Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

It's two P.M. and I'm sitting in my office, trying—and failing—not to feel betrayed. I want to believe I'm angry about the secrecy surrounding the warrant for my brother's arrest. That I'm pissed because my counterparts didn't trust me enough to even give me a heads-up, and then they sprang the news on me in front of my team. But, I'm not just angry. I'm hurt—and I'm worried as hell for my brother.

A mountain of foreboding threatens to overwhelm me when I think of what will happen to Jacob in the coming hours and days. I don't believe he murdered Milan Swanz. I know him—his heart, his mind. The circumstantial evidence against him looks bad, but I know he isn't a killer.

Miserable, I look out the window at the intermittent snow and I wonder if the sheriff's department deputies have made the arrest. I wonder if Jacob blames me. If he thinks I betrayed his confidence. The wrongness of that is almost too much to bear.

"Kate."

I swivel to see Tomasetti stride through the door. His expression is one of commiseration and also remorse for the way we left things earlier. I'm not quite ready to talk to him. But I need him, I realize, in a way that has nothing to do with my job or the case.

"Did they arrest him?" I ask.

Frowning, he sinks into the visitor chair across from me. "They're at his farm now."

I groan, set my elbows on the desk. "I hate this."

"Me, too."

"Did you know?"

"They didn't tell me shit." He snaps the words, and then I see him regain control. "I wouldn't have allowed that shitshow."

He's talking about Rasmussen and Chambers sitting in on the briefing while they were waiting for the warrant without giving me some kind of warning.

"So how did it go down?" I ask.

"Evidently, Chambers wrote the affidavit this morning and took it to a judge up in Millersburg."

"The son of a bitch."

"I was going to go with fucking bastard, but son of a bitch'll do."

I try to smile, but it feels phony on my face. "What do they have on Jacob?" I ask. "I mean, aside from what happened with my nephew? I don't see how that's enough for an arrest warrant."

"An anonymous tip came in this morning. Someone claiming they saw Jacob in his buggy on Dogleg Road shortly before the murder."

"He wasn't there," I say. "He would have told me." Even as I say the words, I know there's more bad news coming.

"Jacob purchased two dozen pallets a week before the murder."

I stare at him, surprised, trying not to show it. "You know that's not such an unusual purchase on a farm. A lot of farmers use pallets to store hay or—"

"He bought six gallons of diesel fuel the morning of the murder."

"That's another typical farm item, especially for the Amish."

"Well, his timing sucks," he returns. "Combine those purchases with the tip and what happened between Swanz and your brother—and your nephew—and it's damning. Chambers has motive, means, and opportunity."

I smack my palm down on the tabletop. Because I'm angry. Frustrated. And scared because I can't deny the sliver of doubt I feel. I know better than most that when it comes to the power of love and the instinct to protect our children, all of us are vulnerable to our human frailties and that includes rage.

"What about an alibi?" I ask.

"Says he was with his wife."

"Jacob is not a killer," I tell him.

"I know."

The reassurance brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them away, go back to the window, grapple for control.

Hearing the crinkle of paper, I turn back to him, see him pull several folded sheets from an inside pocket. "I got a couple of interesting hits on my ViCAP query."

I'd nearly forgotten. My heart does a quick leap as I take the papers. "How interesting?"

"There are four cases," he says. "Homicides. Three involving the Amish. One Mennonite."

I skim the particulars, making note of the dates. "Cases are pretty cold," I murmur.

"Not to mention a long shot in terms of a connection."

I give him a pointed look. "If you have a better idea, I'm all ears."

"I don't."

Sighing, I turn my attention back to the papers and take in the preliminaries of a case out of Pennsylvania. "Which signatures did you query?"

"Amish." He shrugs. "Rural. Farm. Field. Wooded. Homicide by fire. Ritual."

I nod. "Thank you."

"Keep your chin up, Chief. We'll get through." Smiling tightly, he rises. "I need to get out to your brother's farm."

I stand, too. "Make sure they treat him right."

"You know it." He comes around my desk. "You?"

"I'll take a quick look at these cases, then head home." I try for a smile, but don't pull it off. "Maybe break the seal on something strong."

