Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

The farm where I grew up isn't quite pretty. The fence along the driveway needs paint. The ground surrounding the barn and outbuildings is trampled to mud. The barn could use a new roof. But this place is rich in memories, some good, some bad, and when I was a kid, it was my universe. As I drive up the long gravel lane, past the cherry tree I helped my datt plant when I was twelve, it strikes me that I've finally come to terms with not only my past and the things that happened here, but the relationship I share with my Amish family.

I park in the gravel area at the rear of the house. I sit in the Explorer for a moment and watch the snow flutter down from a brooding sky. The cop inside me is cognizant of the ticking of the clock. The part of me that remembers so well what it was like to be that Amish girl who never quite fit in relishes being surrounded by the place that will always be the foundation of me.

I take the narrow sidewalk to the back door and knock. It's quiet; my nephews are likely still in school. The cattle and hogs have long since been fed. The sound of boots on the wood-plank floor sounds just inside the door and then my brother is there, looking at me as if his own memories aren't too distant, and yet the woman standing before him is a stranger he doesn't quite recognize.

"Katie." He looks past me, taking in the lightly falling snow, and then he steps back. " Kumma inseid. " Come inside.

Taking off my hat, I follow him through the mudroom and into the large kitchen. A welcome blast of heat from the stove hits me in the face as I enter. My sister-in-law, Irene, stands at the sink, washing a big Dutch oven. She looks at me over her shoulder and smiles. "Katie!" she says. "How's married life treating you? My goodness, you're right on time for date pudding and coffee. I just made both if you've got the time."

"I'm afraid I'm here on official business," I say to her, but I'm looking at Jacob. "Do you have a few minutes?"

He studies me intently, as if he discerns something in my eyes. He addresses his wife in Deitsch. "We'll be in the big room," he says.

I follow him into the living room, where a woodstove crackles and pops from its place next to the window. A gas-powered floor lamp shines brightly in the corner. All of it giving the room a cozy, well-used countenance.

"You look tired." He motions me to the sofa. "And troubled."

"Have you heard about what happened to Milan Swanz?" I ask as I take a seat.

He nods. "Heard about it down to the feedstore this morning. Everyone's talking about it, especially the Amish." Holding my gaze, he settles into the armchair. "Is it true?"

I nod. "How well did you know him?"

"Not well." He shrugs, nonchalant, but looks away a little too quickly. "You know how it is when you're Amish. Everyone knows everyone."

I stare at him, not liking his answer—or his demeanor.

"Did you have any business with him?" I ask.

"Milan fell on hard times for a while. After he lost his job, you know. I hired him to help me with the cross fence. He helped me dig postholes, drive T-posts, and stretch wire." He shrugs. "Three or four days of work. That's it."

I nod, watching him carefully. "Did you have any problems with him?"

"No."

"Was he a good worker?"

"Milan liked his breaks. Smoked cigarettes." He offers a half smile. "Not exactly a workhorse, but he got the job done."

"Jacob, did you have any disagreements with him?" I ask. "Any arguments or misunderstandings?"

"No."

"What about Irene?"

"Of course not."

"When did he work for you?"

"A week or so ago, I think."

"For how long?"

"Four days." He raises a shoulder, lets it drop. "When the fence was finished, I had nothing else for him to do and he moved on."

"Any problems with pay? Anything like that?"

His eyes narrow. "Why all of these questions?"

I look past him and through the fogged-up glass and see a dozen or so head of cattle gathered at the round bale of hay, their backs covered with snow. "I searched Milan Swanz's residence this morning," I tell him. "There was a list of addresses. Swanz had had disputes with almost everyone on the list."

"I don't see what that has to do with me."

"Your address is on the list."

For the first time he looks surprised. "I don't see why that would be so surprising," he says. "Milan worked for me."

I nod, watching him closely. He gives me nothing. "You know Milan was excommunicated," I say.

"Of course I do."

"Bishop Troyer's address was on the list, too."

He blinks, looks down at his hands. "I don't know what to say to that."

"Did he have some kind of argument or dispute with the bishop?" I ask. "Maybe when the excommunication was taking place?"

"You'll have to ask the bishop."

"Do you have any idea why your address is on the list?"

He shakes his head. "I cannot know the answer to that."

The list of names isn't the be-all and end-all of the investigation. Swanz was the victim, and I can't imagine any of the people whose names are on the list murdering Swanz, especially by burning him at the stake. Still, my gut tells me to keep pushing; the list may be relevant.

