Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

It's after seven A.M. when I walk into the station. My floater dispatcher, Margaret, mans the switchboard with the cool head of a seasoned war correspondent. She catches my eye as I walk past, chirps out a cheerful "Morning!," and shoves a dozen or so message slips into my hand.

"Get me everything you can find on Clarence Raber." I spell the last name for her. "Background. Known associates. Check for warrants."

She scribbles on a pad. "Got it."

"Who's on?" I ask.

"Glock."

"Tell him to—"

"I'm right here, Chief."

I turn to see the man in question come around the corner of his cubicle. Despite the fact that he likely worked through the night, his uniform is clean and crisp, his eyes are clear and focused. "You had any sleep?" I ask.

"As much as I needed," he says.

I tell him about Clarence Raber. "According to Swanz's ex, they were best friends. He works at the grain elevator in Coshocton. I thought I'd run over there."

"You want some company?"

I smile. "I'll drive."

Sweet Feed and Seed is located off County Road 68, across from a field of cut corn, the yellow stalks covered with snow and shivering in the wind. A mishmash of steel buildings lines the west side of the lot. Ahead, a beat-up elevator juts sixty feet into winter haze. The gravel parking area is populated with half a dozen pickup trucks and a semi rig parked alongside the road, the dirty snow all around crisscrossed with tire ruts.

Glock and I slog through slush to a low-slung building where a sign above the door reads OFFICE . An old Alan Jackson number oozes from a 1990s-era boom box on the counter where a woman wearing insulated coveralls pages through her phone.

"Morning." I cross to her, thankful for the warmth, and hold up my badge. "We're looking for Clarence Raber."

Her bored expression transforms to startled when she notices I'm a cop. "Oh."

"Is he around?" I ask, aware that Glock is hanging back, keeping an eye on the parking lot.

"This about that weird murder up in Painters Mill?" she asks.

"This is about me talking to Clarence Raber." I say the words amicably, but she gets the message.

"I think he's out in the elevator this morning." She reaches for an old-fashioned desktop phone that is ostensibly part of a paging system. "Let me check."

I raise my hand and stop her before she can speak. "If you could just point us in the right direction, we'll get out of your hair."

She hauls herself to her feet and points. "He's greasing the bearings on the elevator this morning. Walk straight out then go left. Can't miss it."

"Thank you."

Tipping his hat at her, Glock opens the door, and we go through.

"Bet the farm she's calling him right now," he says as we cross the short distance to the larger building.

"Bet you're right."

We look at each other and grin.

The elevator is a massive structure fabricated of corrugated steel that's striped with rust. Despite the cold, the overhead door is raised about five feet. The rumble of what sounds like a generator emanates from inside. I duck under the door, and find myself in a cavernous space packed with equipment and machinery. Ahead, the elevator conveyor belt slants upward toward the ceiling at a thirty-degree angle. A young male matching Raber's description stands on a catwalk of sorts, twenty feet up, cranking a wrench the size of a man's arm.

"Clarence Raber?" I call out.

He stops cranking and looks down at us. "Help you?"

I hold out my badge and identify myself. "I'd like to talk to you about Milan Swanz."

Eyes flicking from me to Glock and back to me, he tosses the wrench in an open toolbox beside him and trots down the steel-mesh stairs. "I wondered when you guys were going to come talk to me."

He's wearing an insulated coat over duck coveralls, which are open just enough for me to see the blue work shirt and suspenders beneath. Not exactly Amish, but close, as if he's not quite sure himself. He's blond haired and blue eyed with the barely-there beard of a newly married Amish man.

"Yeah?" I say pleasantly. "Why is that?"

"Milan and I used to be friends." He shrugs as he crosses to us. "Crazy what happened to him, isn't it? Heard it on the news this morning. I still can't hardly believe it."

He reaches us and the three of us exchange handshakes. "You guys figure out who did it?"

"We're working on it." His grip is warm, callused, and strong. "We were hoping you might be able to shed some light."

"Sure. Whatever you need."

I pull out my notebook. "Tell me about your relationship with Milan."

