Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

It's after seven A.M. when I pull into the gravel lane of the home Swanz shared with his wife, Bertha. The house is a timeworn two-story frame that sits a scant fifty yards from the railroad tracks that run through Painters Mill proper two miles down the road. The tired-looking siding is pickled gray from the elements, the window screens dark with age. I catch a flicker of yellow light in a downstairs window as I idle around to the rear of the house and park.

A beaten-down flagstone walkway takes me to the front porch. I go up the steps and knock. I hear the chatter of children inside, and then heavy footsteps sound on a wood floor. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a pale-faced Amish woman in a blue dress and gauzy white kapp, a black cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. I've met her at some point. In fact, I'm pretty sure she works at LaDonna's Diner in town and has served me more than my share of coffee.

She blinks, surprised to see the chief of police at her door this early in the morning. "Can I help you?"

I have my badge at the ready. "Mrs. Swanz?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you so early. I'm afraid I have bad news."

Her eyes go wide as if she's expecting me to rush in and attack her. "What do you mean?"

"Milan Swanz was killed earlier, ma'am. I'm very sorry."

For an instant, she doesn't react. Simply stares at me as if she doesn't quite believe me and is thinking about arguing. "Milan?" she whispers. "Killed?"

"I'm afraid so," I say. "I'm sorry."

She looks past me as if expecting another person with more authority to be standing behind me to dispute my claim. "How on earth did it happen?"

"I don't have all the details yet. We're still investigating. But we believe he was murdered."

" Murdered?" She presses her hand against her chest in the first show of sentiment. " Ach du lieva. " Oh my goodness. "I can't believe it."

"If you have a few minutes, I'd like to come in and talk to you."

"Oh. Well. Of course." Squaring her shoulders, she opens the door wider and ushers me into a dimly lit living room. "Kids are getting ready for school. I'd rather them not hear this just now. We can talk in the kitchen. I've got coffee on the stove."

She leads me through the living room, past a gas floor lamp and a sofa draped with an olive-green afghan. The sound of a whisper draws my attention. I glance up to see four children at the top of the staircase, hands holding the rails like bars, faces trained on me. They look as if they're preteens, already dressed for school. I don't know if they heard the exchange between me and their mother. If so, they're remarkably stoic.

"Would you like coffee?" the Amish woman asks.

"I could use some."

The kitchen smells of bacon, last night's meat loaf, and burned toast. There's a window above the sink, snow pellets tinking against the glass. Pale blue cabinets. Big gas cookstove hissing in the corner. And Formica counters the color of butter.

I watch as she collects two mugs from the cabinet and pours coffee from an old-fashioned percolator that's blackened from soot and dented from years of use.

"I've seen you at the diner in town," I say.

"Been working there almost a year now." Turning to me, she hands me a cup and motions for me to sit. "So what happened to Milan?"

As chief of police in a small town, I've delivered more than my share of bad news. I've seen reactions ranging from stone-cold shock to complete physical and emotional collapse. Oddly, Bertha Swanz doesn't appear to be unduly upset. While it's true that the Amish tend to be a little more stoic than their English counterparts, I don't see grief on her face. There are no tears. Or shock. Tucking the observation away for later, I take the cup and sink into a chair.

"I don't know the official cause of death yet." I don't want to get into too much detail this early in the game. For one thing, I don't know enough about what happened. Secondly, everyone is suspect, including her.

"Mrs. Swanz." I remove my notepad and pen from my breast pocket. "When's the last time you saw your husband?"

That stare again. Not blank, but… unmoved. I gaze back at her, trying to get a handle on it. Then she says, "You know he's not my husband anymore."

The records check done on Milan Swanz indicated he was married. "I'm confused," I tell her. "You're married to him, aren't you?"

"Well, I was. We're divorced, you see. I haven't changed my name yet. It's a legal thing, I guess."

It's rare for an Amish person to get divorced. There's no provision for it. In fact, it's taboo. In the rare instance an Amish couple does divorce, the spouse who initiated it is usually excommunicated.

