Page 9 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Investigator got here an hour ago.” He pauses. “Look, we don’t have anything official yet, but he thinks the fire is suspicious. There was an accelerant used. Gasoline.”

“How do you know?”

“You can smell it.”

That the fire may have been intentionally set casts an even darker shadow over an already terrible situation. “Have you called Doc Coblentz?” I ask, referring to the coroner of Holmes County.

“That’s my next call.”

“Fred, can you hold off a few minutes?” I pick up my keys. “I’m ten minutes away. Even though we don’t have a positive ID on the body, the family needs to know about the remains.” I struggle to find the right words. “I think it would be best if I was there to explain the situation to them before they see the coroner’s vehicle arrive.”

“Shit, Chief, I don’t envy you that chore.” He heaves another sigh. “I’ll hold off a few minutes, but you’d better get over here quick.”

* * *

I run my lights, blow the stoplight at Main Street, and make it to the Gingerich farm in record time. I take the lane too fast, gravel pinging inside my wheel wells, tires raising a cloud of dust. A single fire truck from the Painters Mill volunteer fire department is parked thirty feet from the burned-out shell of the barn, probably in case a hot spot flares. There’s a black SUV I don’t recognize. A red Suburban. A red and white van with STATE FIRE MARSHAL emblazoned on the side. Fred Achin and two men I don’t know are standing next to Fred’s vehicle, talking. A nice-looking bay gelding hitched to a buggy stands tied to a post a few yards from the house. There’s no sign of the coroner’s van, and I’m relieved Fred kept his word.

I park behind the buggy and head toward the back door. I’m midway down the sidewalk when the door opens. Gideon Gingerich steps onto the porch, his eyes fastened to mine, his expression beseeching.

“You bring word of my son?” he asks.

His wife Miriam stands in the doorway, looking at me as if she’s about to wrench information from me by the sheer force of her stare. “Did you find him?”

I reach them, dividing my attention between them. “Can we go inside and sit down for a few minutes?” I motion toward the door. “Please.”

Without speaking, Gideon pushes open the door and ushers me inside.

A cop never knows how someone is going to react to that initial punch of grief. All I can do at this juncture is relay the facts and emphasize the point that we have no definitive proof the body is their son.

I nod at the middle-aged Amish couple sitting at the kitchen table. I suspect they’re the Gingeriches’ neighbors. They’re solemn-faced and wearing their best clothes. Here to support the family, I think, but then that’s the Amish for you.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gingerich,” I begin, “may I speak with you privately?”

“This is my brother and sister-in-law.” Gideon sends a nod toward the couple. “Whatever news you’ve come to relay, Chief Burkholder, they can hear it.”

I nod at the couple, and turn my attention back to the Gingeriches. “Let me preface by saying I do not have definitive news about your son.” I pause, giving the statement time to sink in. “But you need to know that the fire chief discovered a body inside the barn.”

Miriam Gingerich makes a noise that sounds like some small animal being slowly crushed to death. Raising her hand as if to stop me from saying anything more, she bends slightly and backs away from the table. “No. No.”

“We do not know that it’s Daniel,” I say firmly. “There’s been no positive ID. But I wanted you to know that human remains were found and the coroner is on his way. Once the body is recovered, we’ll begin the identification process.”

Gideon opens his mouth as if to speak, his lips quivering, but he doesn’t make a sound.

The visiting couple lowers their gazes to the tabletop. They don’t speak. They don’t move.

“An investigator from the fire marshal’s office is here now. He’ll be investigating the fire and will hopefully be able to find the origin and the cause.”

“The … dead person in the barn…” The Amish man’s words come out as a hoarse whisper. “You think it’s Daniel?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I wish I could give you a better answer. We just don’t know yet.”

“Who else would it be?” Miriam chokes out the words. “Our sweet Danny. I can’t believe it.”

The Amish woman at the table rises, goes to her, and sets her hands on Miriam’s arms. “Du moosht ohheicha net da Deivel.” You must not listen to the devil. “Believe the best until you know for sure.”

Movement from the doorway snags my attention. Fannie Gingerich is standing in the hall just outside the kitchen, her hands on the shoulders of her two little sisters, about four or five years of age. Three sets of eyes flick from me to their parents and back to me.

“What happened?” the girl asks.