Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

Just two weeks later, an unnamed caller reported a “loud argument” between King and his wife, Naomi. The deputy arrived to find the couple embroiled in “a heated argument.” Naomi “appeared disheveled, shaken, and frightened of her husband.” The scene inside the home was in “disarray.” The officer spotted a bruise on Naomi King’s neck and, over her protests, arrested her husband on a domestic-violence charge. The charge was later reduced to the threat of domestic violence, which is a second-degree misdemeanor. King spent eight days in jail and paid a $250 fine.

Three months later an anonymous caller reported hearing gunshots and “rapid fire” at the King farm. A Geauga County deputy arrived to find Joseph King “intoxicated” and firing a rifle at “targets” he’d set up. According to the deputy’s notations, King became combative and assaulted the deputy. King was arrested and charged with battery upon a public servant, which is a fourth-degree felony. This time, he did four months in jail.

King had only been out of jail for a week when, in the course of a “domestic violence situation” at his residence, a Geauga County deputy discovered a bag containing marijuana and a small amount of methamphetamine in the Amish man’s coat. King was charged with a second-degree felony. The case went to trial and the charge was ultimately knocked down to a misdemeanor drug possession.

I’m paging through the docs for the third time when it strikes me that there are no witness statements included. Nothing from any of the complainants, including Naomi King. The “unnamed caller” is never identified. There are no photographs accompanying any of the domestic-violence incidents. Most cops are fanatical about recordkeeping, me included. Not because they enjoy truckloads of paperwork, but cops know all too well that in a litigation-run-wild society you cover your ass. That means meticulous documentation.

“So where is it?” I mutter.

I page through the file again, searching for things I missed, but there’s nothing there. It’s true that for religious reasons, most Amish would not be required to have their photographs taken; most police officers are trained to comply. That said, if the photo is only of a bruise somewhere on the body, it’s likely the majority of Amish would allow it. Had Naomi King refused to let them photograph her? While that would explain the lack of photos, it doesn’t explain the sparse information.

I go to the e-mail from Mona and read, Hey Chief. Hope you’re surviving all the craziness re J. King. Clerk at Geauga Records Dept sent everything he had and I printed for you. Hope it helps! See you tomorrow!

The homicide file includes more in terms of documentation. There are pages of detective notes, crime-scene photos, logs, the autopsy report, lab and ballistics reports, and various computer-generated printouts. I read the ballistics report first. I’m midway through when a passage stops me cold. “… evidence that an attempt was made to fire the second shell present in the shotgun. A visible indentation on the primer made by the firing pin indicates the primer failed to ignite, possibly due to improper seating.”

I flip the page and find myself staring at a computer-generated image of a primer that’s been magnified twenty times. Even to my proletarian eye, the mark where the firing pin struck is clearly visible. I think of the story Sadie told about the armed intruder inside the house the night her mamm was murdered and I suppress a shiver.… he raised the long gun like he was going to shoot us. I heard it click, but he must’ve been playing.

Dear God, is it possible the shooter tried to kill a three-year-old little girl because he feared she might be able to identify him?

The lead detective was Sidney Tucker. I reach for the phone, knowing I’ll need to be careful with my approach. No law enforcement agency wants some cop from another jurisdiction sniffing around about an old case or questioning their work. I dial the main number for the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department and ask for Detective Tucker.

“There’s no one here by that name,” the receptionist tells me.

I ask her to put me through to the detective unit. A gruff-voiced detective tells me Sidney Tucker retired two years ago.

“Any idea how I can reach him?” I ask.

“I don’t have his contact info. Last I heard he lives out by Mosquito Lake.”

At two P.M. I grab my keys and head to reception. Lois is embroiled in a mound of salad heaped in a Styrofoam container. She looks up at me when I pass by her desk.

“That looks good,” I tell her.

“Tried that new little shop down the street, Chief.” Blotting her mouth with a napkin, she grins. “Don’t tell the folks at the diner.”

“When you get a minute, I need contact info for a retired detective with the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department by the name of Sidney Tucker,” I tell Lois as I head for the door. “Last known address was Mosquito Lake.”

She jots it down. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“If you need me I’ll be up in Geauga County.”

“Joseph King stuff?”

“Just tying up a few loose ends. If anyone asks, I’ve packed up and moved to Key West.”

She grins. “You and me and Jimmy Buffett.”

“And that stray bottle of rum.”





CHAPTER 15

According to Jonas King, Salome Fisher, the bishop’s wife, was Naomi King’s best friend. If anyone knows anything about what was going on in her life, it’s Salome, he told me. I’d been planning to pay her a visit the day I talked to Edward and Jonas King, but I’d gotten the shots-fired call from Mona and had to cut it short. I figure the best friend is probably going to be a good place to begin, so I check the address and head toward Rootstown Township.

Salome and her husband live just off Wilkes Road. It’s a rural area dotted with quaint farms festooned with the iconic silos and bank barns prevalent in this part of Ohio. The mailbox at the end of the lane isn’t marked and I drive past it twice before realizing through process of elimination that it is, indeed, the place I’m looking for. There’s a sign next to the mailbox that reads BROWN EGGS NO SUNDAY SALE. The lane itself is little more than a winding dirt track with a hump of weeds in the center. I follow it a quarter mile before the old white farmhouse looms into view. In the side yard, a garden striped with rows of baby corn, fledgling green beans, and a single row of caged tomato plants. A clothesline is strung next to the house and contains children’s clothes—boys’ trousers, work shirts, and little girls’ dresses—all flapping in the breeze.

I follow the lane around to the rear of the house and park against a railroad timber where a dozen or so guineas and a lone peacock peck at the ground. Outside the barn to my left, two draft horses are hitched to a wagon loaded with hay. I wave at the Amish man watching me from the doorway. He doesn’t wave back.

I take the stone walkway to the front of the house, ascend the steps, and cross to the door. The house sits atop a low hill with a pretty view to the north. In the flower bed next to the porch, a fat hen and a dozen or so chicks peck and scratch at a patch of irises, and I can’t help but remember all the times my mamm burst from the door, armed with a broom, and swatted at the marauding chickens.