Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

Mike Rasmussen calls twice on the short drive to the station. I let both go to voicemail. Evidently, he wants to know what I'm up to. I wish I had a definitive answer. Best-case scenario, this briefing will give me the opportunity to pass along everything I've learned about the Schwertler Anabaptists and add Isaiah Hofer's name to our persons-of-interest list. With me still relegated to limited duty, the rest is up to them.

As I pull into my parking slot, I send a silent thank-you to Mona; the majority of my officers are already here. No sign of the sheriff's SUV or Tomasetti's Tahoe. Trepidation churns in my gut as I enter the building. I've barely set foot inside when someone calls out to me.

"Chief!"

I glance toward dispatch to see Margaret standing, the headset clamped over her ears, mouthpiece shoved to one side. She's waving a tome-size stack of message slips. Her expression tells me the aforementioned messages are secondary to whatever else she has to say.

"Thank God you're back," she mutters.

I stride to her. "I appreciate you and Mona getting everyone here so quickly," I say as I pluck the slips from her hand.

"Tomasetti helped."

Inwardly, I smile. Margaret wasn't born yesterday. "Glad to hear it," I say.

"Your officers have their heads on straight, Chief. Just about everyone else around here has their head up their ass." Her mouth twitches. "No offense."

"None taken."

Eyes flicking toward the door, she lowers her voice. "Rasmussen, Chambers, and Tomasetti are five minutes out."

"Auggie?"

"Just talked to him. He's parking." She grimaces, lowers her voice. "I hear Chambers is on the warpath. There's something going on."

"Any idea what?" I ask.

"No clue, but I don't like it."

"You and me both." I start toward my office. "Call that meeting to order."

She grins.

A few feet away, Glock's head pops up over the top of his cubicle. "Want me to round everyone up, Chief?"

"I'm glad your hearing is good," I say over my shoulder as I unlock the door and snatch the file and notes from my desk. Then I'm back in the hall in time to see Skid and Pickles come around the corner.

"Just talked to Mona," T.J. tells me. "She's a minute out."

"Evidently, Tomasetti picked up Chambers earlier," Skid says beneath his breath.

Pickles's mouth twitches. "Last I heard, Tomasetti was going to swing by Mocha Joe's for coffee."

"Always a line at Mocha Joe's." Glock comes up behind us. "That'll slow them down."

"Coffee's worth the wait." T.J. feigns sympathy. "But I bet Chambers wasn't too happy about the holdup."

"Son of a bitch'll be good and primed by the time Tomasetti gets finished with him," Pickles grumbles.

I enter the meeting room and stride directly to the half podium set up at the head of the table. The men shuffle into chairs. I glance down at my notes, aware that my pulse is up. That I'm nervous and running hot and neither of those things is going to serve me well in the coming minutes.

The door swings open. My pulse jumps. Not Chambers, but a breathless Mona. "Sorry. Cows out over on Hogpath Road. Mr. Cline gave me an earful." She slides into the nearest chair.

I jump in headfirst. "Milan Swanz may have been Amish," I say, "but he was a violent man. A troubled man. He abused his wife. His children. Broke his son's arm, in fact. Behaved inappropriately with a minor child. Those are the things we know about him and I believe that kind of conduct is a pattern of behavior that may be related to and led up to his death."

Glock sits up straighter, listening intently.

I continue. "He burned his neighbor's cornfield, destroyed the deacon's corn crop and garden. After Swanz had some problems with his boss, the cabinet shop burned to the ground. I also found out Swanz assaulted the Amish bishop and his wife. All of this is a pattern of behavior."

Skid whistles. "Busy sumbitch."

"One of the things we don't do in the course of any investigation is blame the victim," I tell them. "We do, however, look at the victim's life. His lifestyle. The people he was close to. If he had any ongoing disputes. If anyone was angry enough to want him gone."

"Sounds like there was plenty of motive to go around," Glock says.

"To say the least. And that's exactly where this behavior pattern comes into play." I find a dry-erase marker and turn to the whiteboard behind me. "Persons of interest," I say, speaking as I write. "His ex-wife, Bertha Swanz. He abused her. Sexually assaulted her. Seriously injured her young son." I hit the highlights of my interview with her. "Lester Yoder. He and Bertha Swanz were involved in a relationship before the divorce was final. Both had reason to want Swanz out of the picture. Neither of them has an alibi for the night Swanz was murdered."

The door opens. Tomasetti enters the room as if he owns the place. As cool as a tomcat slinking out the door at midnight. His gaze sweeps from me to my officers and back to me. Something akin to satisfaction flashes in his eyes as he takes the chair next to Mona. Chambers isn't as subtle. Giving me a withering look, he takes his place against the wall and leans, like a truculent teenager forced to sit through a boring dinner. Auggie Brock enters last, his reluctance obvious to everyone.

"Glad you could make the briefing, gentlemen." I turn back to the whiteboard and give them a quick recap of the points I've laid out so far. "Noah Stutzman and his father own the cabinet shop that burned. They lost everything in the fire. No insurance. They believe Swanz was responsible—particularly Noah—but Swanz was never formally charged."

