Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Evidently, he worked at a production shop at the prison where parts are cleaned and deflashed for Honda. I don’t know what kinds of tools the inmates have access to, but I’ll find out.”

“So he may have pilfered some tool from the shop.”

“Or someone could have smuggled it in,” he replies. “A visitor.”

“Or a corrections officer.”

“We’re going to be checking all of that.”

I pause, take a moment to get my words in order. “Tomasetti, I knew Joseph King. I mean, when we were kids. They lived next door to us for a while.”

“Small world.”

“Especially when you’re Amish.”

“You have some insight into what he might be thinking, Kate? Where he might go?”

“It was a long time ago. I haven’t talked to him in over twenty years.” We both know how much can happen—how much a person can change—in that length of time.

“He was a good kid back then,” I say. “A typical Amish boy, until his datt was killed in a buggy accident. I think he was fourteen or fifteen years old.”

“Tough age to lose a parent.”

“It changed him. That was when he started getting into trouble. Shortly after that, the family moved to Geauga County and I never saw him again.”

“I understand he has family in Painters Mill.”

I recap my conversation with Rebecca and Daniel Beachy. “They don’t want anything to do with him.”

“You believe them?”

I’ve considered the possibility that they lied to me; that they may have, in fact, helped King. Or they’ve offered him shelter. But I don’t think that’s the case. “The Amish may be forgiving, but after what he did … I suspect he knows he doesn’t have a friend in the world here.”

“The big question now is whether he’ll try to make contact with his children.”

“Surely he knows that would be foolhardy. Every law enforcement agency in the state is looking for him.”

“He’s not exactly father-of-the-year material anyway.”

“And what’s he going to do with five kids?” I say. “Throw them in the backseat and take them with him? I don’t think so. They’d only slow him down.”

“And the older children may know enough to either hate him or fear him. My bet is he’s on his way to Canada.”

“Going to be an interesting case.”

“Things are always more interesting when you’re involved,” he says.

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“I’d feel even better if you’d do me a favor and keep your eyes and ears open for this son of a bitch.”

“Count on it.”

*

Ten minutes later I walk into the Painters Mill police station. My first-shift dispatcher, Lois, mans the front desk, headset hugging her overprocessed curls, the switchboard humming a steady tune. As is usually the case, my third-shift dispatcher, Mona, has found an excuse to stay past her usual clock-out time. As chief, I’m obliged to give her a hard time about it. Today, I’m secretly pleased she’s here, because I have a job for her.

“Chief!” Putting a caller on hold, Lois rises and waves a dozen or so pink slips at me. “For God’s sake, you’d think Charles Manson had escaped.”

“Probably going to get worse before it gets better.” I pluck the messages from her hand as I pass by her desk.

“Something to look forward to,” she mutters.

Mona falls into step beside me. “The guys are all here, Chief.”

I slant a look her way. “Working kind of late this morning, aren’t you?”

“I thought you might need an extra hand in light of the Joseph King situation.”

“You know I can’t pay OT, right?”

“It’s okay.” She offers a sheepish smile. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to miss out on the excitement. Or the experience.”

I shouldn’t be such a pushover; payroll laws are explicit and strict. Still, I can’t help but smile. Mona recently graduated from the local community college with an associate’s degree in criminology. Much to my good fortune, she doesn’t mind the graveyard shift. One day, she’s going to be a fine police officer. Budget permitting, I hope to be the one to hire her.

“You know I appreciate that, right?” I say.

Her smile augments into an all-out grin. “I thought you might want these.” She shoves two file folders at me. “The first one contains everything I could find on King previous to the homicide. The second file is everything I could get my hands on with regard to the homicide of Naomi King. I’m still waiting to hear back from Geauga County Records. I’m running copies of the mug shot for the rest of the guys now. Oh, and I set up the half podium in the war room.”

“War room” is a term only Mona could have coined for our storage-room-turned-meeting-room. I use it occasionally for our weekly briefings, storing unused or broken furniture, and archived file boxes.

A glance at the clock above the coffee station tells me it’s already after noon. “I’ll be there in five.” I lift the file. “Going to take a quick look at these first. Can you let everyone know?”

“Rounding them up now.” She pivots and starts toward the reception area.

“Mona?”

Swinging around to face me, she raises her brows. “Yeah, Chief?”

“You, too,” I tell her.

She dazzles me with another grin, and again I’m struck by the unencumbered love she has for her job. That she’s only twenty-four years old and life is one big adventure. She’s not yet accumulated the kind of baggage most cops own after a few years. And in that instant, I feel … old.

“Roger that,” she says.

In my office, I slide into the chair at my desk, open the file, and find myself looking at the mug shot of Joseph King. The boy I’d once known has grown into an attractive man. He’s still got that boy-next-door face and dark, puppy-dog eyes. The same eyes I looked into a thousand times as a kid. In this particular photo he still bears the typical Amish “bowl” haircut and a beard that reaches past his collar. There’s a trace of a smile on his lips, but the twisting of his mouth doesn’t jibe with the angst in his eyes.

The mug shot was probably taken the day of his arrest—regardless of any protests because of his religious beliefs, if he had any left. I can tell by his expression he’s not taking the situation seriously. Not yet, anyway. I’ve seen the reaction before. People who’ve committed serious crimes believing—even after they’re arrested, booked, and jailed—that some miracle will happen and the whole thing will go away. They think someone will step forward and rescue them. The cops will come to their senses and realize it’s all a big mistake.

I bet he’s taking his situation seriously now.

“Joseph, what the hell happened to you?” I whisper.