" Sell is kshpassich. " That's unusual. I say the words in Deitsch to remind her that I'm familiar with Amish customs and traditions.

"I remember you now. You're the police used to be Amish."

I nod. "The address on Milan Swanz's ID card is this address."

"He hasn't lived here for a time." She shrugs. "I reckon he hasn't updated his card is all."

"How long have you been divorced?"

"Almost five months now. He's the one wanted it."

I nod. "Was it amicable?"

"I wasn't happy about it." She lifts her shoulder, lets it drop. "You know how it is. When you're Amish, you make your vows in the presence of God and you marry for life. Milan didn't want to be married anymore. I didn't have a choice in the matter."

"Do you mind if I ask why you divorced?"

"I suppose it had something to do with all those loose girls he liked to run around with."

"Do any of those girls have a name?"

"I wouldn't know," she says. "Just women he meets."

"English girls?"

She hits me with a what-do-you-think frown.

"What about you?" I ask. "Is there a boyfriend involved?"

For a moment, I think she's going to laugh, but she's too well-mannered. "Lord no. I need a boyfriend like I need another no-gooder husband. I know that's not a nice thing to say and the Amish sure wouldn't approve, but there it is."

I let my eyes stray to the staircase, but the children are gone. "You have children together?"

"Four," she tells me. "Two boys and two girls."

"How old are they?"

"Danny is thirteen. He's my oldest. Lizzie's the baby. Just turned seven."

I write everything down. "When's the last time you saw or talked to Milan?"

"He came over to the house a week or so ago." The laugh that follows ends with a bitter note. "I figured he might want to see the kids. Or have some money for us. For groceries or whatnot. All he wanted was his tools. He took them and left and I haven't seen him since."

"How was your relationship with him?"

"Well, he was my husband for fourteen years. He sure wasn't perfect, but… I guess we got on okay." She sighs. "I know this doesn't sound right, but I sure didn't like what he did with the whole divorce thing. That just wasn't right."

Something askew, the little voice sitting on my shoulder whispers in my ear.

"Did you have disagreements?" I ask. "Or argue?"

"There was nothing left to argue about. In the end he wanted to be gone, and I didn't argue too hard about it." Her mouth tightens. "To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, I just wasn't too broken up about him leaving. I know that's a sad thing, but he really was a no-gooder."

"How so?"

"How was he a no-gooder?" She laughs ironically, her resentment obvious to me. "Well, he was a two-timer for one thing. He didn't like to work too much. What little money came to him, he drank it away like a fool, spent it on things he didn't need. Didn't pay the kids any heed. I don't know how it is that he was raised by good Amish parents because Milan barely had a decent bone in his body."

I look down at my notes, keep going. "Did Milan have any enemies that you know of? Did he have any ongoing disagreements with anyone?"

She sips coffee, studying me over the rim. She's got pale blue eyes that are red-rimmed. Not because she's been crying, but as if she doesn't get enough sleep.

"Milan was the kind of man to argue with a lot of people," she tells me. "Held his opinion in high esteem. Had a high opinion of himself, too. Thought he was smarter than everyone else and a lot smarter than what he actually was."

"Anyone in particular?"

"Last one I recall was with our neighbor there on the south side. Lester Yoder. Milan bought half a dozen cows out to the auction in Kidron a couple years back. Put up a wire fence. Yoder came over the next day and told him the fence was five feet over on his property. They went at it for a time. In the end, Milan had to move the fence and he didn't like it one bit. A week later, Milan was out welding. It was windy as the dickens that day. Next thing you know Yoder's cornfield caught fire. All twenty-two acres of it burned. It was an accident, of course. But Yoder blamed Milan. Accused him of doing it on purpose to get back at him for having to move the fence."

I don't recall hearing about the incident, but I ask the question anyway. "Did anyone call the police?"

She shakes her head. "Only English got called that day was the fire department."

I make a mental note to talk to Yoder. "Where did your ex-husband work?"

"Last I heard he was working down to the cabinet shop on the highway there between Killbuck and Painters Mill. Stutzman's, you know. I heard he got fired a while back."

