Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

I roll to a stop at Dogleg Road to see that the Holmes County Sheriff's Office has blocked the intersection. I lower my window and flash my shield at the deputy standing guard and he waves me through. I spot Tomasetti's Tahoe as I park behind the BCI crime scene van. I've just gotten out when someone calls out to me.

"Chief!"

I glance over my shoulder to see Tomasetti striding toward me. Despite the circumstances, the sight of him sends a small thrill up the center of my back.

We meet next to his Tahoe. I see him glance toward the trees where the lights of the crime scene team flicker. There's another deputy walking toward the tree line, but his back is to us. Leaning close, Tomasetti brushes his lips against mine.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," he says.

"You, too." I kiss him back, take in the familiar scent of his aftershave, the smell that is distinctively his.

Sighing, he straightens, takes a step back. "You know this is highly inappropriate between a police chief and BCI agent."

"I won't tell if you don't."

A smile whispers across his features, but he sobers quickly, slips back into professional mode as he looks toward the crime scene. "How did the notification go?"

I recap my conversations with Bertha Swanz and the parents. "I got a bit of an odd vibe."

"How so?"

"Neither his ex-wife nor his parents seemed terribly broken up when I told them about Swanz."

His gaze narrows on mine. "Seems odd."

"I thought so, too. I mean, it's not unusual for the Amish to be a little more reserved, but in this case they seemed almost… aloof. Granted, Swanz and his wife were divorced, but for his parents to be so subdued. It was strange."

"Especially since you got similar reactions from both parties," he says.

"I'm getting the impression Swanz's relationships were complicated."

"How so?"

"Evidently, he had some problems with his employer." I tell him about the fire and Swanz being terminated. "There's a best friend, Clarence Raber down in Coshocton, who might be helpful to talk to."

I notice the work lights set up on the gravel pullover. "You guys find anything?"

"I think we've got tire-tread imprints."

"You know Mona and Skid and I were parked on the shoulder."

"We marked their tracks as well as yours straightaway." He motions toward the work lights. "A little farther down, there's a short two-track with enough room for a vehicle to pull nose-in. Agent spotted tire impressions there when we did the grid search. One of the techs is trying to cast them now."

"Snow probably isn't helping."

"Doubt if we'll be able to get a decent plaster, but worth a shot."

I want to see the crime scene. I want to walk it. Study every square inch of it. I want to know what's being done, what's been found. If there's anything new. I have enough experience to know that during this early phase of the investigation it's extremely important to limit the number of people allowed.

"I'm going to run by the cabinet shop where Milan Swanz worked." I need to speak to Clarence Raber, too, but in light of the suspicious fire and termination, his employer comes first. "Do you have time to run over there with me?"

"Not much to do here until the scene is processed. Evidence is being couriered and expedited, but we're still going to have to wait for it."

"In that case, I'll drive."

The village of Killbuck is a scenic twenty-minute drive from Painters Mill. Stutzman's Cabinetry and Woodworking is located on a side street just off of US 62 due east of the village proper.

I park in the gravel lot and we head inside. The workshop is housed in a newish steel building. The main entrance is a large overhead door that's been closed against the cold and snow. Next to it, a sign above the smaller main door reads OFFICE/CUSTOMER SERVICE , so we go through.

We enter a small office with a plywood floor, cheaply paneled walls, and a wood desk straight out of the 1980s. A matronly-looking Amish woman wearing a navy cardigan over a wine-colored dress looks up at us from her place at the desk, gives my uniform a quick once-over. "Can I help you?"

I have my shield at the ready. "I'm the police chief in Painters Mill," I tell her. "Is the owner or manager around?"

"Is there a problem?"

She seems more curious than concerned, so I don't elaborate. "We just need a few minutes of their time."

Never taking her eyes from us, she picks up an old yellow rotary-type phone, uses a pencil to dial a couple of numbers, and speaks into the mouthpiece. "Mr. Stutzman, please come to the office."

Her voice echoes over a speaker system in another part of the building. Behind her, a large plate-glass window looks into a busy workshop where a dozen or so Amish men stand at workbenches or are bent over pneumatic saws. Though the door that opens to the shop is closed, I can hear the hiss and sigh of air tools.

