Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

With a homicide investigation in the queue and spooling hot, the last thing I want to deal with is the reprisal of a disgruntled citizen. But when you're a public servant, community perceptions carry a lot of weight. Even if you've done nothing wrong, the precept of "innocent until proven guilty" goes out the window. If the situation appears suspicious in the eyes of the public, you are guilty, your career is in peril, and you'd damn well better set the record straight before the situation spirals out of control.

It takes me eight minutes to reach the station. By the time I pull into my slot, I'm officially worried. One look at Lois's expression when I walk through the door and I know it's worse than I thought.

"Hi, Chief!" She says the words with far too much enthusiasm and with a side-eye toward the two men standing in the hallway outside my office.

I follow her gaze to see Mike Rasmussen leaning against the wall, finger-pecking something into his phone. A man I don't recognize—a BCI agent, judging by his attire and persona—stands across from Rasmussen, doing the same. Jim Bogart manspreads on the ragtag sofa and offers me a gotcha-bitch smile as I cross to the dispatch station.

Lois attempts to communicate something to me via a hand signal I don't understand.

"Messages?" I ask.

She plucks a dozen or so slips from the slot. I spot the sticky note she's placed on top of them and read her handwriting.

Bogart is claiming your brother is involved in the murder and he's accusing you of protecting him!!!

Good grief.

"Chief?"

I turn to see Mike Rasmussen shove his phone into his pocket and stride toward me. "If you've got a few minutes, we'd like to have a word."

"Sure, Mike." The words come out sounding surprisingly composed. Tucking Lois's note into my pocket, I glance over his shoulder to see the second man approach. No visible badge. Eyes direct and homed in on me. Mouth pulled into an indecipherable grimace.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jim Bogart get to his feet. "You want me in there, too?" he asks, looking a little too eager.

Rasmussen practically snarls at him. "Stay put, Mr. Bogart, we'll call you if we need you."

Looking disappointed, Bogart settles back onto the sofa.

"There's a little more space in the war room." I look past the sheriff, make eye contact with the BCI agent, and extend my hand. "I don't believe we've met."

"Agent Chambers," he says, giving my hand a too-hard squeeze. "BCI. Call me Neil."

"Appreciate your being here." I motion toward the war room and head that way. "We need all the help we can get."

Rasmussen makes a noise beneath his breath. "This won't take but a few minutes," he assures me.

Knowing I'm walking into an ambush, I take the hall at a brisk pace, push open the door, flick on the lights. "Did you get with the fire marshal about the blaze at Stutzman's Cabinetry?" I ask the sheriff.

"They're going to take a look at the case file," Rasmussen tells me. "Copy us on everything. As it is, the fire was not ruled arson. No accelerant. And the misplacement of the jacket near the heat source was deemed accidental."

I take the chair at the head of the table and sit. Looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here, Rasmussen takes a chair two spaces down. Chambers closes the door behind him and takes the chair next to the sheriff.

Symbolism, I think, and turn my attention to Rasmussen. "What's this about?"

"Citizen out there in reception, Jim…" He grapples with his notes.

"Bogart," I put in.

"Right." He heaves a sigh. "Kate, he called Agent Chambers this morning and made a statement saying he saw your brother, Jacob Burkholder, arguing with Milan Swanz a couple of days before Swanz was killed."

I stare at him, my pulse quickening because I realize I've already made my first mistake. While I mentioned the list of addresses I found at Swanz's residence, I didn't follow up by sharing the names of the property owners with my team, nor did I add it to the evidence log. "Okay."

"Were you aware of that?" Chambers asks.

"No," I say honestly.

"Have you talked to your brother about the case?" Chambers asks.

I don't hesitate; I know they already know. "Yes."

"When was that?" Chambers asks.

"Yesterday."

"It's interesting that he didn't mention the argument," Chambers says.

I think of the list I'd dropped in the drawer of my desk and feel sweat break out on the back of my neck. "My brother told me Swanz had done some work for him," I say.