My cop's antenna perks up. "Do you know why he was fired?"

"You'll have to ask them, I reckon."

"Did he get along with the people he worked with?"

"I wouldn't know."

"What about his friends?" I ask. "Was he close to anyone in particular? Was there someone he might've confided in or talked to?"

She thinks about that a moment. "He used to run around with a guy from work. Another no-gooder, so they must've had a few things in common."

"Name?"

"I don't know." For the first time, she looks ashamed. "I heard Milan slept with his wife. They weren't friends anymore after that."

I write it down. Slept with his friend's wife. Underscore it. "Did he have a cell phone?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Did he leave any of his belongings here?" I ask.

"Didn't have much, really," she says. "Some clothes. A few tools. Took the last of it when he was here."

"Do you know where he was living?" I ask.

"Last I heard he was renting that old double-wide out on Township Road 104. I got the address around here somewhere." Rising, she goes to the counter and opens a drawer. "Never been there, but the kids visited him there a time or two. They said it's a dumpy old place. Smells bad. A bunch of feral cats."

The lonely wail of a train whistle sounds outside as she rummages in the drawer. "Here we go." She recites an address.

I write it down.

"His parents lived there for a time," she says. "I think they still own it. Milan didn't have a place to go after he left here. I reckon he needed something to tide him over until he could get on his feet."

"Did Milan get along with his parents?" I ask.

"I suspect you'll have to ask them, Chief Burkholder. They're real nice folks. Did their best to help him out when they could. Get him straightened out, you know." She shakes her head. "Course that was a tall order for Milan. The man squandered every chance God ever gave him and he wasn't the least bit thankful for any of it."

I call Dispatch as I pull out of the Swanz lane. "I need you to run Bertha Swanz through LEADS." I spell the name. "NCIC, too."

"You got it, Chief." The reply is followed by the rapid click of the keyboard.

"Is Glock on this morning?" I ask, referring to my first-shift officer.

"He's on his way to the scene."

"Tell him to hold off. I need him to write up an affidavit for a search warrant for Milan Swanz's residence. Take it to Judge Siebenthaler and let him know we need it yesterday." I recite the address from memory.

"Sure."

"Get with the rest of the team and ask them to come in. We need all hands on deck until we get a handle on this."

"You got it."

"Can you text me the address of the Stutzman cabinet company? It's located in Killbuck, I think."

"Yes ma'am." A pregnant pause and then she adds, "Chief, I hate to lay this on you with so much going on this morning, but word's out about the murder. Steve Ressler over at The Advocate has been calling every fifteen minutes and asking for you. Radio station down in New Philly called. TV station out of Columbus. Tom Skanks over at the Butterhorn Bakery told me people are saying there was a witch burned at the stake out in the woods there by Painters Creek."

The rumor mill is the one thing you can always count on in a small town, I think, and sigh. "If you get any more media inquiries, tell them we'll be putting out a press release within the hour. Tell Ressler I'll call him as soon as I can."

"You want me to get started on that press release, too?"

I laugh at the absurdity of how much needs to be done. "Thanks. I'll fill in the blanks later."

Milan Swanz's parents, Orla and Ella Mae, live on a well-kept farm three miles south of Painters Mill. Weeping willow trees line both sides of the ruler-straight gravel lane. In the summertime, it's a pleasant sight to behold. With a gray sky spitting snow and promising more, it makes me long for sunshine and warmth. A big red bank barn with a Galvalume roof stands proud to my right. On the downhill side, several dozen Holstein cows huddle next to a round bale of hay. Beyond, double silos seem to blur in the snow slanting down.

The farmhouse is grand for an Amish home, with two brick chimneys and half a dozen tall, narrow windows. A few years ago, I recall a rumor that the bishop talked to the Swanzes because their home displayed "too much pride." As a result, Mr. Swanz removed the shutters from the windows. Ella Mae tore out her beloved flowers from her garden, leaving only the vegetables. It was a silly thing in my opinion and one of a hundred other reasons I never quite fit into the world of the Amish.