I go to the next name. "Jacob Burkholder."

"Here we go," Chambers mutters beneath his breath.

I ignore him, but I can feel my heart tapping hard against my breastbone. "Jacob Burkholder said Swanz acted inappropriately with his young son, who is eleven years old—"

"We interviewed Jacob Burkholder," Chambers cuts in. "He didn't mention any sort of inappropriate behavior by Swanz."

"Sounds like she got more out of him than you did," Pickles says.

Chambers frowns. "Let me get this straight, Chief Burkholder, you were placed on limited duty and yet you went to see your brother, who happens to be a person of interest—"

I cut him off. "He came to me," I say. "I listened to what he had to say and I'm updating you now." I look around the room. "Because I am related to Jacob, I think it would be more appropriate if all future dealings with him—interviews, phone calls, warrants, whatever—are handled by either the sheriff's office or BCI. I hope you guys can work it out."

Calmer now, feeling as if I've found my feet, I go back to the board and write: Mystery man at McNarie's bar. I face my team. "According to three patrons who were at the bar the night Swanz was killed, the victim sat down and talked with a middle-aged man for some time. An unidentified man that may or may not have been Amish."

"If he was local, seems like someone would have recognized him," Glock says.

"No one recognized him," I say.

"You get a physical description?" Pickles asks.

"A vague one." I glance down at my notes. "Caucasian. Early middle age. Black clothing, including a hat. Possibly Amish or formerly Amish."

Anabaptist, a little voice whispers in my ear, and I put the thought to memory.

"That covers half the males in Holmes County," T.J. mutters.

"Maybe it was your brother," Chambers mumbles.

I ignore him, keep moving forward, winging it. I know my material, but I'm not sure how all of it fits together. "During my interview with the Troyers, in the course of a conversation about the phenomenon of burning someone at the stake and how it relates to Anabaptist history, Freda Troyer mentioned an individual by the name of Isaiah Hofer." I add the name to the list and recap my conversation with Hofer. "He's Hutterite and operates a quarry in Dundee."

"He got a sheet?" Skid asks.

"Clean."

Chambers all but rolls his eyes.

"Could he be the mystery man who was at the bar the night Swanz was murdered?" Glock asks.

"Hofer claims he was home that night." I shrug. "Alone. But his physical description and the dress I observed fits the bill in a general way."

"Any connection to Swanz?" T.J. asks.

"I'm still looking." I pause. "Interestingly, the two strangers who allegedly showed up at Bertha Swanz's place the night she was assaulted may have been wearing similar clothing to the man at McNarie's bar."

"One of them may have been the same dude?" Glock asks.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "I thought it was worth noting."

Pickles slants a look at Chambers and Rasmussen. "Until now, we didn't know most of this."

Chambers tosses Tomasetti a this-is-bullshit look, but Tomasetti hands it right back to him.

Having had enough, Chambers clears his throat. "Chief Burkholder, with all due respect, ma'am, I'm sure you're aware that we've developed an updated persons-of-interest list. We're in the process of interviewing them now. In fact, we were on our way to interview Troyer when we got the call that you were here, holding this so-called meeting."

I give him my attention. "You didn't know about Hofer."

"Evidently, we would have after speaking with Troyer instead of wasting our time here, listening to you."

"Neither Freda nor the bishop will speak openly to you," I point out.

"That remains to be seen," he says.

"For the record," Tomasetti says, "Chief Burkholder makes a valid point. She has a good relationship with the Amish. They trust her. And they respect her."

"Duly noted." Chambers mutters the words beneath his breath, then looks around, a king being forced to reprimand an unruly court. "With all due respect to everyone in this room, it has been established that Chief Burkholder's personal ties to this case—as now made clear by the unfortunate incident involving her brother and minor nephew—have rendered her too personally involved to remain lead in this investigation."

He looks at me. "At this point, I think it would be prudent for you to recuse yourself from the case."

I've never clashed with another law enforcement officer or agency over jurisdiction. It's counterproductive and bad form. My department works closely with the sheriff's department; sometimes our responsibilities overlap. Most often, I'm the first to ask for assistance and I appreciate any manpower I can get. While Chambers's argument is sound, it is not the be-all and end-all of the investigation. If I'm going to maintain the respect of my team, I can't let it stand.

I point at him, relieved that my finger is steady. "This is my briefing. I have some additional information I'd like to share. Sit down and be quiet."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Auggie's mouth open and hang, but I don't look at him. Rasmussen squirms in his chair as if his breakfast doesn't agree with him. Tomasetti meets my gaze and I'm bolstered by the approval I see in his eyes.

Chambers has the audacity to look amused and raises his hands in surrender. "Hey, the floor is yours."

Shaking inside, I look down at my notes. "I don't have to point out that burning a man at the stake is an extremely unusual method of murder. It's risky and messy with a lot of variables that could backfire and get the killer caught. Yet this individual was willing to take the risk. I believe that is key. I believe this murder was somehow symbolic. And I believe once we understand the why, we'll be in a better position to find the who."

