Page 83 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Self-defense is justified,” he says. “You have the right to protect yourself. You have the right to protect your family. Your children.”

Our gazes lock. We stare at each other, unspoken words passing between us.

“There are a lot of motivations tangled up in this case,” I say. “A lot of emotion. Rage. Shame. A need for revenge. Someone knew what Daniel Gingerich was. They knew he wouldn’t stop so they took it upon themselves to stop him. Where does that fall?”

“Daniel Gingerich wasn’t killed in self-defense,” he says. “He wasn’t killed by someone trying to protect themselves or their family. His murder was premeditated. It required forethought. Planning. Execution. Black and white.”

He’s got me thinking about the case in a slightly different light and I feel myself begin to calm down. The darkness and uncertainty that’s been dogging me since the start loosens its grip.

Before I realize I’m going to move, I raise my hand and set it against his face. “Not bad for a BCI guy.”

“Every now and then I get it right.”

Nodding, I let my hand fall away from his face and take his hand in mine. “What time do you have to be at work?”

“Heading to the shower now.”

“Want some company?”

CHAPTER 19

Aside from a loose-hog incident out at the Stutz farm in which Skid and I spent two hours chasing a three-hundred-pound boar down Dogleg Road, it’s been an uneventful morning. I finished my report on the Petersheims. When I spoke with the chief deputy, he told me all indications pointed to a clear-cut case of murder-suicide. I also called the social worker to check on little William and learned he will be placed with family members later today. I’m a big fan of good news, especially in the face of tragedy.

Yesterday’s events placed Mark Petersheim squarely at the top of my suspect list in the murder of Daniel Gingerich. If his prints or his wife’s match the latents found on the mason jar, I’ll close the case. Mark Petersheim had motive. He had means and opportunity. Chances are, he’s also the person who tried to kill me. He owned a rifle, which was sent to the lab; he also drove a pickup truck. He knew he would be caught; he knew his darkest secrets would come pouring out, so he murdered his young wife and ended it.

So why aren’t I convinced he’s my killer?

“Because I don’t think he did it,” I whisper, glad there’s no one around to hear me talking to myself.

I spent the last hour filling a legal pad with theories and motives and connections. So far none of it has panned out. As I page through the Gingerich file for the hundredth time, I can’t help but recall the statistics Tomasetti laid out at the start of the case. In the state of Ohio only about twenty-six percent of arson cases result in an arrest.… The numbers are daunting and make for a frustrating and wearisome undertaking—with a prospective outcome that’s worse than bleak.

I stare down at the autopsy photos of Daniel Gingerich, the blackened remains of what had once been an eighteen-year-old Amish boy with his own set of secrets. “Did Mark Petersheim do that to you?” I whisper.

“Chief?”

I look up to see Lois standing in the doorway of my office. “Everyone’s here,” she tells me.

“Thanks.” I close the file, shift gears.

Just this morning the mayor came through, authorizing me to hire an additional patrol officer. I didn’t waste any time; I called Mona into my office and promoted her on the spot. It’s the first time I’ve seen her speechless. The first time I’ve seen her cry.

“You got the card?” I ask.

Lois presents a yellow envelope containing the congratulations card all of us signed for Mona. I take it out and scribble my name.

“I’ve never seen her this nervous,” Lois says under her breath.

“In that case,” I say as I rise, “let’s not keep her waiting.” Grabbing my notebook, I follow her to our meeting room.

One of the things I love most about my job as chief is the opportunity to work with such a great group of officers. In the years I’ve been here in Painters Mill, they’ve become my surrogate family when my own wouldn’t speak to me. This small police department is the one place that has nothing to do with my being Amish or English. It’s the place where I am a cop, the one place where I’m comfortable, and the one place I fit in without question.

I step into the meeting room to find my team already assembled. Glock sits at the head of the table, copying something from a notepad onto a form. Pickles sits across from him, talking to Glock, two cups of coffee from LaDonna’s Diner in front of him. Skid is sprawled in a chair to my right, thumbing something into his phone. T.J. is in the midst of telling a tall tale to my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, who’s buying into every word and is unabashedly impressed. She has a lot to learn about cops.

I catch Lois’s eye as I head toward the half podium. “Where’s Mona?” I whisper.

“Restroom.” She makes an exaggerated worried face. “Fourth time in twenty minutes.”

I take my place behind the podium, clear my throat. “Skid, did you tell Stutz to get that fence repaired?”