I look at my brother, try to see past the stoic fa?ade. The secrets I see in his eyes. "I'm trying to get a handle on what kind of man he was."

Jacob says nothing.

"Do you know who he was close to?" I ask. "Friends? Enemies?"

"I don't think I'm the person to answer those questions, Katie. He was little more than a stranger to me."

"Was there any gossip about Swanz going around?" It's a flimsy question. But I can't shake the sense that my brother knows more than he's letting on.

He looks at me a little more closely. "He was fair game. The way he lived his life. That he'd been excommunicated."

"What did you hear?"

He tightens his lips, looks away. Inwardly, I smile at the irony. Generally speaking, the Amish don't hesitate to partake in gossip. The one thing they will not do, however, is gossip about an Amish person who has passed away, especially to an Englischer.

"Jacob." I say his name firmly. "I'm trying to find out what happened to him. If you know something—anything—please talk to me."

He sighs. "I heard Milan had… some problems. A temper, for one thing. He had a mouth on him. Cursed like a demon. Wasn't a very good worker. Or a good father for that matter. I heard he liked his women, too. Then he has the gall to ask his wife for a divorce. No wonder he was excommunicated." He shrugs. "Whether all of that is gossip or fact, I can't possibly know. But that's what people were saying."

Something there, I think. Something he doesn't want to talk about.

"What else?" I ask.

"That's enough, don't you think?"

"Who were his friends?"

He stares at me for a long time, his eyes probing mine. "All I can tell you about that, Katie, is that I wasn't one of them. He worked for me for a short time. I paid him. We parted ways. And that is all."

The conversation with my brother follows me all the way back to the highway. After a great deal of discord following my leaving the Amish, Jacob and I had landed in a comfortable space. We've come a long way in the years I've been back in Painters Mill. But I know the Amish mindset well enough to understand that my decision to leave will never allow us to be as close as we once were. In terms of the case, I don't think he was lying to me. Not outright, anyway. But I do believe he's holding back. When you're a cop, holding back and lying are one and the same.

I'm so embroiled in my thoughts I nearly miss the gravel turnoff into the parking lot of McNarie's bar. Though it's barely four P.M. , the lot is crowded with a hotchpotch of pickup trucks, half a dozen cars, and a dump truck with the Painters Mill Sand and Gravel logo on the door. I idle around to the back of the lot, looking for Swanz's Mustang, but it's not there. Back in front, I park next to a souped-up muscle car and slog through two inches of slush to the entrance. I hear the thrum of music before I open the door. When I step inside, the bass vibration of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd headbanger boxes my ears like fists.

It's been a couple of years since I've crossed this particular threshold. The memories of my troubled past wash over me. Not much has changed, but I take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and take in my surroundings. To my right, the bar is a beat-up slab of oak the size of a railroad car. A mirrored wall sits behind it. To my left, a row of booths, replete with red vinyl and stainless-steel trim, line the wall. Beyond, a jukebox from another era judders like an imbalanced washing machine spinning out of control. Farther back is a pool table where two men and a young woman are engaged in a game of eight ball.

The barkeep, a man I only know as McNarie, stands behind the bar, pouring amber liquid into a shot glass. He's staring at me, frowning. I don't take it personally and head that way. I take one of six stools, as far away as possible from the other two patrons.

"Ain't seen you around," McNarie says.

"Been behaving myself, I guess."

"That's disappointing." A smile whispers across his face, but doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You used to be one of my best customers."

I smile. "Nothing personal, McNarie, but I'm glad those days are over."

That earns me another frown. "What are you drinking these days, Chief?"

"You got coffee made?"

"How far we fall." But he laughs. "This morning's okay?"

"It'll do."

A basketball game flickers on the TV screen in the corner. The other two patrons pretend to watch, but I can tell their attention is on me. Wondering why the chief of police is sitting at the bar in a place like this.

"Here you go."

The bartender slides a restaurant-style cup and saucer in front of me, two containers of half-and-half on the side. "You here about Swanz?"

"You heard?"

"Who hasn't?" He shrugs. "Craziest shit I ever heard. You know that son of a bitch was here till close that night, right?"

I set down the cup. "A phone call would have been nice."

He lifts a shoulder, unperturbed. "I knew you'd figure it out and show up sooner or later."

An acerbic retort teeters on my tongue, but I tamp it down, keep my eye on the ball. I pull my notebook from my pocket, flip back the cover. "What time was he here?"

