Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Every homicide investigation possesses a unique personality, but there's one theme all of them share: urgency. The sense that everything should have been done yesterday. It is the lifeblood of forward motion and pulses through a cop's veins like mercury. The stakes are high, there's no room for error, and you sure as hell don't waste time on anything extraneous. You do what needs to be done, you move on to the next thing, and you'd damn well better do all of it with forethought and caution.

We're nine hours into the case and not one of my five W's has been answered. Who? What? When? Where? Or why? I have no suspect. I know little about my victim, who was close to him, or how he spent his final hours. I don't know for certain exactly where he was killed and I have no idea what the motive was.

One step at a time, Kate.…

The trailer home where Milan Swanz lived is located on a narrow track off of Township Road 104. The clock on my dash tells me it's four minutes past noon when I make the turn onto the gravel drive. A 1980s-era double-wide sits in a weed-riddled lot covered with patches of snow. There are no vehicles in sight. No visible tire tracks. No lights on inside.

Eyeing the windows for movement, I kill the engine and pick up my mike. "Ten-twenty-three," I say, letting Dispatch know I've arrived on scene.

"Roger that."

"Mona, ETA?"

"Six minutes, Chief."

"Ten-four."

Bracing for the cold, I get out and start toward the mobile home. In the summertime, this area is probably beautiful, surrounded by sixty-foot-tall trees with a good-size pond at the rear. In the dim winter light, the structure looks abandoned. The scene is as dismal as a junkyard. The battered gray siding is striped with rust. The skirting at the base is hit-or-miss. A few feet away, a charcoal grill lies on its side, ashes spilling onto the ground. The back side of a riding mower sticks out from beneath a blue tarp. Half a dozen tires lean against the base of the wood deck. I see two fifty-gallon drums shot full of holes, a five-gallon bucket, and a satellite dish that's been broken in half.

I take the steps to the front deck, open the screen door, and knock. "Painters Mill Police Department!" I call out.

Stepping aside, I wait, listening for movement. The only sound comes from the snow softly hitting the roof.

"Police department!" I knock again, using the heel of my hand. "Come out and talk to me!"

I wait a full minute before trying the knob. I'm not surprised when it turns easily. I push open the door and let it swing wide. The stink of cigarettes and two-day-old garbage greets me. There's a wall switch to my right, so I flip it on. Yellow light shines from a ceiling fixture. There's a retro kitchen to my right. Almond-colored Formica counters piled with dishes, a cereal box, an accumulation of mail, and a bag of chips. A newish fridge that's too small for its space huddles in the corner.

"Painters Mill Police Department!" I call out. "Is anyone home? Show yourself! Come out and talk to me!"

No answer.

I walk into the small living room, leaving the door open for not only light, but fresh air. Gold carpet beneath my boots. A peninsula-type bar of sorts to my right separates the living room from the kitchen. A good-size TV sits atop an entertainment center. Floor lamp next to a recliner. Coffee table covered with what looks like more mail, a can of Budweiser lying on its side. A brown sofa sits beneath the window, a wadded-up blanket on the center cushion.

I take it all in and find myself looking for signs of a struggle. At this point, I don't know if Swanz was killed at the scene or elsewhere, his body moved. I don't know how much time has passed since he was last here.

Resting my hand on my .38, I cross the living room and start down the hallway that I'm assuming leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. I spot the switch on the wall, flip it on. Nothing.

"Police department!" The last thing I want to do is surprise some sound sleeper who just happens to have a shotgun next to his bed. But there's no response and I'm pretty sure I'm alone.

My senses hum as I pass by a small bedroom. One window. A ratty-looking mattress on the floor. No sheets. I enter, go to the closet, open the door. Nothing of interest. Backing from the room, I continue down the hall, my boots muted against the carpet. Bathroom to my left. The smells of mildew and dirty towels offend my nose as I cross to the cabinet, open it. Shave cream. Box of condoms. Disposable razor. Bottle of Tylenol.