I'm thinking about helping myself to a cup of coffee at the coffee station in the corner when the door swings open. I've never met Gideon Stutzman, but Tomasetti pulled up his information during the drive and I recognize him right away. He's fifty-three years old. Married and resides here in Killbuck. Wearing a charcoal-colored barn coat over a blue work shirt and suspenders, he's short of stature with a wiry build and a too-bright smile that's probably reserved for customers.

As he closes the door behind him, I see him take in my uniform and his smile falls. "Can I help you?" he asks.

"Mr. Stutzman, we'd like to ask you some questions if you have a few minutes."

His eyes flick to Tomasetti, who is holding out his ID, and then he jabs a thumb toward the workshop. "One of my guys do something wrong?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I got a few minutes." The Amish man nods at the woman. "We'll be in my office."

As he leads us through the door and into the workshop, the noise level increases to just below deafening. The tat-tat-tat of a nail gun. The whirr of a saw. The hiss of air tools. The smells of fresh-cut lumber and the oily tang of wood stain hang in the air.

We pass by battered wooden shelves, an array of ancient-looking tools—handsaws, hatchets, and scythes—neatly arranged by type and size. "If your son is available," I say amicably, "I think it would be helpful if he joined us."

Nodding, Stutzman puts two fingers to his mouth and emits a loud whistle. "Noah!"

Across the room, a bear-size Amish man straightens, takes our measure, and shoots us a thumbs-up.

Stutzman stops at an industrial-type door with a glass panel embedded with security wire. A punch-card time clock is mounted on the wall, reminding me once again that the business is Amish owned.

Stutzman ushers us inside. "A little quieter in here." He motions us into chairs adjacent to his desk. "You guys look kind of serious. I'm thinking you're not here to buy cabinets." He settles into the chair at a beat-up metal desk.

"I understand Milan Swanz worked for you a while back," I begin.

"Milan Swanz." The Amish man grimaces as if he's bitten into something sour. "Is this about the fire?"

"You know what happened?" I ask, surprised.

His eyes narrow. "How could I not know about it? It's my business that burned down."

Realizing we're not talking about the same incident, I clarify. "Mr. Stutzman, Milan Swanz was killed last night."

"Oh." He recoils with so much force that his chair scoots back a little. "Well, I'll be. I didn't know." His brows knit. "How'd it happen?"

"We believe he was murdered," I say.

"Holy cow!"

"What can you tell me about Mr. Swanz's time here at the cabinet shop?" I ask.

"He worked here a couple years, I guess." He assumes a pained countenance. "Milan was good with his hands. He knew his wood, too. Knew his tools. But there were some problems."

"What kind of problems?" Tomasetti asks.

"Well, he didn't get along with the other guys." Stutzman shrugs. "I mean, there were no fights or any such thing. He just hit people the wrong way." He pauses as if he's getting warmed up. "And while Milan was good with his hands and all, he didn't have a very good work ethic. He missed a lot of work. Came in late. He was a drinker, I think. That's the one thing I can't abide. I put up with it for a time, thinking he might pull out of it. But you got to be able to count on people. I got a business to run."

"Is that why you fired him?" Tomasetti asks.

Stutzman gives him a steady look. "Final straw came the day I sent him out to deliver cabinets to a builder down to Coshocton County. Milan got into an argument with the customer, if you can believe it. Almost cost me that sale and it was a big one. I fired him the next day."

"How did he take it?" I ask.

He tightens his mouth, reluctant to answer, but acquiesces. "Cussed me up one side and down the other. Demanded his check. I know a man's job is a serious thing and getting fired like that can hurt his pride, but I never seen anyone get so riled up. Milan had a temper on him."

"Did things get physical?" I ask.

"No."

"Did he threaten you?" Tomasetti asks.

"He might've said a thing or two." It's a typical Amish answer when they don't want to make a negative comment.

"Like what?" Tomasetti asks.

The Amish man shrugs. "Aw, he said I wouldn't get away with it. Said it would come back on me. I didn't think too much about it at the time."

A pregnant silence ensues, goes on too long. Stutzman fidgets, looks down at his hands.

"I understand there was a fire," I say.