"Do me a favor?" he says as he bends to me.

"Well, since you came through with that ViCAP report…"

"Wait for me."

He brushes his mouth against mine.

And then he's gone.

The first case included in the ViCAP summary is from July of 2012 out of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. The victim, twenty-six-year-old Amish female, Lena Stoltzfus, was found facedown in a farm pond. Initially, her death was ruled a suicide. But after a second autopsy, the manner of death was revised to homicide. There aren't many details included, and I need more information before I can proceed, so I highlight the particulars and move on to the next.

The second case is out of Cashton, Wisconsin, from 2005. A forty-two-year-old Amish male, Daniel Miller, perished in a barn fire. Initially, the fire was thought to be accidental, but the presence of an accelerant proved it to be an arson and a homicide investigation was opened. No further details available.

I've moved on to the third case, from all the way back in 1999, when I hear a tap at my door. I glance up to see my dispatcher Margaret standing in the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hand. "Coffee, Chief?" she asks. "Just made it."

We both know that when it comes to coffee here at the station, the freshness point is moot. But her effort makes me smile. "I'd love some."

She enters, sets the cup on my desk. "Agency delivered your rental car earlier."

"Thank you."

Stepping back, she puts her hands on her hips. "Tomasetti told me they put you on administrative duty."

"I have a personal connection to the case, so that is the protocol." I do my best to keep my explanation vague and professional. It's not easy.

"Excuse me if I'm overstepping, Chief, but everyone here thinks it's bullshit," she says. "Tomasetti's word, not mine."

I feel my brows go up. "Well…"

She motions to the ViCAP report on my desk. "He asked me to print that for you earlier. He said you might be on administrative duty, so you can damn well still administer. I thought that was a good call."

"Tomasetti said that?"

She nods. "You did good," she tells me. "Marrying him, I mean. I like him."

"I do, too." It's a dumb response, but my brain is focused on other things.

"Do you need some help with that?" She sends a pointed look at the ViCAP reports. "I'm still learning the ropes, but I'm pretty good at figuring things out."

Temptation sparks, but I tamp it down. I know better than to involve her in something I shouldn't be involved in myself. A smarter woman would call it a day. Drive back to the farm. Break the seal on that nice bottle of WhistlePig.…

I hand her the reports. "Make yourself copies of these. Get me contact info for the sheriff's departments and state police on each of these cases. See if you can find the name of the lead investigator."

"You got it."

"For administrative purposes only," I add.

"That's what I thought." She grins as she plucks the papers from my hand.

Margaret isn't as adroit as Mona when it comes to mining the internet for data, but she's a fast learner. Once she's supplied me with contact info for the pertinent law enforcement agencies, I hit the phone. While I burn up the line, she expands her searches and continues digging for anything else she can find on the cases: news stories, social media posts, and updates on the crimes.

After nine calls and nine assurances that someone would get back to me, not a single investigator has responded. One is on vacation. Two have retired. Four have left for the day. I've left messages for the rest.

All the while, worry for Jacob presses down on me. No one has updated me, so I can only assume he's been arrested. I wonder if Irene and the children were there, if they witnessed him being handcuffed and placed in the back seat of a sheriff's cruiser.

"Here's another newspaper story on the Lena Stoltzfus case."

I look up to see Margaret charge through the door, a sheet of paper in hand.

"Thanks." I take the sheet and pass her my notes on the Wisconsin case. "The detective retired two years ago. See if you can find his home number. Public information officer at the sheriff's office said he moved to Florida six months ago."

"I'll find him."

I force my concentration to the newspaper story Margaret just delivered. It's out of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, about the Amish woman found dead in a farm pond. Margaret has highlighted the name of the investigator that handled the case. I shuffle through the papers on my desk and punch in the number for the Pennsylvania State Police.

"Let me transfer you to the public information officer," comes a high-speed female voice.

"Wait—"

Too late. Three clicks and another voice picks up. Quickly, I identify myself. "I need to speak with Lieutenant Gersch."

"Let me transfer you to the Criminal Investigation Section."