"Did you document that, Chief Burkholder?" Chambers asks, but I know he already knows.

"Not yet," I return. "With all due respect, we've had our hands full and I haven't had a chance."

Chambers cocks his head, his brows knitting. "Why did you seek out your brother in the first place?"

There it is, I think, and take the plunge. "There was a list of addresses at Swanz's residence," I tell him.

Chambers looks at Rasmussen and raises his brows. "Do you know anything about a list of addresses?"

"Chief Burkholder mentioned the list during our first briefing," the sheriff replies.

Chambers turns his attention back to me. "Is there a reason why you didn't log that list into evidence?"

"I didn't consider the list evidence," I say.

"Why is that?"

"For one thing, it wasn't found at the crime scene." I shrug. "When I initially discovered the list of addresses at Swanz's home, I honestly didn't feel it was important or relevant to the case."

"Because you have so many other leads?" He adds a generous dose of sarcasm to the question.

"Because it's a list of addresses," I say evenly. "Swanz was known to do casual labor. It wouldn't be terribly unusual for him to have addresses written down. Even so, I looked up the names of the property owners and I was following up."

"So even though the list wasn't ‘evidence'"—he makes air quotes—"you looked into it as if it was, indeed, evidence. Is that correct?"

"I looked up the owners of the properties," I say.

"Who's on the list?" Rasmussen asks.

I tell him.

"They're all Amish?" he asks.

I nod. "I talked to the individuals on the list and determined that each of them had had some kind of contact with Swanz."

"Well, that's really interesting." Chambers leans back in his chair. "And yet you didn't see fit to share the information with other law enforcement? Or even document it?"

Having already answered his question, I hold his gaze, saying nothing.

Chambers gives a helpless shrug. "At what point, Chief Burkholder, were you going to share the information with the rest of us?"

"I probably would have shared the names with the task force today. At this point, I'm still trying to determine if any of the individuals on the list are relevant to the case."

Chambers nods slowly, as if weighing the information for logic and honesty. "The witness also claims he saw your vehicle at your brother's farm yesterday. For the record, did Mr. Burkholder mention he'd argued with Swanz?"

"As I already told you, Swanz had done some work for him," I say. "He didn't say anything about an argument."

I can tell by his expression he's enjoying my discomfort. "Do you think that's suspicious? I mean, for your brother not to mention something like that?"

"I think it's worth asking him about," I say.

Chambers tosses a look at Rasmussen I can't quite identify, and my heart thumps in my chest.

"Does your brother have an alibi for the night Swanz was killed, Chief Burkholder?" Chambers asks.

"At the time I spoke to my brother, I didn't know about the argument, so I didn't ask if he had an alibi," I say. "I should remind you that none of the individuals on the list are suspects or even persons of interest."

Chambers laughs and cuts an I-told-you-so look at Rasmussen, then raises his hands in surrender. "There you go."

"Kate, as I mentioned earlier, Bogart went to the media." Growling beneath his breath, Rasmussen leans forward, sets his elbows on the table. "He insinuated that you're covering for your brother."

"Or maybe Bogart is disgruntled about the OVI conviction," I say, "and he's using this incident to get back at me."

"He's claiming you're covering not only for Jacob, but the Amish community," Rasmussen adds.

"I'd tell you that's ridiculous, Mike, but I think you already know that," I say.

"If some unflattering story runs, Chief Burkholder"—Chambers changes the timbre of his voice, assuming the faux persona of an ally playing devil's advocate—"it's not going to bode well for any of us. It's sure as hell not a good look for you."

Rasmussen frowns at the BCI agent. "Neil, that's the thing about being a cop in a town the size of Painters Mill. Everyone knows everyone. Sometimes, paths cross when they probably shouldn't."

"Okay." Chambers nods. "And then we have John Tomasetti assigned to the case. That's another crossing of paths that won't play well if the media decides to push it."

