Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

I was a homicide detective with the Columbus Division of Police for two years before becoming chief in Painters Mill. During that time, I worked with a number of cops, and most of them were a lot more experienced than me. It was a difficult and intense time, and a period of rapid professional growth. I learned more during that two-year period than in the entirety of the six I'd spent in patrol. One of the detectives I partnered with during that time was Bud Lawrence. He was a thirty-year veteran, six months from retirement, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was a rookie detective young enough to be his daughter who was under the impression she knew more than he did. That young female detective was me.

I disliked Bud from day one. He was blunt, openly rude, and seemed to go out of his way to make my life miserable. When I screwed up, he ridiculed me—and not in a good-natured way. At the time, I had no way of knowing that of all the people who had mentored me, it would be Bud whose teachings I would come to value the most. After a few rocky weeks and a lot of stress, I learned to keep my mouth shut; I learned to pay attention to the right things, and I began to learn. Bud shared something more important than anything you'd get from a classroom, and a hell of a lot more valuable: his experience. He taught me how to think like a cop, how to push when I didn't have any push left, and how to think outside the box.

It's eleven P.M. and I'm sitting in my office at the police station. The switchboard has quieted. The last sheriff's deputy left an hour ago. It's just me and my second-shift dispatcher and the knowledge that I don't have squat in terms of a suspect. My brain squirms inside my head, but I'm intellectually spent and too tired to push.

When you hit that wall, put that voice inside your head on paper and let the damn thing talk.

It was one of Bud's favorite axioms, and to this day I keep a supply of legal pads in my desk. Tonight, at a loss and batting zero, I pull one out and I go to town on the page.

Symbolism of murder—burned at the stake—connection to Martyrs Mirror?

Victimology: Swanz led a troubled life. Divorced. Misdemeanor convictions. Alcohol abuse. Excommunicated. Not well liked. Ex-wife—lying about boyfriend? Parents—not close to him. Something off?

Argument with neighbor—burned cornfield.

Bishop Troyer—cagey? Something to hide?

Stutzman's Cabinetry—fire—lost everything. Revenge? Noah Stutzman?

Monroe Hershberger—destroyed crops I glance over at the passenger seat next to me.

"He was intoxicated," I whisper. "Or there were two of them."

It's not the first time the possibility has occurred to me. A scenario plays out in my mind's eye. A deserted back road late at night. An intoxicated Swanz is walking home and offered a ride. He gets in. While the driver converses with him, a second individual hides in the back seat. When the time is right, he loops a rope or strap over Swanz's head, tightens it around his throat, and strangles him to unconsciousness.

And the hyoid bone is broken in the process.…

Leaving my window down, I idle along the road, keeping my eyes on the ditches, the fence, the trees beyond. In the yellow glow of the headlights, intermittent snow slants down from a black sky.

I reach the crime scene and stop. The shoulder and roadway are scarred with tire ruts. I pull onto the shoulder, snag my Maglite off the seat, and get out. I stand there a moment, listening to the inhale and exhale of the forest. I take it in. Put it to memory. Try to imagine what might've happened and somehow absorb the memory of this place.

To my left, I can see where the fence was cut, both sides peeled open for the first responders. I start that way. The thin layer of snow is wet and soft, my feet silent as I enter the trees. I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for. I spent a good chunk of my day here; I've seen every inch of it. Still, I was compelled to return. Earlier, it was teeming with law enforcement, crime scene investigators, and, nearer the road, journalists. Now, alone and in the dark, I have a better sense of what it was like the night Swanz was killed.

I follow the beaten-down path through the woods to the place where the body was found. The wooden stake was removed and sent to the lab for testing, as were samples of the lumber and ash. New snow coats everything that remains. I stop ten feet from the remaining pile of ash and wood. I walk around it, trying to imagine, yet at the same time, trying not to. I pull out my notebook and write: Where did the pallets come from?

I've circled the fire area a second time when a sound from the woods startles me. Not the snapping of a twig. More like a muffled thud. An odd sound for the woods. I stop walking and look that way, feel the hairs at my nape stand on end. There are plenty of deer out this way. There are possum and raccoon, rabbit and coyote, all of which are nocturnal. There's also a killer on the loose, and while it may be cliché that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime, it holds true.

Without changing my gait, I stride toward where I heard the noise. I'm aware of the .38 in my holster beneath my parka. Casually, I tug down the zipper for quick access. I sweep the Maglite along the trees. Eyes penetrating as far as the light will allow. No movement. Nothing there.

So why are the hairs up at the back of your neck, Kate?

I break into an easy jog. Sweeping my light left and right. Fifty yards and I stop. Listen over the low thud of my heart. The scrape of a branch across fabric sounds to my left.

"Stop!" I call out and launch myself into an easy, ground-covering jog. "Painters Mill Police Department!"

I maintain the speed for another hundred yards, then stop and listen, my breaths puffing out in front of me. I stand still, the beam of my flashlight digging into the darkness. All the while I try not to think about the rumors of a devil-worshipping cult living off the grid in these woods.

"Is someone there?" I call out.

The only sound that comes back at me is the hiss of my labored breathing and hard thud of my heart.