I'm on hold for nearly four minutes and hoping I haven't been relegated to phone hell when a curt male voice comes on the line. "Shulte."

I introduce myself. "I'm looking for Lieutenant Gersch."

"Actually, Chief Burkholder, Lieutenant Gersch passed away two years ago," he tells me. "You're stuck with me."

I give him a brief explanation for my call. "I got a ViCAP hit on the Stoltzfus case in relation to a homicide we're working on here in Painters Mill."

"Let me pull up what I've got." I hear the finger-peck of computer keys. "The Lancaster County coroner initially ruled the death a suicide. Amish woman found in a pond. The woman's husband recalled seeing bruises on her neck. At that point, Lieutenant Gersch requested a second autopsy, which revealed the victim did, indeed, have ligature marks on her neck."

"So the cause of death was strangulation?" I ask.

"Cause of death was drowning," he corrects. "No one could explain the ligature marks until the sheriff's department sent a diver into the water. They found a concrete block and a rope. The rope matched the ligature marks. Lieutenant Gersch theorized the killer had tied the rope around the victim's neck, secured it to the block, and forced the woman into the pond, where she drowned."

"How is it that the rope and block were no longer secured to the victim when she was found?"

"Presumably, the killer went into the water and cut the rope off her. We can only assume he thought law enforcement would draw the conclusion that she'd committed suicide."

None of those details had made it into any of the reports I'd read. "Was an arrest made?"

"No, ma'am."

"Persons of interest?"

"Initially, the husband. You know how it goes. But the guy had a solid alibi. He was at a neighbor's all day, helping with some sick livestock."

"Suspect?"

"Not a one. Case is still open. Gets looked at every year. Unfortunately, we've not made any progress."

"What about physical evidence?" I ask. "At the scene? Were there footwear impressions? On the bank of the pond? Did you guys look at the concrete block? The rope?"

"By the time we realized we were dealing with a homicide, Chief Burkholder, any footwear impressions were either trampled by first responders or washed away by the rain that came that night," he replies. "We looked at the rope and block. Both were relatively new. We checked with area retailers, looked at hundreds of hours of CCTV, and we came up with nothing."

Silence ensues and I sense his curiosity about my inquiry. "Chief Burkholder, if you don't mind my asking, how is this cold case related to your investigation in Painters Mill?"

I outline fundamentals of the Swanz homicide. "The ViCAP signature match is likely the Amish angle and that the crime occurred in a rural area."

"I guess we're in the same boat. No suspect."

"Yet," I add.

"Gotta love an optimist cop." I hear the smile in his voice. "If you come up with a connection or lead, I'd appreciate a heads-up."

"Bet on it," I tell him.

And we end the call.

I spend twenty minutes scouring the internet for information on the Stoltzfus case, looking for a link to Painters Mill or Martyrs Mirror or any of the names connected to the case, but my efforts net zero. I'm about to mark it off my list when I spot the underscored hyperlink on one of the pages Margaret brought in earlier. Suicide in Amish Country—or Was It? It's a teaser headline written by a popular Amish-centric citizen journalist out of Lancaster County who also produces a successful podcast. This one was published in July 2012.

Was the death of Lena Stoltzfus a suicide, as the police initially believed? Or was this young Amish woman's death something much darker? Find out by tuning in to my latest podcast.

My interest surges. Snatching up the paper, I spin to my computer and pull up the podcaster's YouTube channel.

"Hi, everyone! I'm Dan with AmishWorldUSA. Welcome to my show! Crime is the last thing on your mind when you think of the Amish here in peaceful Lancaster County, but that's exactly what we have today. This one's got some dark undertones, folks, and probably isn't appropriate for kids, so consider yourselves forewarned."

The young host chose the ideal spot for an on-location report. He's standing in front of a pretty Amish farm with a white farmhouse, mature trees, a red bank barn, and a silo in the background. The house sits relatively close to the road, so he's close enough for his viewers to feel as if they have a front-row seat to the action. The bucolic setting is perfectly juxtaposed with the flashing lights of a sheriff's department cruiser, a string of yellow crime scene tape, and uniformed deputies and khaki-clad detectives milling about in the background.