I park at the side of the house and take a narrow concrete sidewalk to the front. I'm crossing the porch when the door swings open. Ella Mae Swanz holds a broom in one hand, a dustpan in the other, and startles at the sight of me.

"Oh!" When she laughs, I catch a glimpse of a missing canine tooth before she self-consciously raises her hand to cover her mouth. "Katie Burkholder! Didn't expect to see anyone out here so early and in all this snow!"

"Sorry to startle you." I offer a weak smile, then hold up my badge, letting her know this is an official visit.

"Well, that'll get my heart pumping for all those chores ahead of me!" Laughing, she tilts her head, curious as to why I'm here. "Is everything okay?"

"Mrs. Swanz, I'm afraid I have bad news," I tell her. "Milan was killed last night."

Her smile falls, her mouth open, her expression going blank. For the span of several seconds, she simply stares at me, blinking. "Milan?" she says after a moment. "Killed?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say. "I'm sorry."

"Well. My goodness." She says the words quietly, then looks down at the broom and dustpan in her hands as if wondering how they got there. "I can hardly believe that. He's so young."

That she takes the news with such calm surprises me. I recall my earlier conversation with Bertha Swanz and I experience an odd moment of déjà vu.

Brows knitting, she raises her gaze to mine. "What happened to him?"

It's as if she's asking about the death of a stranger rather than her son.

I tell her as much as I can without getting into the horrific details. "We're still investigating, but we believe he was murdered."

"Someone killed him?" she asks.

"We're still trying to figure out what happened." I pause. "I know this is a bad time, but can I come in and talk to you and your husband for a few minutes?"

"Orla's out feeding the cows, but he'll be back in a bit." She shakes her head as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. "My goodness this is going to be a shock to him. Kumma ." Come.

She takes me through a living room where a cast-iron stove pumps heat and the pleasant smell of woodsmoke throughout the house. In the kitchen, she motions me to a chair at the table, then goes to the counter. She leans for a moment as if trying to gather her strength, then goes to an old-fashioned percolator, pours coffee into mismatched mugs, and brings both to the table.

I give her a minute to shore up her defenses, but I'm ever aware of the tick of the clock inside me. The one reminding me that there's a killer on the loose in my town and I haven't the slightest clue who he is or what else he might have planned.

I pluck the notepad from my jacket pocket and set it on the table in front of me. "When's the last time you saw your son?"

"Been a little while." Taking the seat across from me, she sips from her cup. "A month or so. Came over to borrow some tools once or twice."

"I understand he'd been excommunicated," I say.

"Six months ago. It's been tough on him."

"Was he excommunicated because of the divorce?"

"So they say."

My interest cranks up a notch. "What do you mean by that?"

She stiffens her shoulders as if at some point she'd made the decision not to be ashamed of her son. "I'll not speak poorly of my son. I'll surely not speak ill of the bishop. I won't do it. But I will tell you this truth: Bishop Troyer was too hard on Milan."

"How so?"

"I'll be the first to admit Milan made a few mistakes in his time. Started when he was a boy. Jumped into everything with two feet, and never tested the water first. Got him into a lot of trouble." She picks up her mug, sets it down without drinking. "I don't think he was the only one wanted out of that marriage."

I recall my conversation with Bertha Swanz.

Milan didn't want to be married anymore.

I didn't have a choice in the matter.

… all those loose girls…

"Are you saying both of them wanted a divorce?" I ask.

"I'm saying she wanted it too. I'm betting she's the one put him up to it. She knew he'd get excommunicated and she sure didn't care."

Among the Amish, it's common knowledge that in order for a member of the church district to be excommunicated, a vote from the congregation must be unanimous. Whatever Milan Swanz did, it must have been a serious offense. I make a mental note to follow up and see if I can find someone else to corroborate.

"Was there a lot of animosity between Milan and Bertha?" I ask.

"She's an awful woman and she was a terrible wife. She drove him to the divorce if you ask me, and then made sure he got the blame. Told everyone she knew that it was Milan's idea. Well, I doubt that's exactly the way it happened."

I'm well aware that sometimes the parents are the last to accept the flaws or wrongdoing of their children. Even so, I write all of it down, press on.