"We knew each other since we were little kids. Practically grew up together. Used to play in that old barn out to his parents' farm." He offers a self-deprecating smile. "Got into plenty of trouble together as teenagers."

"What kind of trouble?" I ask.

"Nothing serious." He laughs, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. "You know, the usual kind of rumspringa stuff. Drinking and raising hell." His expression softens as if the words rekindle fond memories. "Terrorizing the girls. The way a couple of teenaged idiots do."

I can tell by his Deitsch pronunciation of rumspringa that he's Amish or at least grew up Amish. "When's the last time you saw Swanz?"

A flicker of something I can't quite identify in his eyes. "Been four or five months now," he says.

Curiosity pings. "Did you have a falling-out?"

"Well." He scrubs his hand over his beard, looks back toward the scaffolding as if he'd rather be up there greasing bearings instead of down here talking to me. "I guess I walked right into that one, didn't I?" He smiles sheepishly.

"Clarence." I say his name firmly, wait until he stops fidgeting and meets my gaze. "We're trying to figure out what happened to Milan Swanz and you're wasting our time. If something happened between the two of you, you need to tell me about it. Right now."

"We had a falling-out about four and a half months ago." As if realizing the statement might be misinterpreted, he raises his hands, chokes out a laugh. "Not that kind of falling-out! I mean, I didn't kill him."

"What kind of falling-out?" I ask.

"Look, the problems between me and Milan had nothing to do with what happened to him. Can we just leave it at that?"

"Let me put it this way, Mr. Raber. We can do this here all friendly-like, or we can drive you to the station in Painters Mill and do it in an interview room. It's your call."

He heaves a sigh, shakes his head. "Milan had a tendency to overreact when something didn't suit him. When he was a kid, it was all fun and games. Everyone thought he'd straighten out as he got older. Truth of the matter is, it got worse."

"How so?"

"He had a temper. Everything was a slight, you know? He took things personal and then he couldn't let it go. It's like he'd dwell on it and stew. When he got pissed, you'd best look out because he didn't exactly have a lot of self-control. Sometimes he got mean." He shakes his head. "Especially when he drank."

"Did he have any problems with anyone in particular?" I ask.

"I know he had some problems with the people he worked for." He recaps the story about the fire at Stutzman's cabinet shop, which corresponds with what I already know. "Milan took it bad when they fired him. Said they humiliated him. And he sure didn't have no soft spot for the dude's son."

"Noah Stutzman?"

He nods.

"Did Milan start the fire?"

"He said he didn't. I believed him. But everyone else sure had their suspicions."

"Did Milan have any problems with anyone else?"

"That's about all I know about." He shrugs. "Pulled him off a guy in a bar once, but that was a long time ago up in Canton."

Glock speaks up for the first time. "What about your falling-out with him?"

"It wasn't good." Shaking his head vigorously, he swears beneath his breath. "Damn, I hate to trash him now that he's dead. It just don't feel right."

"If it's any consolation," I say, "you don't have a choice."

"Right." He shoves both hands into his pockets. "I was over at his house one afternoon, drinking a beer like we'd done a hundred times before. His wife was there. The kids." He heaves a sigh. "His son runs into the kitchen and accidentally knocked something over, made a mess." Raber's jaw tightens as if he's bitten into something unpalatable. "One minute Milan was sitting there chilling and the next he grabbed that kid. Just fucking… yanked him around way too rough. The little guy squealed and started crying. I'm no fighter, but I swear to God I just about tore into Milan."

I write it down. "What's the child's name?"

"Aaron. He's the middle kid."

"Did anyone call the police?"

"No."

"Was Milan abusive to his children?"

"Never thought so. I mean, I'd never seen it. Until that, anyway. A few days later, when I saw them at worship, I saw a cast on the kid's arm."

A swell of outrage tightens my chest, but I bump it back. Stay on topic. "So Milan broke his son's arm?"

"Yeah. When I asked him about it, he said it was an accident. But I was frickin' there. I saw it and I didn't like it." For the first time, Clarence Raber doesn't look quite so happy-go-lucky. "That was the last time I talked to him. I never went to his house or returned his calls. Far as I was concerned, he no longer existed."