This is my entry into uncharted territory. I'm keenly aware that this is exactly the kind of situation that could go south and make me look like a fool. The theory I'm about to put forth stretches believability—mine included—and not everyone sitting in this room supports my even being on the case.

"During my interview with Freda Troyer," I begin, "I learned of an obscure group that was a small part of Anabaptist history. In a nutshell, during the Reformation, a sect of Anabaptists known as the Schwertlers came to be. As most of you know, one of the hallmarks of the Amish, and the vast majority of all Anabaptists, is the tenet of pacifism. The Schwertler Anabaptists differ in that they were—and I quote—‘of the sword.'"

"Are you saying this group condoned violence?" Mona asks.

The room falls so quiet I can hear the switchboard chiming and Margaret speaking to a caller from the reception area. Even Chambers is watching, his eyes sharp with interest. I look down at my notes, take a moment to organize my thoughts.

"The Schwertler Anabaptists believed the government was a Godly institution and felt that government had a responsibility to defend helpless Christians. That included taking up arms."

Sheriff Rasmussen speaks up for the first time and asks the obvious question. "What's the connection between the murder of Milan Swanz and this mysterious group?"

"I'm not certain there is a connection. What I do know is that both Freda Troyer and Isaiah Hofer mentioned the Schwertler Anabaptists when I spoke with them about the Swanz case."

"In what context?" Rasmussen asks.

"This group is folklore mostly. But in the course of my search for parallels, I learned one of the early leaders of the Anabaptist movement was burned at the stake. I learned that this group not only condones but engages in violence. I think it's worth taking a look at."

"Kate, with all due respect," says Rasmussen, "seems like a precarious link."

Seeing a couple of uncertain expressions, I press on. "Take into consideration everything we know about Milan Swanz, his pattern of behavior—hurting people, abusing children, engaging in amoral behavior." I say the words with emphasis. "What if some bastardized version of the Schwertler Anabaptists is still around? What if this group took it upon themselves to protect the Amish community?"

Texting, Chambers looks up from his cell and hefts an incredulous laugh. "You mean like the Amish Mafia?"

I'm thankful when no one laughs.

"Kate, just to clarify," the sheriff says. "Are you saying these Schwertler Anabaptist people may be living in or around Holmes County? That they planned and executed the murder of Swanz because he was a threat to the Amish community?"

"I'm putting forth a loose theory that warrants a closer look," I tell him. "Anyone can call themselves a Schwertler Anabaptist. What we're talking about here is motive."

"One person?" This from Skid. "Or a group?"

"I don't know, but I'm leaning toward the possibility that we're looking for at least two individuals."

Glock jumps in with the next question. "So you believe that the perpetrator or perpetrators are likely Amish."

"Or formerly Amish or some denomination of Anabaptist," I tell him. "Remember, the Anabaptists are comprised of three core groups: the Amish, the Mennonites, and the Hutterites."

T.J. poses the next question. "How does this group find their victims?"

It's a difficult question I've considered and not been able to answer. "It has to be word of mouth," I tell him. "The Amish community is tight-knit. Everyone knows everyone. Word gets out. And this group catches wind of it."

"So you don't believe someone here in Painters Mill made contact with this group?" says Tomasetti. "The bishop? An elder?"

I think about the bishop and his wife, of the Amish community as a whole, and my own years growing up as one of them, and I shake my head. "I can't see that."

Chambers sighs as if he's heard enough. "Chief Burkholder, with all due respect, how in the hell does burning a guy in a pile of pallets tie into some mysterious vigilante group and Amish history?"

"That method of execution was used to do away with Anabaptists during the Reformation. There are many cases documented in Martyrs Mirror. "

"‘Martyrs mirror'?"

"It's an old book," I explain. "Written in the seventeenth century. It depicts stories of persecution of the early Anabaptists. A lot of Amish keep this book in their homes."

Smiling, he scratches his head, his expression a mix of skepticism and amusement. "Chief Burkholder, with all due respect to you and the Amish, that's one hell of a stretch."

A cacophony of ringing cell phones breaks the tension. Chambers glances down at his and rises. "Just a second," he says, and leaves the room.

Next to him Rasmussen frowns at the display of his own cell and then swipes up without answering. Auggie Brock gives his iPhone the side-eye then quickly silences it.

"Shit," Tomasetti mutters.

I look at him, puzzled, inexplicably alarmed, keenly aware that neither my cell nor Tomasetti's rang.

The door swings open. Chambers strides in, cell phone in hand, and addresses Rasmussen without looking at me. "We got the warrant."

Muttering a curse beneath his breath, Rasmussen gets to his feet. I watch him from where I stand, but he doesn't make eye contact with me.

"Warrant for who?" I direct the question to the sheriff.

Chambers finally looks at me. "Jacob Burkholder for the murder of Milan Swanz."