Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“I’d like to see everything you have on Joseph King.”

“I heard what happened down there in Painters Mill.” But my request seems to give him pause. “Someone from your department called. Mirna…”

“Mona.”

“That’s it.” His brows knit. “I thought I sent everything your way already.…”

“We received some of it, but I’m not sure everything was there.”

“Huh.” He looks perplexed. “Let’s see what we can find.”

He slides into a chair and jiggles the mouse to wake up the computer. “Kind of odd for a police chief to make a trip in person,” he says as he pulls up a menu. “I mean on old cases that aren’t really related.”

“Since it was a hostage situation, I want to make sure I have everything on file. I was in the area for a funeral, anyway.” I shrug, nonchalant, keeping it light, my eyes on the monitor. “I always like to make sure I dot my i’s and cross my t’s. A small town like Painters Mill can’t afford any kind of litigation.”

“Better to have too much documentation than too little. Someone sues, and you can’t cover your butt, you’re sunk.” He taps a key. “Here we go. King, Joseph. Let’s see … I’ve got several cases…”

“I’d like to see all of them.”

“Okay.” He hits another key. “I’ve got booking files, including booking sheets, criminal history, court papers, inmate records, fingerprint scans.”

I recognize the reports as the same ones I already have back at the station. “What about incident reports? Witness statements? Especially on the two domestic-violence cases.”

“I can check. Didn’t think you’d want to see those since they’re not related to the standoff.” He types in a command. “I’ve got complaint files and some incident reports.”

“What about LEADS? NCIC?”

“Protected.”

I knew those records would be unavailable, but I thought it might be worth asking about.

“Hmm.” His brow furrows. “Wait a sec.”

His fingers fly over the keyboard. “That’s odd … it looks like some of the records were … purged.”

“Purged?”

He’s staring at the screen as if his life depends on his figuring it out. “They should be here, but they’re not.”

“What kinds of records?”

“Looks like … whoa … just about everything.”

Record-retention laws exist in the state of Ohio. Generally, the statute of limitations on a misdemeanor is two years. Seven years for a felony. When it comes to a sex offense or homicide, all law enforcement agencies are required to keep the records forever. Still, if a particular agency is lax or doesn’t have a policy in place, things can and do fall through the cracks. That’s not to mention the accidental or inadvertent purging of records. It’s dangerous, particularly when it comes to documentation for arrests and court cases with the possibility of future litigation.

“What do you have?” I ask.

“Just what we sent you guys down in Painters Mill.”

“Any idea what happened to the rest?”

“It looks like some of the records were purged accidentally when we computerized everything last year.” He looks away from the monitor and makes eye contact with me. “You want me to print these records for you?” He motions toward a Hewlett-Packard printer the size of a large suitcase.

“Since I’m here.” But I have a sinking suspicion I’ve already seen everything. “Any chance I can get my hands on the autopsy report?”

“You mean for Naomi King?”

I nod. “Just for my file.”

“I’ll request everything and print it, let you take it with you and sort through it at your convenience. That okay?”

“Perfect.”





CHAPTER 19

I was blessed with good mentors during the early years of my law enforcement career. Men and women who generously shared their knowledge and experience with a cocky young rookie who wasn’t always as receptive as she should have been. When I made detective, my sergeant paired me with a veteran who had more years on the force than I’d been alive. Francis Rosiak was just six months away from retirement when we worked our first case: the discovery of human remains from a homicide that had occurred a decade or so earlier.

It was my first big case and as cold as Lake Erie in January. Information was scarce, and I had absolutely no idea where to begin. Francis did. In fact, I’d never seen him stumped, and one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received came from him in the course of that case. “Figuring out where to start is easy,” he told me. “You start at the beginning.”

The advice has served me well over the years.

I make the drive to Rootstown despite the pouring rain and reports of flash flooding in Portage County. A renewed sense of urgency dogs me as I turn in to the lane of the Fisher farm. The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see the overgrown two-track as I make my way toward the house. I park in the same place I did last time I was here. As I shut down the engine, I notice the barn door standing open. Since it’s Bishop Fisher I want to speak with this time, I put the Explorer in gear and pull up to the barn.

Swinging open the door, I sprint through the rain, my feet sinking ankle deep in spongy gravel, mud, and standing water. I’m soaked to the skin by the time I enter the barn. Rain pounds the tin roof in a deafening roar. The smell of horses and hay and damp earth fills my nostrils. A nice-looking little bantam rooster sits atop the top rail of a horse stall, crowing his ass off. There’s no one else in sight.

“Bishop Fisher?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”

The rooster eyes me warily as I take the wide, dirt-floored aisle more deeply into the barn. I hear a horse whinny over the din of rain, glance left and see a sorrel looking at me over the gate to his stall. An ancient-looking manure spreader is parked in the aisle outside a second stall.

I sidle between the manure spreader and the fa?ade of the stall and catch a glimpse of the bishop inside. He’s using a pitchfork to muck manure and toss it onto the spreader.

“Bishop Fisher?”

He turns. “I thought I heard someone out there.”

I make a show of shaking water droplets from my jacket. “We’re getting some good rain.”

“Corn sure isn’t going to complain. Been a dry spring so far.”

I stop at the stall door and watch him work. “I’ve mucked more stalls than I care to count,” I tell him.

“If you’re feeling nostalgic, Kate Burkholder, I have another pitchfork hanging in the tool shed.”

I smile. “I wanted to talk to you about Joseph King.”

“I thought we already did that.”

“Actually, I have a bit of new information I want to run by you.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“I’m not sure.” I pause before continuing. “I was told by one of the deputies that in the course of an interview you told him you believe Joseph killed his wife.”