"A year ago. Our workshop was in a hundred-year-old barn back then. A lot of dry old wood and she went up like kindling. Took the tools. Equipment. Everything."

"You think Swanz had something to do with it?" Tomasetti asks.

Expression grim, Stutzman looks from Tomasetti to me. "I'll not speak poorly of an Amish brother. Not one who's died. Even an excommunicated one."

Another typical Amish response. One that's drilled into the heads of children from the time they're old enough to understand. "If you don't have anything good to say about someone, don't say anything at all."

Especially to an Englischer.

"All we need is the truth, Mr. Stutzman," I say quietly. "We're not looking for gossip or anything like that."

"Well." Shaking his head, he continues with a reluctance that's palpable. "After the fire, the Amish came, like they always do. They built this here building. Put their money together and paid for some of the equipment we'd lost. God saw us through."

"Did you go to the police with your suspicions about Swanz?" I ask.

"I didn't have any kind of proof." His eyes skate away from mine. "Fire marshal said a kerosene heater started the fire. Someone left a jacket on the back of their chair, which was left too close to the heater. Fabric caught and there you go."

I hear the door latch click. I glance over my shoulder to see the man Stutzman had whistled at earlier standing in the doorway, looking at us. He's wearing a blue work shirt, dark trousers, and suspenders. Sawdust covers the brim of his hat.

"This is my son, Noah."

Noah Stutzman is as large as his father is small. I guess him to be about six four, two fifty, with biceps the size of Christmas hams.

Brown eyes land on me and Tomasetti and then flick to Stutzman. " Was der schinner is letz?" he says. What in the world is wrong?

" Kumma inseid, " the elder Stutzman says patiently. "Close the door."

Noah does as he's told. There's no chair for him, so he goes to the wall, leans against it, and folds his arms at his chest while his father makes introductions and fills him in on the death of Milan Swanz.

I watch the younger Stutzman carefully as his father speaks, looking for any indication that he already knows what happened, but the younger man gives nothing away.

"I wish I could say I'm surprised," he says when his father finishes.

"That Swanz is dead?" I ask. "Or that we're here, talking to you and your datt about it?"

His gaze sharpens on me at my Deitsch pronunciation, but he doesn't ask. "All I'm saying is Milan rubbed a lot of people the wrong way."

"How's that?" I ask.

"He was loud and mean and didn't much care one way or another."

"Anyone in particular he rubbed the wrong way?" Tomasetti asks.

The large man lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. "Just about everyone he met, I imagine."

"Where were the two of you last night?" Tomasetti asks.

Both men look more surprised than offended by the question.

Noah scoffs, all but rolling his eyes.

"You don't think we done that, do you?" the older man asks.

"Just checking you off our list," I put in.

"I was home with my wife," Gideon says.

Noah frowns. "Same. You can check."

After a moment, the younger man looks at his father. "You tell them about the fire?"

The elder Stutzman nods. "Of course I did."

Sighing, Noah turns his attention back to me and Tomasetti. "I reckon he didn't tell you the heater that caught belonged to Milan Swanz, did he?"

"No," Tomasetti tells him. "But we appreciate the information."

"What do you think?" I ask.

"I think we're probably going to have quite a few persons of interest to check into before all is said and done."

Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Explorer. Snow pellets tink lightly against the windshield. Disquiet sits in my belly like a stone. Frowning, I reach for the radio mike and hail Dispatch.

"Get me background checks on Noah and Gideon Stutzman." I spell the first and last names.

"You got it."

"Anything come back on Bertha Swanz?" I ask.

"She's clean, Chief."

"Did Glock get the search warrant?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Email me the PDF, will you? I'm going to try to swing by there and take a look on my way back to Painters Mill."

"Sending it your way now."

I rack the mike and look at Tomasetti. "Do you have time for a quick look at the victim's residence?"

Before he can answer, my cell phone chirps. I glance at the dash display and see HOLMES COUNTY CORONER .

"Hey, Doc."

"We've got our victim cleaned up, Kate. I'm waiting for the forensic pathologist to arrive to assist with the autopsy. I don't know much at this point, but there is some limited information to be gleaned if you have the time."

I feel a creeping dread in my chest, but I quickly suppress it. I don't let myself react because Tomasetti is watching me. "I'm on my way."