"How did his wife react to her son being hurt?" I ask.

"She filed for divorce shortly thereafter. I mean, even with her being Amish and all, who could blame her?"

In the back of my mind, I recall Bertha Swanz specifically telling me Milan was the one who'd initiated the divorce. "Are you sure it was Mrs. Swanz who initiated the divorce?" I ask. "Not Milan?"

"She told me she's the one done it."

I think about that a moment. "Do you know if she has a boyfriend?"

"Last I heard she was seeing that Yoder dude lives next door to her."

"Her neighbor?" Surprise quivers in my chest. "The one whose field caught on fire?"

"That's the guy."

"Mr. Raber, can you tell me where you were night before last?" I ask.

He gawks as if I've sucker-punched him, then shakes his head as if resigned. "I was home with my wife and our new baby. You can ask her."

"Were you there all night?"

"Yes, ma'am, I was."

"You know we're going to check," Glock puts in.

"Knock your socks off," he says. "I gotta get back to work."

At that, he turns and walks away.

When you're a cop and you need information from the Amish, taboo is a slippery slope to maneuver. There are certain subjects the vast major ity of the Amish simply won't broach. Homosexuality. Sexual assault. Child abuse. When you're Amish and you finally muster the courage to confide or ask for help, you speak only with a trusted friend, only in whispers, and you never talk to an outsider, especially a cop.

Crimes such as domestic violence, sexual assault, and child abuse are no more prevalent among the Amish than other cultures or groups, but because of the wall of silence that exists between the Amish and English, such incidents are less likely to draw the attention of law enforcement. The victims are far more likely to suffer in silence without recourse.

As I pull into the driveway of the farm where Milan Swanz's ex-wife lives, I don't ponder the reason why she didn't tell me about Swanz breaking her son's arm. I already know the answer. I understand her hesitancy because I'm well versed on Amish taboo. Of course, that doesn't excuse her for withholding information in the course of a homicide investigation.

The snow has stopped, but the air presses down cold and heavy and wet as I take the walkway to the porch. In the distance, the whistle of an approaching train wails, a lonely sound that makes me wonder how many times a day this house is rattled by railroad cars barreling past.

The door creaks open. Bertha Swanz glares at me through the foot-wide gap, a wily cat peering out at a pit bull intent on harming her. "Well, I don't know why you're here again," she says.

"I'm here to ask you about the things you lied to me about last time we spoke," I return evenly.

I can tell by her expression she knows exactly what I'm referring to. She doesn't want to talk to me, but knows she doesn't have a choice. "I guess that means you're going to want to come inside."

"I guess it does."

Frowning, she turns away and heads for the kitchen. "I got coffee."

I follow her. "I'll settle for some honesty."

She clucks her tongue, a sound of annoyance.

The aromas of woodsmoke and kerosene fill the overwarm air as we make our way to the kitchen. Breakfast dishes from earlier are stacked next to the sink, not yet washed. A cast-iron skillet sits on the woodstove, a thin layer of grease inside.

"The children are at school?" I ask.

"Of course they are." Bertha snatches up a gas-blackened percolator and pours into mismatched cups.

I take a chair at the table without being asked. "Why didn't you tell me your ex-husband broke your son's arm?"

She looks calm on the exterior as she brings cups to the table, but I don't miss the slosh of coffee that spills over the rim as she hands one to me. "I didn't know it was important." She shrugs. "You didn't ask."

"It is and I'm asking now."

She takes the chair across from me. "Milan lost his temper sometimes. With the kids, you know. I don't think he meant to actually break—"

"Did he ever hurt the children?"

"No."

"He broke your son's arm, ma'am."

"Just that one time," she snaps. "Grabbed him too rough. That's all."

"What about you?" I ask. "Did he hit you?"

She looks away, but quickly raises her gaze back to mine. "He might've slapped me a time or two."

"In the face? Your body?"

"Face."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough."

I stare at her, feeling my temper rise, my heart beating a little too fast. "You know it's against the law to strike someone."

"I didn't like it much. Just tried to keep things calm."