Back in the hall, I pass by an exterior door to my right and enter a larger bedroom at the rear of the trailer. The bed is a tangle of mismatched sheets and blankets. The smells of unwashed linens and dirty hair poke at me as I go to the closet. A few shirts. Sneakers. A pair of boots. Jeans wadded up on the floor.

More relaxed now that I know I'm alone, I go back to the living room and look around. There's no sign of a struggle. Nothing broken or tipped over or out of place. Just a messy house kept by an unmarried guy. Pulling on my duty gloves, I go back to the kitchen. There's a small dining table. A vintage toaster on the counter. I pick up the mail, page through, notice the post date from two days ago. Most look like bills, a few marked "Past Due" and left unopened. I open the nearest drawer, find an array of mismatched flatware and utensils. Below that, a stack of kitchen towels. In the next drawer I find two well-used beer koozies from McNarie's bar. I stare at them a moment, wondering if Swanz was a regular, and I make a mental note to check.

In the cabinets, I find a dozen or so thrift-store dishes. Canned goods. Boxed pasta meals. Before I open the fridge, I glance out the window. No sign of Mona.

In the living room, I check the coffee table first. More unopened mail. State Bank of Painters Mill. Past-due bill from the local gas company. A few advertisements. Classified section of a newspaper. Nothing.

Pounding on the door draws my attention. I look over to see Mona standing in the doorway. "Did you find the body in the freezer yet?" she calls out.

"Striking out, mostly." Straightening, I go to her. "I thought you were going to go home and get some sleep."

"Too much going on." She gives me a sheepish grin. "Didn't want to miss any action."

"I'm glad you decided to stay."

I recap what I've found so far. "I'm getting the impression Swanz was here recently—say twenty-four to forty-eight hours ago." I motion toward the living room. "I'm going to finish up here. There's a shed outside. I could use a hand."

"No problem," she says. "I'll take the shed. Want me to check under the trailer, too?"

"Sure."

Her brows pull together. "We looking for anything in particular?"

I shake my head. "Hopefully, we'll know it when we see it."

"Gotcha."

Turning, she crosses the deck and trots down the steps.

I go back to the sofa, remove the cushions, run my hands into the creases. Crumbs and specks of dried grass. A lone dollar bill. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Sighing, I look around, take the hall back to the main bedroom. In the closet, I pick up the boots, but there's nothing tucked away inside. I pull a shoebox off the overhead shelf. Empty. I see an Amish-type hat. Two baseball caps. A belt dangles from a wire hanger.

I go to the bed, lift the mattress, but there's nothing there. There are built-in drawers next to the closet, so I check them next. Empty. Frustrated, glad that I'm nearly finished, I go to the nightstand, kneel, open the top drawer. A deck of cards. A wrinkled edition of Sports Illustrated. Box of tissues. Eyeglasses.

I tug open the next drawer. A spiral-bound notebook. A pen. A lightbulb. I pick up the pad, page through—and my hand freezes. Most of the pages are blank, but toward the middle, I come upon half a dozen addresses scrawled in blue ink. I skim the addresses. The final one at the bottom of the page stops me cold.

14652 TOWNSHIP ROAD 16

PAINTERS MILL

I stare at the address, my brain trying to make sense of it. It's the address of the farm where I grew up. My brother, Jacob, inherited it when our parents passed away. Why would Milan Swanz have my brother's address written in a notebook? Who do the other five addresses belong to? What is the connection to Swanz?

Chances are, this is nothing more than some benign list. Maybe these people bought cabinets from the shop where Swanz worked. Maybe Swanz did some casual labor for them.

Pulling my cell from my pocket, I photograph the page. Then I pluck an evidence bag from my duty belt, drop the notebook into it, and start toward the door.

The police station hums with barely contained chaos when I arrive. A NewsCenter 7 van idles in my spot, forcing me to park across the street. On the sidewalk in front of the station, a young woman in a snazzy yellow coat faces a bearded cameraman, sleek microphone in hand as if they're about to go live.