"Do you know if Bertha was seeing anyone else?" I ask. "Was there someone courting her? Anything like that?"

"Wouldn't put it past her. She's a sneaky thing." She tightens her mouth. "My goodness, I probably ought to stop right there. I'm just so upset about all this."

"Mrs. Swanz, did Milan have any enemies that you know of? Any ongoing disagreements? Can you think of anyone who might've wanted to harm him?"

The back door swings open. An Amish man steps into the kitchen with a swirl of snow and the smell of cow manure. As he stomps snow from his boots, his eyes travel from me to his wife and back to me.

"What's all this?" he asks in Deitsch.

I can tell by the way he's looking at me that he knows I've come bearing bad news.

"Mr. Swanz." I get to my feet and tell him the same thing I told his wife, again leaving out as many details as possible.

" Mein Gott. " My God. The Amish man blinks rapidly, then goes to the counter and leans as if he's suddenly not certain of his balance. " Murdered? That's crazy. I can't believe it. Are you sure?"

I nod. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, dear Lord," he mutters.

"Mr. Swanz, I know this is a shock, but I'm trying to figure out what happened to your son and I need to ask you some questions."

Orla Swanz removes his barn coat, then crosses to the table, drapes it over the back of a chair, and sinks into it. For a moment, he looks as if he's going to throw up.

I divide my attention between the two of them. "Do either of you know of anyone who might've wanted to harm your son?"

Orla shakes his head. "I can't think of a soul who'd want to do something bad to him," he says.

Ella Mae sets her hand over her husband's, gives it a pat. "What about those people over to the cabinet shop?" she asks.

I recall Bertha Swanz mentioning Milan's former workplace and my interest stirs. "Are you talking about Milan's former employer?"

"They treated him poorly," Orla says.

"Milan liked to work with his hands," Ella Mae says proudly. "Made us some nice furniture back in the day." She gestures to the cabinets. "Made these for us, too. Installed them. He was good at it."

"What kind of problem did he have at the cabinet shop?" I ask.

"They were always accusing him of things he didn't do," the Amish woman snaps.

Orla raises his eyes to mine and nods. "They had a fire out there a few months back. Accused Milan of setting it. He didn't, of course."

"It was an electrical fire is what it was." Ella Mae huffs. "They got caught using electricity. Didn't want to fess up, and they sure didn't want the bishop finding out, so they said it was a kerosene heater and blamed Milan for it."

I jot the central points, make a note to visit the cabinet shop and fire marshal. "Who exactly blamed Milan?" I ask.

"Old man Stutzman, I reckon. That brute son of his. Hochmut. " She spits out the word. High-minded person.

"Do you have their names?" I ask.

"Gideon owns the place," Orla tells me. "He's decent from what I can tell. Noah Stutzman is his son."

"Noah's a mean one," Ella Mae adds. "Fancies himself the boss. Made life hard for Milan."

"Milan was one of their best cabinetmakers," Orla says. "Heard they lost some business after they let him go."

"Did Milan have a cell phone?"

Orla nods. "Called him once or twice down to the shanty." He recites the number from memory. I write it down.

"Did Milan have a best friend?" I ask. "A coworker maybe? Or childhood friend? Someone he might've confided in if he was having any problems?"

The couple stare at me as if they're at a loss—and all too aware it is a question they should have been able to answer readily. After a moment, Ella Mae jerks her head. "He was tight with Clarence Raber, I think. They grew up together. Played together as boys. Worked together for a time."

I write down the name. "Were they close?"

Orla begins to answer, but Ella Mae interrupts him. "They were like brothers when they were youngsters," she says. "Clarence thought highly of Milan. Far as I know they were still friends."

"Does Clarence still live in the area?" I ask.

Orla takes it from there. "Last I heard Clarence was working down to the grain elevator in Coshocton."

Ella Mae pulls a tissue from her pocket and blots her eyes. "Going to be heartbroken when he finds out about Milan. They was close as boys can be. Loved each other like brothers, I tell you. Brothers."