"Agent Chambers," I say slowly. "If you've got something on your mind, I suggest you put it on the table right here and now."

"Appearances matter, Chief Burkholder, especially in this day and age when law enforcement is under a microscope. I think we can all agree you used poor judgment that could easily be misconstrued by the public at large."

"I appreciate your concern, but my reputation speaks for itself."

"If we were in any other jurisdiction, you'd be off the case," Chambers says. "Guaranteed. Tomasetti, too. Lucky for you that's not my call."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the sheriff says diplomatically. "We're not exactly drowning in manpower, for God's sake."

"This might be tough to swallow, but I'm not wrong," Chambers argues.

Rasmussen sighs. "Kate, Neil makes a valid point."

"I don't disagree with him," I admit. "That said, none of this has been verified. I don't believe we've reached the point in which I need to recuse myself from this case."

The sheriff turns his attention to Chambers. "She's got a spotless reputation. She has a good working relationship with the community as well as the local Amish. They trust her. That alone makes her uniquely valuable to this investigation."

"A good investigator is a good investigator," he says. "Whether they're dealing with the Amish or not."

Frowning, I lean back in the chair, and cross my arms in front of me.

"Let me put it this way," Rasmussen begins, with uncharacteristic testiness. "You show up at an Amish farm with questions about murder and you're going to get stonewalled so fast your head will spin."

Chambers all but rolls his eyes.

"Kate's a good chief and one of the best investigators I know," Rasmussen maintains. "I trust her. And we need her."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mike, but any decision about my continuing to work on this case falls to Mayor Brock." I get to my feet, drill Chambers with a glare. "In the interim, I think all of us would be better served if we concentrated on the case."

Temper flashes in the agent's eyes.

Before he can respond, I reach for the intercom box in the center of the table. "Lois?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"Can you send Mr. Bogart back here to the war room?"

"You got it."

Chambers sits up straighter. "What are you doing?"

"I'd like to hear from the witness," I say, and then turn my attention to Sheriff Rasmussen. "Since Agent Chambers is under the impression that I'm too personally involved, would you like to do the honors?"

He nods. "Sure."

Chambers mutters something beneath his breath.

Not quite comfortable with having relegated myself to a backseat position, I pull out my notebook.

A knock sounds and the door swings open. Jim Bogart stands at the threshold looking a lot less cocky than he had out in the reception area. He's fifty-two years old, with a salt-and-pepper goatee and the burly build of a man who's spent most of his life doing physical labor.

"Hi, Jim." Rasmussen motions him into the chair nearest the door. "Come on in. We appreciate your coming forward today."

Bogart eyes me warily as he slides into the chair. I stare back at him, keeping my expression as neutral as I can manage.

"I understand you have some information for us about the Milan Swanz case," the sheriff begins. "Can you tell us what you witnessed between Jacob Burkholder and Milan Swanz?"

The man scoots closer to the table. "Well, Swanz was putting up a cross fence near where my property borders Jacob Burkholder's place. My barn is close to where Swanz was working that day. I was on the second level, cleaning out my feed room. I heard an argument so I went to the window." Looking pleased with himself, he sets his gaze on me and pauses with drama. "Sure enough, Burkholder was out there arguing with Swanz."

"What day was that?" the sheriff asks.

"Five days ago," he says. "About two in the afternoon."

"What were they arguing about?"

"I missed some of it. By the time I got to the window, Burkholder was all over Swanz, yelling at him. I think he said something about the bishop." He shakes his head. "Let me tell you something, Burkholder was pissed. I swear I never seen an Amish guy so mad. I've lived in Holmes County my whole life and never heard any of them so much as raise their voice. I thought these two were going to come to blows."

"Did it get physical?" Rasmussen asks.

"Didn't see it if they did."

"Anybody get threatened?" Chambers asks.

"Not that I could hear," Bogart replies.

"Was anyone else present?" This from the sheriff.

"Just them two. And me."

