Tomasetti raises a brow.
“Their bishop back in Lancaster County,” I say. “I’m waiting for a call back now.”
“Worth a shot.” He nods. “What else?”
“Glock’s checking hate crimes.”
“Hard to imagine someone hating the Amish.”
“It happens. Unfortunately, a lot of it goes unreported.”
“What kind of stuff are you talking about?”
I shrug. “Some people don’t like the buggies because they’re slow and hold up traffic. Or they think the Amish are stupid. They equate pacifism with cowardice.” I shake my head. “I’ve seen buggies run off the road. People have thrown rocks at the horses to spook them. I’ve even heard of some teenagers throwing fireworks at the horses. A few don’t like the religion.”
“Or they just hate for the sake of hating.”
He’s staring at me again. That shouldn’t bother me. I’ve been in this man’s bed. He’s held me. Kissed me. Made love to me. Yet here I am, uncomfortable and squirming beneath his gaze. Turning slightly in my chair, I look out the window, not sure what to say next or how to feel.
“How have you been, Kate?”
“Fine. Working a lot.” My answer is a little too quick. I’m nervous about his being here, and he knows it. I turn back to him. It’s been two months since I last saw him, but it seems like a lifetime. “How about you?”
“Saving the world.” He smiles. “Living the good life.”
I nod, not believing a word of it. “How long can you stay?”
“Till we close the case.”
I want to ask him if he’s up to the task, but I know the question will only piss him off. I admire and respect Tomasetti. Too damn much if I want to be honest about it. But he’s been through hell in the last two and a half years. He’s a troubled man with shadows so deep I haven’t been able to penetrate them. He might say otherwise, but I’m not convinced he’s up to working this case.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say after a moment.
“I bet you tell all the agency guys that.”
I smile.
A rapid knock sounds, then the door swings open. Glock steps in. His eyes widen when he sees Tomasetti. His gaze darts to mine. “Sorry, Chief, I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
“It’s okay,” I say, relieved for the interruption. “What do you have?”
Nodding at Tomasetti, he approaches, passes a sheet of paper to me. “Get a load of this.”
I scan the paper. It’s a ten-year-old police report from Arcanum, Ohio, a small town near the Indiana state line. Four men, all between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, were arrested for severely beating an Amish man and cutting off his ear. The ear was never found, and therefore could not be reattached. One of the men, James Hackett Payne, later confessed to having eaten it. Each of the men was later convicted and sentenced to five to eight years in prison. My pulse kicks when I see that Payne, now twenty-nine, is living in Painters Mill.
“He did extra time on the hate crime designation,” Glock says.
“I’ll bet that improved his outlook on life.” I pass the paper to John.
He scans the report and frowns. “It’s a stretch going from felony assault to mass murder.”
“Eight years in prison is a long time for anger to fester into rage,” I say.
“What the hell kind of person eats a guy’s fuckin’ ear?” Glock asks no one in particular.
“Twisted son of a bitch,” Tomasetti mutters.
“I don’t get the hate thing,” Glock says.
I shrug. “Some people see the Amish as easy targets.” Both men’s gazes swing to me. “They refer to the Amish as clapes for ‘clay apes.’ It’s a derogatory term that somehow relates to farming. The incidents against them are known as clape-ing.”
Glock shakes his head. “I can’t believe it happens enough for someone to coin a term for it.”
I glance at him, knowing that as an African-American cop, he’s experienced a few hate-related incidents himself.
“You got an address on this guy?” Tomasetti asks impatiently.
Glock grins. “You bet.”
I rise. “Let’s go talk to him.”
“Going to wear my fuckin’ earmuffs,” Glock says.
CHAPTER 14
James Hackett Payne lives on the south side of Painters Mill in a three-story brick home that looks old enough to be historical. Surrounded by ancient maple and sycamore trees, the house sits on a large lot set back from a tree-lined street. A dilapidated privacy fence tangled with honeysuckle runs the perimeter of the backyard. I park curbside and we disembark.
“He live alone?” Tomasetti asks.
“To the best of my knowledge,” Glock replies. “Inherited the house when his dad died last year.”
“What’s he do for a living?” I ask.
“He’s on some kind of disability,” Glock answers.
“Mental or physical?”
“Doesn’t say.”