Page 2 of Fallen

See you in hell, she thought.

She didn’t see the next blow coming.

CHAPTER 2

The winters are endless in northeastern Ohio. People are stuck indoors for the most part. The sun doesn’t show itself for weeks on end. When the relentless cold and snow finally break and the first tinge of green touches the fields, spring fever hits with the force of a pandemic.

My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill, Ohio. Founded in 1815, it’s a pretty little township of about 5,300 souls that sits in the heart of Amish country. I was born Plain, but unlike the majority of Amish youths, I left the fold when I was eighteen. In nearby Columbus, I earned my GED and a degree in criminal justice, and I eventually found my way into law enforcement. But after I’d been in the big city a few years, my roots began to call, and when the town council courted me for the position of chief I returned and never looked back.

This morning, I’m in the barn with my significant other, John Tomasetti, who is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. We met in the course of a murder investigation shortly after I became chief, and after a rocky start we began the most unlikely of relationships. Much to our surprise, it grew into something genuine and lasting, and for the first time in my adult life I’m unabashedly happy.

We’re replacing some of the siding on the exterior of the barn. Tomasetti made a trip to the lumberyard earlier for twenty tongue-and-groove timbers and a couple of gallons of paint. As we unload supplies from the truck, a dozen or so Buckeye hens peck and scratch at the dirt floor.

Our six-acre farm is a work in progress, mainly because we’re do-it-yourselfers and as with most endeavors in this life, there’s a learning curve. We’re hoping to replace the siding this coming weekend. Next weekend, we prime and paint. The weekend after that, weather permitting, we might just get started on the garden.

“I hear you finally got another dispatcher hired,” Tomasetti says as he slides a board from the truck bed and drops it onto the stack on the ground.

“She started last week,” I tell him. “Going to be a good fit.”

“Bet Mona’s happy about that.”

Thinking of my former dispatcher—who is now Painters Mill’s first full-time female officer—I smile. “She’s not the only one,” I say. “The chief actually gets to take the occasional day off.”

He’s standing in the truck bed now, holding a gallon of paint in each hand, looking down at me. “I like her already.”

I drop the final board onto the stack and look up at him. “Anyone ever tell you you look good in those leather gloves?” I ask.

“I get that a lot,” he says.

He’s in the process of stepping down when my cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance at the screen to see DISPATCH pop up on the display. I answer with, “Hey, Lois.”

“Chief.” Lois Monroe is my first-shift dispatcher. She’s a self-assured woman, a grandmother, a crossword-puzzle whiz kid, and an experienced dispatcher. Judging by her tone, something has her rattled.

“Mona took a call from the manager out at the Willowdell Motel. She just radioed in saying there’s a dead body in one of the rooms.”

In the back of my mind I wonder if the death is from natural causes—a heart attack or slip-fall—or, worse-case scenario, a drug overdose. A phenomenon that’s happening far too often these days, even in small towns like Painters Mill.

“Any idea what happened?” I ask.

“She says it’s a homicide, Chief, and she sounds shook. Says it’s a bad scene.”

It’s not the kind of call I’m used to taking.

“I’m on my way,” I say. “Tell Mona to secure the scene. Protect any possible evidence. No one goes in or out. Get an ambulance out there and call the coroner.”

It takes me twenty minutes to reach the motel. I took the time to throw on my uniform and equipment belt, and made the drive from Wooster in record time.

The Willowdell Motel is a Painters Mill icon of sorts. The sign in front touts MID-CENTURY MODERN with CLEAN ROOMS and a SPARKLING POOL in an effort to lure tourists looking to spend a few days relaxing in Amish country. The locals don’t see the place with such optimism, especially when the pool isn’t quite so sparkling, the façade is in dire need of fresh paint, and the rooms haven’t been renovated since the 1980s.

I pull into the gravel lot to find Mona’s cruiser parked next to the office, the overheads flashing. She’s exited the vehicle and is standing outside room 9 talking to a heavyset man wearing camo pants and a golf shirt. I’ve met him at some point, but I don’t recall his name. Likely, the manager. I park the Explorer next to her cruiser and pick up my radio mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.

I get out and approach them. Mona glances my way, looks unduly relieved to see me. She’s twenty-six years old and has been a full-time officer for a few weeks. She’s as enamored with law enforcement now as she was on her first day on the job. Despite her lack of experience, she’s a good cop; she’s motivated, has good instincts, and she’s willing to work any shift, which is a plus when you only have five officers in the department.

I take her measure as we exchange a handshake. She’s pale-faced; her hand is shaking and cold in mine. Mona is no shrinking violet. Like most of my officers, she prefers action over boredom, and she’s never investigated a crime that didn’t intrigue her in some way. This morning, she’s stone-faced and I’m pretty sure I see a fleck of vomit on her sleeve.

“What do you have?” I ask.

“Deceased female.” She motions with her eyes to room 9. “She’s on the floor. Chief, there’s blood everywhere. I have no idea what happened.” She glances over her shoulder at the man who’s straining to hear our every word, and lowers her voice. “It looks like there was one hell of a struggle. I can’t tell if she was stabbed or shot or … something else.”