Spotting me, she catches the eye of her cameraman and charges. "Chief Burkholder! Can you tell us anything about the murder? Have you IDed the victim? Is it true that he was burned at the stake?"

I offer her a tight smile, but I don't stop walking. "Press release in a few minutes. Stay tuned, okay?"

I push through the door to find a dozen people jammed into the small reception area. My team has already arrived for the briefing I was supposed to start twenty minutes ago.

"Chief Burkholder!" I spot Tom Skanks from the Butterhorn Bakery pushing through the crowd, his eyes on me. Joe Neely from Mocha Joe's is gesturing animatedly to a reporter I recognize from a Dover radio station. Lois stands at the reception desk, a headset clamped over her head, a landline pressed to one ear, a cell phone to the other. She looks at me wild-eyed, so I head her way first.

"Chief! Kate! Hold up!"

I turn to see Mayor Auggie Brock rush toward me. He's breathless, his hair mussed, tie askew. The urge to keep going is strong, but I stop and turn to him. "Auggie."

He doesn't bother with niceties. "A man burned at the stake?" He whispers the words with the drama of a high school girl, as if everyone in the entire room doesn't already know. "Are you shitting me? Did that seriously happen?"

"Unfortunately, that's what it looks like," I tell him.

"Do you know who the victim is?"

I tell him.

"Holy shit, Kate."

"Auggie, I'm about to brief my officers now. I'm late. Look, you should probably come to the briefing."

"Aw, hell." He looks around. "What about all this press?"

"They can wait." I glance toward Lois, notice the blush of stress in her cheeks. My officers are gathered in the hall outside the meeting room. "You should probably say a few words."

He makes a sound of incredulity. "I have no clue what's going on."

"Welcome to the club."

He frowns at me. "Kate, people are freaked out about this. People are talking about frickin' witches. Could this be the work of that devil-worshipping cult that's down in McConnelsville? Do you have a suspect?"

"We're working on it." Over the top of his head, I make eye contact with Lois.

"My phone has been ringing off the hook since six A.M. ," he hisses. "Janine Fourman called and said tourists are canceling B and B reservations left and right—"

"Nothing I can do about that," I cut in.

"You called in BCI?"

"You know I did. Sheriff's department, too."

Someone shouts Auggie's name. When he turns, I make my escape and head directly for Lois. "Hey," I say.

Mouthing a curse, she glances my way, gives a tight smile as she speaks into her mouthpiece. "Ma'am, if you see a prowler, call 911," she tells her caller.

I try not to notice the sweat beaded on her forehead as she shoves a handful of pink message slips at me. "Sorry," she mouths, and makes a hand signal for crazy.

I page through messages as I stride toward my office. Quickly, I unlock the door, slip inside, and take the drastic measure of locking it. I spend two minutes pounding out a press release and an abbreviated version of what we know so far. It's a rough draft, scant on details, and filled with poor grammar and abbreviations because I'm rushed. Lois has enough experience to edit before broadcasting it. I make a few notes at the bottom of the document, asking her to set up a tip hotline, and I hit Send. Then I'm out of my chair, through the door, and striding down the hall toward the "war room."

Through the doorway, I see Skid sitting at the table, nursing a grande-size coffee from Mocha Joe's.

"Hey, Chief," he says as I enter.

The small room is crowded, ten degrees too warm, and smells of aftershave, body odor, and coffee. Sheriff Mike Rasmussen is sprawled on a chair next to my podium, talking animatedly into his cell. I spot Tomasetti leaning against the wall, doing the same, but his eyes are on me, and we exchange a secret smile. Glock, Pickles, and T.J. are seated across from Skid. I see a detective with the Ohio State Highway Patrol. My second-shift and floater dispatchers, Jodie and Margaret, are embroiled in a head-to-head conversation. No sign of Mona, so I'm assuming she's finishing up the search of Swanz's residence.

Taking my place at the half podium, I tap the mike some misguided soul has already turned on. "Heads up."

