffee table book chock-full of artsy black-and-white photographs, folk art, and literary musings. His tastes run to the avant-garde, but his talent is evident.
Locating the phone number Aaron gave me, I call Rob at his office. He’s a well-spoken young man who just landed an editorial job with a well-known magazine. Despite my resistance, he charms me and then substantiates everything Aaron told me. He didn’t sound scripted, but as I hang up, I wonder if the two men coordinated stories. It wouldn’t be the first time someone covered for a lover.
Next, I call the Lancaster County sheriff’s office and get transferred to a corporal by the name of Mel Rossi. I quickly identify myself and tell him about the case.
“I heard about the murders,” he says. “Hell of a thing. You guys know who did it?”
“We’re still working it.” I pause. “I was wondering if you could have one of your deputies run out to Bishop Fisher’s place so I could speak to him via cell phone.”
“I can probably get someone out there today.” Corporal Rossi has a strong New York accent. “Give me your contact info and I’ll have someone call you.”
I give him my cell phone number and disconnect. I wonder if the bishop will be able to shed any light on the Plank family. I wonder what he’ll have to say about Aaron Plank.