Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

"Milan was never quite right in the head. Had a hard time telling the difference between right and wrong. Seemed like he always chose wrong over right."

Bertha Swanz, Lester Yoder, and I are seated at the kitchen table. It's so quiet I can hear the pop and crackle of the woodstove in the living room. The hiss of the gas lamp overhead. The tick of the stovetop behind me as it cools.

"All he knew was what he wanted and he didn't care who he hurt to get it." Bertha's brows knit as if she's struggling to piece together a difficult puzzle. "You put all of that together and trouble just seemed to follow him wherever he went."

Her mouth curves into a melancholy smile. "When he was younger, it didn't seem so bad. He was funny and charming and all those mistakes seemed harmless. Datt liked him; Milan was a decent cabinetmaker, after all. Handsome, too, and a lot of the girls noticed." She sighs. "I was a silly thing and didn't know my head from a hole in the ground. Once we got married, the babies came quick. And so did the problems."

Yoder picks up his cup, sips, his eyes downcast.

A dozen questions arise, but I hold them at bay and let her talk.

"Everything he did," she continues, "everyone he dealt with, there were problems. He got into arguments with people for no good reason. Had trouble with everyone. The older he got, the worse it got." She shrugs. "That's not to mention the children. I'm not against discipline, mind you, but Milan had a temper. Overdid the whipping. Seemed like everything he did was an overreaction."

She heaves a sigh, goes on as if she's just warming up. "It wasn't long before he started hitting me. Not too bad at first. A slap or two here and there. But I knew it wasn't okay. It wasn't right and it got to be a bad situation. Next, he started having problems at work. Got fired. Boy, that made him mad. He couldn't let things go, and he wanted to get even for every little slight, even when it was his own fault.

"Bishop Troyer put him under the bann half a dozen times over the years. Milan always made it right. Confessed to the congregation, asked for forgiveness, and they let him come back. But how many times does it take?" She shakes her head. "By then, most everyone—the Amish—knew there was something wrong with him. Everyone knew he was a bad egg. No one talked about it. No one did anything, least of all me. And it got worse."

"How so?" I ask.

She quiets, looks down at the tabletop. "One afternoon Milan came home. Had Clarence Raber with him. They'd been boozing it up. He broke my boy's arm. Said it was an accident. But I saw it happen; I saw his face." She raises anguished eyes to mine. "That hurt me something awful. I went to Bishop Troyer the next day. I told him everything. That's when the bishop got with the Diener and, later, the whole congregation, and Milan was excommunicated for good."

The Amish woman looks down at her hands. "I filed for divorce. Told everyone he was the one done it." Her mouth twists. "Milan didn't like it one bit. Shortly after he got the final papers, Milan went after the bishop and his wife."

"Had I known about that," I tell her, "I would have arrested Milan."

"For goodness' sakes, you know how the Amish are." She waves off the statement. "Last thing anyone wanted was for the English police to get involved."

She shakes her head. "After the divorce was done, I didn't hear from Milan for a time. I thought everything was going to be okay."

She closes her eyes; the energy of the room shifts. Lester lowers his head, his chin against his chest, and he stares down at the tabletop.

"Milan came here to the house," the Amish woman says. "Middle of the night. Kids were sleeping. He woke me up, pulled me out of bed, dragged me down the stairs by my hair. He had some bad things in his head that night. Talking like a madman. Blamed me for all his problems. Said I'd betrayed him. Betrayed our vows." Her mouth draws tight. "He took me right there on the kitchen floor like we were a couple of farm animals."

I feel myself sit up straighter, horrified by what she is telling me. "He raped you?"

"Oh, he said it wasn't that. He said I was still his wife and in the eyes of God he had a right." She shrugs. "I was so shook up. I remember being on the floor." She motions to a place behind my chair. "His hands around my neck."

Her breaths quicken, as if she can't get enough air into her lungs. "Don't know how long that went on. I think I must have blacked out once or twice. The next thing I know there were two strangers in my kitchen. Men. Dressed all in black. Big, strong men with the kind of eyes that mean business. It was the craziest thing. One of them helped me up. Put me in a chair here at the table. Didn't say a word. But he was… kind. Gentle, you know. Then they took Milan…"

"Where did they take him?"

"I don't know."

"Did you recognize the men?" I ask.

"No, ma'am. Never seen them before in my life."

"Were they Amish?"

Her brows crease. "Not Holmes County Amish. Their beards were trimmed up. Neat-like, you know, the way some of those Beachys do. To tell you the truth, they didn't look like any Amish I've ever seen."

The Beachy Amish are a progressive subgroup, some of whom have been known to use electronics, gas-powered tractors, even a motorized vehicle for transportation.

"Was Milan ever Beachy?" I ask.

"No."

"Did he know the men?"

"I don't think so." She mulls that a moment. "I got the impression he was as surprised to see them as I was."

"Do you know what they wanted?"

"No idea."

"When did this happen?" I ask.

She makes a face as if to search her memory. "A week or two before Milan was killed."

I puzzle over the incident as I write it down. "These men," I say, "did they drive a vehicle?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, I was in the kitchen and didn't look out the window." Her brows furrow. "But I do recall seeing lights." She looks at me. "Headlights, maybe. Bright, you know, as if from a car or truck."

I note it. "What happened next?"

"They took Milan outside and he went with them."

"Willingly?"

"Seemed that way."

"Did they argue?" I ask. "Or fight?"