The room quiets. "We've only got a few minutes, so let's make them count." I set down my notebook, glance at my barely legible notes, and flick off the mike. "Here's what we know so far. Painters Mill resident Milan Swanz was killed last night at approximately three A.M. in the woods due south of Dogleg Road. He was thirty-six years old. Amish, but recently excommunicated. Divorced. Father of four. He had a misdemeanor arrest record, which includes drunk and disorderly. Next of kin have been notified."

I recite Swanz's address, the names of his ex-wife and parents, and recap the pertinent segments of my conversations with them. "Swanz was unemployed. He'd been fired from his job about a year ago." I name the cabinet shop. "I do not know if his termination is related to this case in any way, but there was a fire at the shop, which was ruled accidental by the fire marshal. The owners, Gideon and Noah Stutzman, were suspicious of Swanz." I look at Rasmussen. "Any chance your department can get with the fire marshal and take a look at that?"

"Consider it done," the sheriff says.

I nod. "We will not have the cause or manner of death until after the autopsy, but I think it's safe to assume this was a homicide. Preliminarily, it is believed that Swanz was tied to a post and burned. According to the coroner, preliminarily, the victim suffered severe thermal injuries and possibly asphyxiation caused by strangulation. The victim also suffered a broken wrist, possibly from struggling against the wire binding his wrists, or because he had been dragged."

"Hell of a way to go," Pickles mutters.

The door opens and the mayor slinks in. I nod at him as he takes his place in the nearest chair and I continue. "I searched the victim's residence earlier." I recite the address. "Officer Kurtz is there now with a warrant and finishing up. There was no sign of a struggle. Nothing amiss. Inside the trailer home, I did find a list of five addresses that may or may not be related to the case."

"Local?" Glock asks.

I nod. "I'll get the names of the property owners and take a look at all of them for a connection." I glance at Tomasetti. "Might be a good idea to get a CSU to the residence to process."

"You got it," he says.

"Mike." I look at the sheriff. "Anything on the canvass?"

"Deputies checked four homes within a three-mile radius of the location where the body was discovered," he says. "None of the homeowners saw anything unusual as far as vehicles or buggies or pedestrians."

"What about CCTV cameras?" I ask. "Any game cams in the area?"

"None of the homeowners have security cams. We did look at two game cams. Nothing but white-tailed deer and skunk."

I turn my attention to Tomasetti. "Any luck on the tire-tread imprints you guys found at the scene?"

"No go," he says. "Too much snow and too wet to plaster."

"Lovely." I look at Pickles. "Did you check with retailers on the pliers found at the scene, posthole digger, and/or shovel?"

The old man is at the ready. "I got seven names from the Walmart in Millersburg. Six more from Tractor Supply. I'm about halfway through my list. So far, I got nothing."

I turn my attention to T.J. and raise my brows.

"I got three names from the hardware store here in Painters Mill," he tells me. "Two more from Quality. Two didn't pan. Still checking the other three."

"Keep on it." I scan the faces in the room. All of them have been up most of the night, tromping through snow and cold and wet, and yet I've not heard a single complaint. I can tell by the energy in the room, the air of restlessness, that they're itching to get back to work.

"A couple more items," I say. "According to Swanz's parents, he had a cell phone, which was not found on his person or at the scene. Now that we've searched his residence, I think it's safe to assume that cell phone is missing."

Tomasetti pipes up. "You called the number?"

"Goes directly to voicemail." I recite the number.

He taps it into his cell. "Carrier?"

"I don't know."

"I'll figure it out," he says. "Any other devices?"

"Not that we've found. Nothing at the house."

"Vehicle?"

"According to his ex, Swanz drove a 2014 Ford Mustang. It's not at the residence. Not at the scene. At this point, we have to consider it missing as well."

"We'll put out a BOLO." The Ohio State Highway Patrol detective speaks up for the first time.

"Do we know how Swanz spent his final hours?" Glock asks. "Or who was the last person to see him alive?"

