Page 57 of A Gathering of Secrets

Arson is a particularly difficult crime to solve. Mainly because much of the evidence left at the scene, DNA, fingerprints, or footwear impressions—the structure itself—is often destroyed by the intense heat or by the efforts of the firefighters. Tomasetti informed me that in the state of Ohio only about twenty-six percent of arson cases result in an arrest. Unless you have a witness, a confession, or a damn good security camera positioned in just the right place, chances are it will go unsolved.

Despite my growing suspicions about Daniel Gingerich, the notion of someone getting away with such an insidious crime doesn’t sit well. I know from experience that once someone crosses the line and commits a violent crime, they’re a hell of a lot more likely to do it again. That’s one of the reasons I’ve focused on motive.

I recall my conversation with Ralph Baker and his assertion that Daniel had received a note from an unidentified woman. I believe Baker is telling the truth. But I learned a long time ago never to take anything at face value. Just because Daniel was waving some note around doesn’t mean it came from a woman. Anyone could have used such a tactic to lure him into that barn. But who? And why?

Pulling out a legal pad, I go to a fresh page and write down the things I know about the case so far.

Note? Unknown individual lured Daniel Gingerich to the barn. A woman?

I underscore the word “unknown.”

Premeditated? Definitely.

Suspects: The neighbor, Chris Martino. Felon. Ex-con. Argument over stolen horse tack. Temper.

Early on, Martino was a viable suspect, but no more. Now, the question foremost in my mind is who left the mason jars and key in his shed—and why.

Milo Hershberger. Jealousy over Luane Raber?

Emma Miller’s parents, Sam and Esther Miller. Daughter was pregnant. Had she been raped by Daniel Gingerich? Was he indirectly responsible for her suicide?

Elam Schlabach. Did he find out something happened between Daniel and his girlfriend and decide to mete out a little revenge?

Luane Raber? Did she know her husband-to-be was cheating on her?

Did Mose and Sue Raber know their daughter was planning to marry a serial seducer—or worse? Did they murder Daniel to prevent her from making a mistake?

What about Ruth Petersheim? Nervous. Evasive. Mark Petersheim? Connection?

Frustrated by my lack of progress, I toss the pen aside and go back to the file, page through it. I come across the photos I found in Daniel’s bedroom and something pricks at my memory. Something about the photo …

Reaching into my desk drawer, I snatch up my reading glasses and study the picture. It’s the one in which Daniel is grinning from ear to ear; he’s bare-chested and doing his utmost to accentuate his muscles, but in a silly, joking way. I recognize the Amish girl as Luane Raber.

I flip through all three photos, go back to the one in which Daniel is without a shirt. That’s when I realize the thing that’s bothering me is the birthmark on his abdomen. I’ve seen it before. But how is that possible? Where would I have seen something that’s usually covered by clothing? I’d never met Daniel.…

The baby.

The memory strikes me like a blow. Ruth Petersheim’s baby. The day Mona and I went to see her, little William had spit up. He’d been wearing a onesie and she’d changed his diaper, exposing the exact same mole on his abdomen.…

“My God,” I whisper. “Is Daniel Gingerich the father?”

No wonder Ruth Petersheim had been so nervous, so standoffish. I’d assumed it was because she’d become pregnant out of wedlock. She fudged on the date and didn’t want anyone to do the math. Having grown up Amish, I understand that. This is different, especially if she was pregnant by another man and passed off the child as her husband’s.

In terms of motive, this could be a significant development and I find myself thinking about Mark Petersheim. If I’m right about the birthmark, does he know the baby isn’t his? Did Ruth tell him? If Daniel is the baby’s father, did he and Ruth have a consensual relationship? Or was it something else? If there was a sexual assault involved, does Mark Petersheim know about it? Does he know he’s raising another man’s child? Did he decide to do something about it?

The murder of Daniel Gingerich has been one of the most frustrating, twisty cases I’ve ever worked. Over the course of a few days, my victim has evolved from wholesome and much-loved Amish teenager to suspected sexual predator. Because of the nature of his alleged crimes—and the fact that his victims are Amish—none of the women came forward and none of them are willing to speak with me about it. I have no way of telling whether it’s because they’re trying to protect their privacy or the privacy of someone else—or because they, or a family member, are guilty of a horrific crime and attempting to cover their tracks.

Even the physical evidence is refusing to materialize. I’m not optimistic that the latents found on the key at the scene will be identified. We’ve received a handful of calls on the hotline; each was looked into, but so far nothing has panned out. That leaves me with a slew of suspects based solely on theory and guesswork, but none of it is compelling. All I can do at this point is continue talking to people in the hope someone will open up and level with me.

A glance at my computer tells me it’s too late to pay Ruth Petersheim a visit tonight. Probably best to catch her when her husband is at work anyway; she’ll be more apt to speak openly, especially if Mark Petersheim doesn’t know the child he’s raising as his own was fathered by Daniel Gingerich.

CHAPTER 14

It’s not yet noon when I roll up to Ruth and Mark Petersheim’s house and park curbside. I take the narrow sidewalk to the porch and knock. I hear shuffling on the other side of the door and I imagine Ruth looking out the peephole, trying to figure out a way to get rid of me. I’m about to knock a second time when the door opens a couple of inches. Ruth Petersheim peers out at me, eyes darting, a cat facing off with a junkyard dog.

“Hi, Ruth.” Though we’ve already met, I show her my badge. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

Her eyes widen, then flick past me as if she’s expecting to see an armada of cops, weapons drawn, cuffs at the ready. “Little William has a fever,” she says quietly. “Maybe we could talk later?”