"Got here around six. Stayed till close, which is two A.M. , as you know."

"Who was he with?"

"No one."

I squash exasperation. "Did he drive?"

He shakes his head. "To tell the truth, I think he walked. Lives just a couple miles down the road."

"Did he talk to anyone while he was here?"

"He talked to whoever he thought might buy him a drink." He motions with his eyes to the pool players in the back. "Those fools are here just about every night, too. If I recall, Swanz played a game of pool with them. Had his eye on that girl. Like everyone else, I guess."

I look over my shoulder at the group. The two men stare back at me, beers in hand, curious. The woman is nowhere to be seen. Shit. I turn back to the barkeep. "Do you have security cameras?" I ask.

He cuts me an are-you-kidding look. "No one who spends his time here is a fan of Big Brother, if you know what I mean."

"Was Swanz a regular?" I ask.

"Came in two or three times a week."

"Ever have any problems with him?"

"All's I know about Swanz is that he drank like a damn fish and he couldn't handle his booze."

I glance over at the pool players. They've gone back to their game. Still no woman.

"Did anything suspicious or unusual happen the night Swanz was killed?"

"I didn't notice anything out of whack."

"He ever argue with anyone?" I ask. "Get out of line?"

"Swanz got loud when he drank. Got handy with the lady patrons, if you know what I mean. To tell you the truth he was a belligerent sot. Always begging for a free drink or a ride home."

"He get belligerent with anyone in particular?"

"He was kind of an equal-opportunity asshole."

"Any fights?"

"I might've heard a rumor or two."

"Does the rumor or two have a name?"

"Nope."

One of the things I used to appreciate about McNarie was his discretion. The man knows how to keep his mouth shut and prides himself on not being a stool pigeon. Even if you were the police chief, you could come here, drink away your troubles, and not have to worry about your escapades being bantered about all over town. This afternoon, his discretion is irritating.

"I don't know the names of everyone who comes through that door." He gives me a knowing look. "People like it that way."

Keeping an eye on the pool players, I take him through some rudimentary questions, but he doesn't seem to know much. "Is there anything you can tell me about Swanz that might help me figure out what happened to him?"

"Not that I can think of." Looking at the TV, he picks up a shot glass and runs his towel around the rim.

I lay a ten-dollar bill on the bar and get up without thanking him.

I feel the stares burning into my back as I start toward the pool table. More curious than hostile, but I remind myself to stay on my toes since I'm here alone and there's a killer on the loose.

Eric Clapton croons about all the illicit benefits of cocaine as I reach the pool table. The two male players are in their late twenties or early thirties. Blue jeans and flannel shirts with work boots. I glance toward the restroom down the hall, but the woman still hasn't reappeared. I wait while one of the men bends and sets up for a shot.

"Who's winning?" I say by way of greeting.

They ignore me for a beat too long, which annoys me, but I hold my tongue and wait.

The man with longish brown hair sticking out of a skullcap gives me a slow once-over. He's tall and lanky, with two days' growth of a beard and callused hands. "You here wanting to know about Swanz?" he asks.

I show him my badge. "I understand you guys talked to him last night."

"We talked to him." He squints at my badge. "Heard someone killed him out in them woods down the road. Is that true?"

"I think that's what happened." Reaching into my pocket, I trade my badge for my notebook. "What's your name?"

"Marco Ellison." He spells the last name and I write it down.

The man who'd made the last shot straightens and sets his cue against the pool table. "We both talked to him. Bought him a beer. Played a game of pool."

"What's your name?" I ask.

"O'Dell," he says. "Rick."

The second man is a few inches taller than me, with the build of a professional wrestler, all of it wrapped in red-plaid flannel, a puffer vest, and worn jeans.

I cover some of the same questions I covered with McNarie, mentally comparing the timelines. "How well did you know Swanz?"

O'Dell speaks up first. "Never really sat down and talked to the guy. I mean, I seen him around here a lot. A regular, you know."

Not wanting to be left out, Ellison takes it from there, motions toward the bar. "Usually sat right there, drank his beer, and watched whatever game was on."

"Was Swanz with anyone last night?" I ask.

The two men exchange looks and shake their heads. "Came in alone, I think," O'Dell replies.

"He was friendly enough," Ellison adds. "You know. Talked to people, but never really saw him with anyone in particular."

"How was his frame of mind?" I ask. "While you were with him? Anything bothering him?"

"He was kind of smashed," Ellison tells me.

