Page 18 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Thank you. I won’t be long.” I start toward the stairs, but he calls out my name. I turn and look at him.

“He was a good young man, Chief Burkholder. Humble and kind and generous. Had his whole life ahead of him. I don’t know who could have done this horrible thing. I just don’t know.”

Lowering his face into his hands, he begins to cry.

* * *

Daniel Gingerich’s bedroom is typical of a room belonging to a young Amish man. Clean, but untidy. Sparsely furnished. Practical. It’s a small room with a single window that’s about halfway open. A dark blue curtain is swept to one side and held in place with a length of string. A twin-size bed with an oak headboard is draped with a well-worn navy quilt. Next to it is a night table with three drawers. A floating shelf is mounted on the wall above the bed. On the opposite wall a rustic length of wood with six dowels holds a jacket, a straw hat, and trousers with the suspenders still attached. From where I’m standing I see a pair of wadded-up socks under the bed, and it reminds me that just days ago, an eighteen-year-old boy called this small, modest space home.

Ever aware that his grieving parents are downstairs and in need of privacy, I set to work, starting with the night table. The first drawer contains a white, unscented candle that’s melted onto a saucer. A plastic flashlight. A tin of cough drops. A half-eaten bag of potato chips.

I go to the next drawer and discover that Daniel was a reader. On top is the Es Nei Teshtament, which is a Pennsylvania Dutch–English edition of the New Testament. Beneath it is a tattered Field & Stream magazine. An ancient-looking library book about hunting game in Ohio. The third drawer is a mishmash of junk. A screwdriver. A box of screws. A set of baseball cards. A tape measure.

Rising, I turn to the mattress, kneel and run my hands beneath it. Daniel Gingerich wasn’t very creative when it came to hiding things from his parents. First thing I feel is a pack of cigarettes. I pull it out, flip the top. There’s a lighter and two cigarettes inside. I replace the pack and my fingers slide over something else. I pull out a sandwich bag into which several photos are tucked.

The first is a picture of Daniel and a pretty Amish girl. I wonder if it’s his girlfriend, Luane Raber. She’s wearing a blue dress, a kapp with the ties dangling over her shoulders, and a huge smile. They’re at some large body of water, blue with whitecaps in the distance, possibly Lake Erie. They look young and carefree and incredibly happy. The way young people ought to look.

I go to the next photo. It’s a close-up of the girl. She’s got a pretty face. A shy, sweet smile. Still wearing her kapp. Her hand is outstretched, as if she’s trying to keep the photographer from snapping the shot. I suspect the photographer is Daniel. I see the same lake in the background. Blue water, a sandy beach, and a line of trees.

The last photo is of Daniel. He’s shirtless with wet hair and flexing his muscles. Grinning from ear to ear, he’s pointing to a large brown spot on his torso, saying something. At first I think the spot is a leech he must have picked up while swimming, but upon closer inspection I realize it’s a birthmark or mole. He’s poking fun at himself, I realize. A typical teenager having a good time at the lake with his girlfriend. Staring at the photo, I feel a tug of something I shouldn’t.

I pull a baggie from a compartment on my belt and slide the photos into it. Before leaving, I’ll ask the parents if I can borrow them with the promise to return them. Since the Amish shun photos, chances are they won’t want them. But with their son being gone …

I systematically search the rest of the room; I’d hoped to find a cell phone or journal, but there’s nothing of interest. Certainly nothing that would explain his fate.

Daniel Gingerich was a son, a brother, a grandson, a boyfriend. According to everyone I’ve talked to, he was well-liked and happy, a typical Amish boy anxious to start his life as an adult. Who wanted him dead and why? What kind of monster would lock an eighteen-year-old boy inside a room and then set the barn on fire?

CHAPTER 6

Some people say murder is a senseless act. I don’t agree. There’s no doubt murder is a brutal act. It’s a cruel act. An immoral act. It’s wrong in the eyes of the law. A sin in the eyes of God. Murder is an unthinkable deed in the mind of any decent human being. But murder is rarely senseless.

As with any murder investigation, especially when there’s no hint of a suspect, it’s imperative to establish motive and develop a suspect as quickly as possible. Right now, information is the name of the game.

After leaving the Gingerich farm I swing by the station and pick up my first-shift officer. Rupert “Glock” Maddox has been with the department for about five years now. He’s a former marine, a rock-solid cop with a steady personality and a boatload of common sense. He’s charming and funny and easy to be around. I consider him not only an asset to the department but a friend.

“Where we headed?” he says as he slides into the passenger seat of my Explorer.

I fill him in on the turn of events surrounding the death of Daniel Gingerich. “I thought we might pay Chris Martino a visit.”

“Ah. My favorite felon. Colorful guy.” Then, he adds, “Martino’s a mean son of a bitch and dumb as a box of rocks.”

“Bad combination.” I make the turn onto the county road that will take us to the Martino place.

“You check for warrants?” Glock asks.

“Yup.” I slow for the lane, a narrow strip that’s more weed than gravel, and turn in. “None currently.”

“Maybe he’s decided to keep his nose clean.”

“And take up yoga.”

We exchange grins.

The lane is a quarter mile long and wends right just as the old farmhouse looms into view. Martino rents the house from the owner, Owen Brice, who lives in Millersburg and stores his tractor and equipment in the barns and still farms the land.

The first thing I notice is the tall grass. It’s hip high and chock-full of weeds, with bits of trash scattered throughout. I take the Explorer over a huge rut where someone drove through mud and let it dry jaggedly. The driveway is semicircular. In the middle of the circle is a rusty fifty-gallon drum someone shot up with a large-caliber firearm and used to burn trash. The drum is lying on its side, a waterlogged pizza box and several containers of auto oil spilling onto the ground.

We wade through a jungle of grass and nondescript bushes and take a broken sidewalk around to the front porch. The wood decking is warped, the gray paint peeling. A lawn chair lies on its side next to a hanging basket that’s fallen and smashed to bits. Standing slightly to one side, I knock and wait.