Both are questions I feel I should have been able to answer by now. "No." I look down at my notes. "His ex-wife claims she hasn't seen him for a week. His parents say they saw him about a month ago."

"Seems like a long time for an Amish family," Rasmussen says.

"We have to bear in mind that he was excommunicated," I tell him. "It's my understanding that Swanz liked to go to bars and he liked women. Might be worth checking." I give Glock a pointed look. "Go to the Brass Rail. Talk to whoever's there. Find out if/when Swanz was there. If he's a regular. Who he hung out with."

He gives me a mock salute.

"T.J.," I say. "Same for Miller's Tavern."

"Stay away from the hot wings." Skid pats his belly.

A round of chuckles ensues, but it's short-lived. Recalling the koozies I found in Swanz's trailer, I decide to swing by the remaining bar on my way to see my brother. "I'll hit McNarie's," I tell them.

"Chief." Auggie uses the folder in his hand to fan his face. "There are all sorts of crazy rumors floating around town about witches and cults in the area. Is that something our citizens need to be worried about? If not, how do I reassure them?"

"There is a known pseudo-cult down near McConnelsville," the Ohio State Highway Patrol detective puts in. "Don't know much about them, but they're on our radar."

I look around, realize I'm out of personnel to whom I can assign the task. "I'll ask Mona to look into it," I say. "See if we can find any connections."

The state highway patrol detective rattles the report in his hand. "One more thing, Chief Burkholder. Spillman that came over indicated the body was discovered by two of your officers." His brows knit. "The crime scene is sort of an out-of-the-way location, especially in the middle of the night. Did a citizen call it in? Or did your officers just happen upon the scene?"

I look at Skid and nod, giving him the floor. "Skidmore?"

Something in the way his gaze shifts away from mine gives me pause. Skid's not shy. He doesn't mind the limelight and will be the first to cut up or utter some uncouth joke, even during the most serious of situations.

"I was on patrol," he says, then assumes a sheepish countenance. "Got out to take a leak. Officer Kurtz must have seen my taillights and rolled up behind me. We got out to talk and we heard what sounded like a scream or shout. At that point, we also discerned smoke. So, we scaled the fence and immediately observed the fire through the trees. Within a minute, we spotted the victim and made efforts to extinguish the fire."

In the seconds that follow, half a dozen questions occur to me, and I can't help but wonder what they were doing in that area at that hour. I don't say anything because we've more important concerns to deal with at the moment.

"We'll have statements from both officers available end of day," I tell the detective.

I've been so absorbed in the case, I hadn't realized until now that not all of the details add up. For one thing, it's against department policy for any officer to pull over to take a leak, even on a back road at three o'clock in the morning. And what the hell was Mona doing there? Even if she'd stayed late and was on her way home, she would have been traveling in the opposite direction.

The press conference is an overcrowded free-for-all of shouted questions, outlandish theories, an overzealous media, and the flashing of cell phone camera lights, all of it fielded by me, Mayor Brock, Tomasetti, and Sheriff Rasmussen. The mayor is still speaking when I make my exit and steal away to my office.

It doesn't take long for me to find the names that go along with the addresses I found in the notebook at Swanz's trailer. The first are Amish bishop David Troyer and his wife. The second is Noah Stutzman, the son of Swanz's former employer. The third address belongs to Monroe Hershberger. I don't know him personally, but recall he's a well-thought-of Amish elder here in Painters Mill. The fourth address is for Swanz's neighbor Lester Yoder. The man who accused Swanz of burning his cornfield. The final address, of course, belongs to my brother and sister-in-law, Jacob and Irene. I know Swanz had disputes with Stutzman and Yoder. Since Swanz had been excommunicated, it's likely he was not a fan of Bishop Troyer, either. If memory serves me, I believe Monroe Hershberger is one of the Diener of the Amish church district. If that's the case, he may have been involved with Swanz's excommunication as well.

So why is my brother's address included? Did he have a beef with Swanz?

"Only one way to find out," I mutter, and reach for my keys.