"Complained about his old lady if I recall," O'Dell puts in.

"His ex-wife?" I ask. "What did he say about her?"

"Just called her fat and shit," he says. "Disrespecting her mostly."

"Did Swanz ever get into any fights with anyone?" I ask. "Or have any problems? Arguments?"

Once again, the two men exchange looks, shake their heads. "Never saw it," Ellison says.

"What about your lady friend?" I ask.

"What about me?"

At the sound of the crisp female voice, I look over my shoulder to see the woman approach from the rear exit door. She's in her twenties, slender and pretty, with a mountain of red hair that tumbles over her shoulders like silk. She's not wearing a coat. Too much makeup. Big boobs with no bra. Navel piercing winking at me below the hem of her sweater. I catch a whiff of marijuana as she joins us and realize she'd gone out back to smoke.

Marco intervenes as if she requires handling with kid gloves. "She's asking about Swanz," he tells her.

I can tell by the way the woman's eyes light up that she's not too broken up about Swanz—and more than a little intrigued by the idea that she's being asked about his death.

"What's your name?" I ask her.

"Britney Gaines." She looks down at my notebook. "With one ‘t.'"

"I understand you played a game of pool with Milan Swanz last night," I say.

"Yeah, we did. Dude couldn't play for shit." Britney with one "t" rolls her eyes. "It was always a little weird to see an Amish dude in a bar. I didn't know they boozed it up like that. And that haircut of his always cracked me up!" She laughs, and then her mascara-laden eyes narrow on mine. "The girl at the nail salon told me Swanz was burned alive. That there's a group of witches living off the grid in those woods and they sacrificed him during some kind of ritual. Any truth to that?"

"There are no witches that I'm aware of," I tell her. "And we're still trying to figure out exactly what happened to Swanz."

"No way someone should get away with that shit," says Ellison.

O'Dell picks it up from there. "Milan might've been a loser, but he had a bunch of kids. And he sure didn't deserve that."

Feeling as if I'm spinning my wheels, I ask the woman some of the same questions I covered with her cohorts, ending with "Did you see him talking to anyone last night?"

For the first time, she looks at me as if her brain cells are firing and she's actually considering the question. "Now that you mention it, he was talking to a dude." She thrusts a red-tipped nail at the nearest booth. "They were sitting right there. I remember thinking it was odd because Milan usually sat at the bar."

My interest surges. "Do you know the man's name?"

"Never laid eyes on him before. That caught my attention, too. I mean, I come here pretty regular and I'd never seen him before."

"What did he look like?" I ask.

Her brows knit. "All I remember is that he was wearing black, a good shirt and slacks, which is kind of weird because most of the guys that come in here dress like slobs." She slants a look at the two men and laughs. "No offense."

"Was he Amish or English?" I ask.

The question garners more serious consideration. "That kind of got my curiosity going, too, because he kind of looked Amish, even though he didn't have a bad haircut like Milan. I think this dude had a ponytail or man bun or something."

"Hat?"

"I think so. It was on the table between them. Black."

Which fits with the type of hat an Amish man would wear in the wintertime. "Beard?"

"Not sure. I mean, I wasn't really paying attention. But I think so."

"How old was he?"

"Gosh, I don't know. Not old. I mean, he didn't have gray hair and he wasn't all wrinkled or bent over."

I try not to roll my eyes.

Her brows draw together again and she takes a sip of her beer. "It was kind of weird. I mean, he was like one of those people you look at and yet you don't see their face."

"How long did Swanz sit with him?"

"Gosh, I dunno. Fifteen or twenty minutes?"

"Ms. Gaines, would you be willing to ride down to the station with me and sit down with a sketch artist?"

Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens enough for me to see the silver stud piercing in her tongue. "Seriously? Like… in the movies?"

"This individual may or may not have anything to do with what happened to Milan Swanz, but if we can identify him and talk to him, he might be able to help us figure it out."

"Um… well, I'm kind of drunk right now, Chief Burkholder," she says sheepishly. "Is that okay?"

She doesn't look exceedingly intoxicated. Since I'm desperate—and knowing it might take some time for Tomasetti to wrangle a sketch artist—I don't hesitate. "We've got coffee and bottled water at the station." Recalling her trip to the alley for a toke, I add, "That means if you have anything on you that you shouldn't take into a police station, you should go into the ladies' room and flush it."

"Oh. Um… now that you mention it, I do need to make a quick pit stop."

"Take your time."