Page 51 of A Gathering of Secrets

Life would be a hell of a lot easier if people just told you what they know the first time you talked to them, rather than stonewalling or lying or playing all those hide-and-seek games some folks are so damn fond of. No one understands better than I do the desire for privacy, particularly when there’s a personal tragedy involved. I get that, and I go out of my way to protect reputations at risk.

In dealing with the Amish, I know that their avoiding me isn’t necessarily an indicator of guilt, but a reflection of their “tenet of separation” from the rest of the world. Most Amish deal with “the English” on a daily basis with no problems. But some of the Old Order and Swartzentruber sects go to great lengths to avoid dealing with non-Amish individuals. I understand and respect their belief system. That said, I will not allow the mind-set to interfere with or hinder my investigation.

It’s a little after four P.M. and I’m in my office, resisting the urge to beat my head against the desk, when Lois rushes in. “Tip just came in over the line we set up for the Gingerich thing.”

Despite her enthusiasm, I don’t get too excited. So far the tip line has been as fruitful as a dead tree and I’m too discouraged to get my hopes up. “Go ahead, make my day.”

She slaps a notepad in front of me. “Female caller says Chris Martino, the neighbor, set the fire that killed Dan Gingerich. She claims there’s proof in Martino’s shed.”

It’s the last kind of information I expected. Even without hearing the details, I experience a precipitous rise of skepticism. “Did she say what kind of proof?”

“No.”

“Did she leave her name? Contact info?”

“She said she was scared of him and wants to remain anonymous.”

“Did you get a number?”

“The call came in from the Amish pay phone out on County Roads 407 and 58.”

A phone anyone could have used to make the call. Still, despite my doubts about its validity, I’m obliged to follow up. At the very least I need to find out if there’s any so-called evidence in Martino’s shed.

“Call Judge Siebenthaler and tell him I’m on my way over,” I say. “Tell him I need a warrant to search Chris Martino’s home.”

“You got it.”

But I know all too well that any warrant based on an anonymous tip is going to be a hard sell. Still, in light of the seriousness of the crime—and my lack of progress in producing a viable suspect—the judge might just bite.

Thinking about Martino and his temper, I ask, “Who’s on duty, by the way?”

“Skid came on about an hour ago.”

“Tell him to get over here. I’m going to put together a quick affidavit and head over to the judge’s chambers.”

* * *

Two hours later I’m armed with a warrant and on my way to the home of Chris Martino. Judge Siebenthaler wasn’t thrilled about issuing a warrant based on an anonymous tip. As a result, he limited my search to the shed. I wasn’t happy with it, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

Skid rides shotgun in the passenger seat. “Might’ve been beneficial to wait until happy hour before laying that affidavit on the judge.” He grins. “Just sayin’.”

I try not to smile. It’s common knowledge that the judge spends most afternoons at the country club up in Millersburg and chases his usual nine holes of golf with a round or two of Woodford Reserve. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “This ‘tip’ seems a little convenient.”

“Someone with an ax to grind against Martino?” He shrugs. “He’s not exactly Mr. Charisma.”

“Or someone who wants to divert us,” I say. “It’s noteworthy that the caller had no interest in the reward money.”

“We do have one thing going for us, Chief.”

I glance over at him and raise my brows.

“Chris Martino might just be dumb enough to have set that fire and then left the torch and gas can in his shed.”

“You’ve rekindled my faith in mankind.”

Afternoon is giving way to evening when I pull into the weed-riddled driveway of the Martino place. There’s only one vehicle—Martino’s old pickup truck—so I pull up behind it and park adjacent to the shed. It’s a dilapidated building with a broken overhead door, siding that’s gone to rot, and half a dozen shattered windowpanes. It’s a relatively small building—about the size of a single-car garage.

Plucking the warrant from the console, I get out.