"Behind me is the farm where twenty-six-year-old Lena Stoltzfus was found dead a few hours ago," the podcaster begins. "The Amish woman lived here with her husband of six years, John."

He assumes a solemn countenance. "According to police, Mr. Stoltzfus discovered his wife's body when he arrived home after helping his neighbor with a sick cow. Like most Amish, the Stoltzfuses don't have a phone, and John ran half a mile down the road to an English neighbor's house where he called 911.

"I spoke to one of the neighbors earlier—who wished to remain anonymous—and they informed me that Lena had been troubled as of late. Her husband knew she sometimes found solace walking the fields of this pastoral farm. So, today, when Mr. Stoltzfus came home to an empty house, he went looking for her—and found her facedown in the pond, dead." The narrator motions to the property behind him. "Just two hundred yards away, behind that barn."

Over the next minutes, the podcaster interviews several Amish standers-by. Some are neighbors. Friends. One of the interviewees was driving by in his buggy and stopped by to find out why all the police cars were there. Most of the Amish who are interviewed don't show their faces on camera, but a couple do.

"Lena was a troubled thing," says a middle-aged Amish woman, her back to the camera. "I talked to her just a week ago at worship. She wanted a family so badly. When she lost those three sweet babies, the sadness just crushed the life out of her."

The podcaster watches her walk away and turns back to the camera. "Not everyone, however, believed Lena Stoltzfus was without fault." He thrusts the microphone toward a young Amish woman, who tosses him an annoyed look, and quickly turns her back. "Ma'am, I understand you have a differing take on what might've happened to Lena Stoltzfus."

She starts to walk away, but the podcaster keeps pace with her. "When we spoke earlier, you mentioned rumors," he prods. "Can you tell us about that?"

She doesn't slow down. "All's I'm going to say is I heard some things that weren't so nice."

"Like what?"

"Like maybe those babies didn't die from SIDS like everyone was saying."

"That's a bold statement," he says. "Can you clarify that for us? Do you have anything to back up that claim?"

"I think I said enough." Waving her hand at the camera, the woman turns and walks away.

The camera pans back to the podcaster, his expression puzzled and curious as he approaches another Amish woman. "Ma'am, did you know the victim?"

The camera pans so that only her back and the podcaster's face are showing. Evidently, a second person is operating the camera.

"Lena was the sweetest thing.…" The fiftysomething woman tells him that the Stoltzfus family is upstanding, hardworking, and Godly.

As I watch, I'm trying to figure out how the signature of this case relates to my case here in Painters Mill when a man crosses behind the podcaster, who's facing the camera. The figure is little more than background, only on screen for a second or two, but the image stops me cold.

"What the hell…"

Grabbing the mouse, I rewind the clip and watch again. This time, I freeze the clip so that the man's face is visible. It's not a quality still. The details are blurred and his face is angled away from the camera. He appears to be Amish. Wearing dark trousers and suspenders. Black felt flat-brimmed hat.

"He's wearing a plaid shirt," I whisper.

The rules of the Ordnung vary from church district to church district. But the one thing you can count on is that Amish males do not wear plaid. This man is too mature to be on rumspringa. As unlikely as it seems, there's something familiar about him. But how can that be? Lancaster County is over three hundred miles away.

A memory bubbles, not quite reaching the surface. I've seen similar clothing recently. I took notice because it was odd. This person wasn't Amish. Where the hell did I see it and what does it have to do with this man who is hundreds of miles away?

The memory hits me like a truck. "Isaiah Hofer. Shit!"

Spinning, I grab my reading glasses off the desk, go back to the monitor. A click of the mouse enlarges the still. The image becomes grainy and I lose detail, but I can see the shirt clearly. Rust and red plaid. Suspenders. A not-quite-Amish hat. I click again, put the video into motion. I watch him walk. Take in the swing of his arms. The long legs. Long stride. The slight hunch of broad shoulders.

"What the hell were you doing in Pennsylvania the same day that an Amish woman was killed?"

The only answer is the tap of snow against the window and the foreboding knowledge that while I may have found the missing link connecting the two homicides, I'm in no position to do a damn thing about it.