"You should have called the police. We would have helped you."

Her laugh has a sour tone. "You don't know anything."

We stare at each other silently.

"Is that why you filed for divorce?" I ask after a moment.

She shivers as if her filing for divorce is worse than her husband breaking a young boy's arm. The cup she's holding quivers, so she sets it on the table. "I told you. Milan's the one filed."

"Do not lie to me," I snap.

She looks down at the cup, wraps her hands around it as if to warm them.

"Bertha, I'm not here to judge you. I don't care who filed. But I need the truth because I'm trying to find out who murdered your ex-husband. The more I know about him, the better. Do you understand?"

"I don't want them to know," she whispers.

She's referring to the Amish, of course.

I give her a moment, think about possible implications of domestic abuse. A protective brother or father. "Did you confide in anyone about what was going on in your marriage?" I ask. "That Milan had hit you? That he injured your son?"

"I told no one."

"What about your family? Do any of them know what was happening?"

As if realizing where I'm going with this line of questioning, she sighs. "We don't speak of such things."

I switch gears, go at her fast and hard. "Why didn't you tell me you're in a relationship with Lester Yoder?"

She opens her mouth, makes a sound that resembles a dog choking on a chicken bone. "Because it's a private thing," she says.

"Last time I was here, I specifically asked you if you were involved with anyone."

She shakes her head. "My seeing Lester so soon would have been condemned. You were Amish once. You know how it is."

"How long have you been involved?"

Her body seems to sag and when she raises her gaze to mine, misery swims in her eyes. "Seven months now. He's a widower, you know. Going on two years for him."

Before the divorce. "Is it a sexual relationship?"

I don't miss the color that climbs up her neck and enters her cheeks. "Not at first." She lowers her eyes to the tabletop. "I was having so much trouble. With Milan, you know. Lester caught me crying one morning. I had a cut lip. Milan had smacked me a good one and left the house. I was out in the barn so the kids wouldn't see, and Lester came over to borrow that old crosscut saw."

"What did you tell him?"

She tightens her mouth as if she doesn't want to answer. But she knows she doesn't have a choice. "He saw the cut, asked me about it, and everything just poured out. I confided in him and… over the next few weeks… one thing led to another."

"Is Lester protective of you?"

Her eyes narrow. "Not particularly."

"Did he have anything to do with Milan's death?"

"Oh, dear Lord, no!" She slaps a hand over her mouth, a sound of distress escaping. "You can't possibly think such a thing. The man is kind and wouldn't hurt a flea."

"Where were you the night your ex-husband was killed?" I ask.

"Here," she says. "With the kids. Like always."

Finishing the last of my coffee, I dig into my coat pocket for my card and write my cell phone number on the back. "If you think of anything else, will you call me?"

She stares at me a moment, then motions toward the door. "I think we're finished here."

I'm mulling my exchange with Bertha Swanz and nearly to the station when Sheriff Mike Rasmussen calls. I know the instant I hear his voice that the news isn't good.

"You need to come in," he tells me.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Kate, I got a witness here claiming your brother had some kind of altercation with Swanz four days before Swanz was killed."

For the span of several heartbeats, I'm so taken aback that I can't find my voice. I just talked to Jacob and he didn't mention an argument.

"Are you sure about that?" I ask.

"I'm sure, damn it."

"Who's the witness?"

"A neighbor," he tells me. "Guy by the name of Jim Bogart."

Something sinks inside me, a rock swiveling down to the bottom of a deep lake. I've arrested Jim Bogart twice for OVI. The second time, he caught a conviction, went to jail, paid a massive fine, and lost his driver's license for a year.

"You know I've got a history with him," I say.

"Yeah." Rasmussen lowers his voice. "Kate, Bogart called BCI before he called me. Your name came up, and now the agent liaison is all over my shit. Evidently, this Bogart character has already talked to the media, too, and they're running with it."

"Must be a slow news day," I mutter.

"Always is when it's that juicy." He sighs. "Look, the BCI agent is here now. So is Auggie. They want to talk to you."

"I'll be there in ten," I say, and smack my palm hard against the disconnect button.