"Didn't say anything." Her brows knit. "But there was something about those men, Chief Burkholder. The way Milan acted, he might've thought he didn't have a choice."

"Can you give me a physical description of the men?"

She considers a moment. "Well, they were wearing black jackets. Kind of Amish-like. You know. Plain. White shirts. Suspenders."

"Height? Weight?"

"Taller than me. Average build."

"What about eye color?" I ask. "Hair?"

She shakes her head. "I don't remember. I was so upset that night."

"Did the men speak at all?" I ask.

"They spoke to each other. Low voices, you know, so I didn't hear most of what they said."

" Deitsch or English?"

"English."

"When's the last time you saw Milan?" I ask.

She tightens her mouth. "Day or two before he died. Came over to pick up some tools, but he was nervous as a cat. All sweaty. Said he'd been working out to your brother's place."

"Did he say anything else?" I ask.

Across from me, Lester shifts, clears his throat, casts a longing look at the back door as if wishing he could get up and leave. He doesn't.

Bertha nods. "Told me he'd had an argument with Jacob Burk holder over some pay. Called Jacob a cheat." Her brows furrow. "He claimed Jacob had accused him of some things he didn't do."

"Did he say what?"

"I didn't ask and he didn't say. To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, I didn't want to know."

I think about the timing of the men's appearance and the murder of Milan Swanz and I realize with a keen sense of discomfort that the timeline doesn't jibe.

I look from Bertha to Lester and then back at her. "Did Milan know about the two of you?"

Pressing her hand to her bosom, Bertha chokes out a nervous laugh. "We never told anyone. We were… careful, you see. Didn't say a word to anyone or let ourselves be seen in public until after the divorce."

"Where were the two of you the night Milan was killed?" I ask.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Lester looks at Bertha. "I was home. Next door. Alone."

I look at Bertha. "I was here with the kids. Like always."

When you're a cop and working on a case, particularly a homicide, urgency is your worst enemy—and your best friend. My personal philosophy goes something like this: Everything must be done yesterday and it had damn well better be done right or you will screw up your case and risk the guilty party getting away with murder. The stakes are high, the stress is astronomical, and there is zero room for fucking up.

I'm unpacking the mountain of information given to me by Bertha Swanz as I pull out of her driveway and head toward town. A good portion of what I learned qualifies as motive. Domestic violence. Rape. An illicit affair. Neither Lester nor Bertha have verifiable alibis. The most obvious question is: Did they want Milan Swanz gone so they could be together? So that Bertha and her children could escape the cycle of violence?

I think about her claim of two strange men showing up the night she was assaulted. Was she telling the truth? Or was she fabricating some mysterious villain in the hope I'll direct my suspicions elsewhere?

Even as I entertain the notion, I recall her description of the men:

Dressed all in black.

… eyes that mean business.

Kind of Amish-like.

Mentally, I superimpose that information atop the description of the mysterious man Britney Gainer had seen with Swanz the night he was killed.

… he was wearing black…

… kind of looked Amish…

The man who attacked me wore a black jacket and trousers.

Are the similarities purely coincidental?

The answer to that is a resounding no.

Filing the information away for later, I hit the speed dial for Auggie Brock. Six rings. Seven. Avoiding me, I think. I'm about to disconnect when he picks up, feigning breathlessness.

"I was just going to call you to make sure you're being kept up to date on the case," he begins.

I know Auggie pretty well. I understand him. He's a good mayor, and I actually like him as a person. But I know he's a politician first and my friend second. He may be fond of me in a superficial way, but he sure as hell doesn't want to talk to me, or, God forbid, deal with the politics of my being forced into a limited-duty situation. I suspect he knows me well enough to grasp that I'm not going to stand for it.

"I'm on my way to the station," I tell him.

"What? Why? I thought—"

"I'm calling a meeting."

"But, Kate, you're on limited duty. Are you sure that's wise?"

"I want one thing from you this morning, Auggie. You're my boss and I need to know you trust my judgment. I need to know you have my back."

"Well… um, of course I have your back. I mean, come on, Kate. We're friends. You're still the chief of police. You're not on administrative leave—"

"Good," I cut in. "I have some new information on the case and I'd like to bring everyone up to speed."

A sound that's part groan, part gasp hisses over the line. "Kate, Chambers has pretty much convinced everyone you're too personally involved. That you'll protect your brother and—"

"You're the mayor and you know better, though, don't you?"

For the span of several seconds, the only sound comes from the hiss of the airwaves between us. Then he clears his throat, coughs quietly, and says exactly what I knew he would. "Of course I do."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

Another beat of silence and then, "Kate, can I ask one thing of you?"

"Lay it on me."

Even his laugh sounds tense. "Don't rough Chambers up too bad."

"I'll do my best." Without hanging up, I hit the speed dial for Mona.

"Chief, I'm so glad to hear from you. Everyone's saying you stepped aside because your brother—"

"He didn't," I cut in. "And I didn't step aside. In fact, I'm on my way in. I need everyone there for a briefing." I glance at the clock on the dash. "Twenty minutes. War room. Tell them to drop everything and come. Call Rasmussen last."

A minuscule pause, and then, "What about Chambers?"

"Call him after you call Rasmussen."

"My pleasure." I can practically hear her smiling. "Anything else?"

"You might want to wear your flak jacket."

"Hell yeah." She lets out a whoop! as I disconnect.