Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

I did, however, follow the investigation and trial. Joseph King, his wife, and their five children lived on a small farm near Middlefield, Ohio, which is about two hours northeast of Painters Mill. The night of the murder, King claimed to have gone fishing on Lake Erie. Since his destination was too far to travel via buggy, he’d paid a local Yoder toter to drive him to a cabin. During the night, someone walked into his unlocked home, picked up his shotgun, and shot his wife in her bed while their five children slept across the hall. Come morning, the children discovered their mother’s body. Two days later, Joseph was arrested and charged with murder.

Throughout the trial, Joseph proclaimed his innocence. He claimed to love his wife and swore he’d never harm her. No one believed him. His temper was common knowledge around town. Worse, he had a criminal record that included two domestic-violence convictions. His prints were on the shotgun and the shells. One of his jackets, found at the scene, had gunshot residue on it. No one at the lake remembered seeing King at the cabin. The crime scene was a virtual smorgasbord of evidence—both circumstantial and physical—and the prosecutor offered up every juicy morsel.

The trial lasted three weeks, a spectacle that drew tourists from as far away as New York. In the end King was convicted of first-degree homicide and sentenced to life in prison. He maintained his innocence right through the day he was led from the courtroom in shackles. No one believed him, including me.

The case was high-profile not only because King was Amish but because of the level of brutality—and the fact that the children were in the house at the time of the murder. It brought to light the reality that domestic violence transcends culture and religion. And it drove home the fact that all the warning signs had been there, but for whatever reason everyone missed them, including law enforcement, family, and the Amish community.

Naomi King had been just twenty-nine years old. A pretty Amish mother whose life was cut short by a jealous, controlling, and sometimes violent husband. A family destroyed, countless lives ruined, and for what?

Graffiti forgotten, I walk to the Explorer, slide behind the wheel, and call dispatch.

My first-shift dispatcher, Lois, answers with a perky “You didn’t throw Auggie off the bridge, did you?”

I can’t help it; I laugh, and the cloud that had been hovering over me dissipates. “I need you to call everyone in for a quick meeting.”

“This about that BOLO for Joseph King?”

I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s already heard; news travels fast in a small town. And with the police radio, it’s not unusual for my dispatchers to know things before I do.

“Meeting in an hour.” I tell her about my conversation with the deputy warden. “I’m going to head over to the Beachy farm to let them know.”

“ODRC think he’s coming here?”

“I don’t think so, but the family needs to know he’s out, and we need to cover all our bases just in case.”





CHAPTER 2

I call Holmes County sheriff Mike Rasmussen on my way to the Beachy farm.

“You calling about Joseph King?” Mike begins without preamble.

“Is everyone a mind reader?” I mutter, and then say, “I’m on my way to talk to Rebecca and Daniel Beachy.”

“Good. I think it’s probably best if you’re the one to talk with them since you know the language and whatnot. Every time I’ve been out there, they just sort of nod their heads and ignore everything I say.”

“It’s that whole separation thing, Mike. They hear you just fine; they just pretend they don’t.”

“Must come in handy.”

I chuckle. “Did ODRC mention how King escaped? I didn’t think to ask when I was on the phone with them.”

“I just hung up with the sheriff up there in Richland County. From what I understand, King sawed through some kind of steel plate, crawled through an unsecured plumbing tunnel to the roof, and then rappelled to the ground using a rope made from sheets.”

“Never underestimate the power of ingenuity,” I say, my mind working over the information. “Do they think he got help from someone?”

“He didn’t saw through that steel plate with his toothbrush.”

“Someone inside?”

“The sheriff wasn’t real forthcoming.”

Even though he can’t see me, I roll my eyes. “You going to put a deputy out at the Beachy place?”

“I’ll step up patrols, Kate. I don’t have the manpower to cover their farm twenty-four seven.”

“Mike, I’m perpetually understaffed.”

“Look, if I was facing life in prison, I sure as hell wouldn’t come down to Painters Mill. I’d get as far out of Dodge as possible.”

“Canada?” I say.

“Or Mexico.”

“Unless he wants to see his children.”

He sighs. “People do get touchy when it comes to their kids.”

The words ring uncomfortably in my ears. “I’ll let you know how it goes with the Beachys.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“You got it.”

*

Rebecca and Daniel Beachy live on a dirt road three miles outside Painters Mill proper. Their farm is sandwiched between the heavily wooded floodplain of Painters Creek to the west and a checkerboard of soybean, hay, and corn fields to the east.

I’m not unduly worried that Joseph King will show up here. I’ve got a pretty good handle on the Amish community; King is probably well aware that he doesn’t have any friends, English or Amish, in Painters Mill. With every law enforcement agency in the area actively looking for him, chances are he’ll be apprehended quickly. Still, I worry. Rasmussen is right about people and their children. King’s kids could be a powerful draw. That’s not to mention the fact that King was Amish. Even ostracized, the urge to return to the only thing he knows could be strong.

I pass by an overgrazed pasture to my left and the dark woods that run along the creek to my right as I idle down the lane. The farm is isolated, which could also be attractive to a man on the run. Chances are the Beachys don’t have a phone. If something happened, they wouldn’t be able to call for help.

Following the driveway around a bend, I end up on the back side of the house. I park behind an ancient manure spreader heaped with wood shavings, muck, and straw. Beyond, there’s a tumble-down barn with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof. Next to it, a massive silo gazes out over the property like some aging sentinel. In the side yard, an old-fashioned clothesline holds a mishmash of children’s clothes—dresses and trousers and shirts—all hung neatly and flapping in the breeze.

I get out of the Explorer and wade through a dozen or more fat red chickens pecking the ground and make my way to the back door. Before I can knock, the screen door swings open. A little boy of about six years of age gapes at me with wide, impossibly blue eyes. He gives a single yelp and takes off running toward the barn with a lumbering puppy in hot pursuit.

“Levi! Go help your brother give that dog a bath!” a female voice calls out from inside. “He smells worse than that old boar!”

The words make me smile. My own mamm only had three children, but we were a handful—especially me—and she used to bark out orders like a boot camp sergeant. I catch the door to keep it from slamming and find myself staring into an unsettlingly familiar set of brown eyes. Joseph’s eyes, some long-buried remembrance whispers. They belong to a boy about eight or nine years of age. He’s standing in the mudroom, straw hat, blue work shirt, trousers rolled up to skinny knobby knees, revealing dirty bare feet.