Dread hovers over me as I write all of it down.

"How long did the argument last?" Rasmussen asks.

"Just a few minutes," Bogart replies. "Like I said, I missed the first part of it. But they were yelling their heads off."

The sheriff continues. "What happened next?"

"Burkholder jabbed his thumb toward the house and ordered Swanz off his property. We're talking foaming-at-the-mouth pissed. Swanz was cussing like a damn truck driver. Next thing I know, Burkholder tore the fence stretcher off the end post. For a second, I thought he was going to slug Swanz with it. Instead, he threw it on the ground. He told Swanz to get off his property and never come back. And Swanz ran."

Chambers poses the next question. "What made you decide to report it?"

"I didn't think too much of it until I heard what happened to Swanz. At that point I thought ‘Oh shit' and made the call."

Ten minutes later, Sheriff Rasmussen and I are sitting at the table in the war room. Chambers left without commentary, but I know he'll be back. People like Chambers don't go away easily and usually don't go of their own accord. The only sound comes from the hum of the ceiling lights and a not-quite-comfortable silence that's as encompassing and cold as ice on a winter lake.

"Well, that was a clusterfuck," the sheriff says.

"Which part?" I ask.

He sighs. "All of it."

I nod, fingers of unease walking up my spine. The last thing I want to do is recuse myself from the case. The reality that I may have no choice in the matter sits like acid in my stomach. "Mike, do you think I need to sit this one out?"

"That's not my decision to make."

"That's not what I asked you."

"All I can tell you at this point, Kate, is that if your brother is involved, even in a peripheral way, you're walking a fine line."

"Have you talked to Auggie about it?" I ask, referring to the mayor, who is officially my boss.

His frown deepens. "That's out of my bailiwick."

"Has Chambers talked to him?"

"I don't know." He scrubs a hand over his jaw, looks at me over the tops of his fingers. "I think that's something we need to be prepared for."

"Prepared for what?" I ask.

"You know as well as I do that Chambers made some valid points. We can't ignore that. I'm not saying I agree with everything he said. What I am saying is that we need to keep the public eye in mind and be transparent about what we're doing."

A dozen questions dangle on the tip of my tongue, but I don't voice them. I already know what the answer is. What he's going to say. I also know that once things are said, they can't be taken back.

I look at Rasmussen, really look at him, and I let down my defenses, let him see what's really there, that I'm speaking from the heart. "We've known each other how long, Mike? Eight? Nine years?"

"We've known each other too long to be having this conversation," he mutters.

"Mistrust is the kiss of death when you're a cop."

"This is not a matter of trust."

I nod, but I'm aware of the tinge of doubt tweaking my chest, and it hurts a hell of a lot more than I want to admit. "I need to speak to my brother."

Rasmussen groans. "You know that's not a good idea, right?"

"I also know that he won't talk to you. He sure as hell won't talk to Chambers."

"I hate to say this, Kate, but your talking to Jacob at this juncture is going to be a problem. For him. For all of us."

"Is he a suspect?"

"He just became a person of interest."

"He didn't murder Swanz."

"Are you saying that as his sister, Kate? Or a cop?"

"Both," I tell him. "One is not mutually exclusive of the other."

He sighs unhappily. "What do you suggest?"

"Let me do my job."

"If you're asking for my blessing, it's not going to happen. I'm sorry."

I ignore the quicksilver twist of pain in my chest. "You know as well as I do that I've got a better chance than you or Chambers or anyone else of getting the truth about what happened between my brother and Swanz."

The friendliness falls away and his gaze grips mine. "You want a friendly word of advice, Kate?"

I stare back at him, my heart beating fast, an uncomfortable knot forming in my chest.

"If you go talk to your brother, I don't want to know about it." Eyes never leaving mine, he leans back in his chair. "If allegations of wrongdoing come to a head and the shit hits the fan, you're on your own. You got that?"

"I got it." Rising, I push the chair up to the table and leave the room.