Page 31 of The Burning

“According to his ex, Swanz drove a 2014 Ford Mustang. It’s not at the residence. Not at the scene. At this point, we have to consider it missing as well.”

“We’ll put out a BOLO.” The Ohio State Highway Patrol detective speaks up for the first time.

“Do we know how Swanz spent his final hours?” Glock asks. “Or who was the last person to see him alive?”

Both are questions I feel I should have been able to answer by now. “No.” I look down at my notes. “His ex-wife claims she hasn’t seen him for a week. His parents say they saw him about a month ago.”

“Seems like a long time for an Amish family,” Rasmussen says.

“We have to bear in mind that he was excommunicated,” I tell him. “It’s my understanding that Swanz liked to go to bars and he liked women. Might be worth checking.” I give Glock a pointed look. “Go to the Brass Rail. Talk to whoever’s there. Find out if/when Swanz was there. If he’s a regular. Who he hung out with.”

He gives me a mock salute.

“T.J.,” I say. “Same for Miller’s Tavern.”

“Stay away from the hot wings.” Skid pats his belly.

A round of chuckles ensues, but it’s short-lived. Recalling the koozies I found in Swanz’s trailer, I decide to swing by the remaining bar on my way to see my brother. “I’ll hit McNarie’s,” I tell them.

“Chief.” Auggie uses the folder in his hand to fan his face. “There are all sorts of crazy rumors floating around town about witches and cults in the area. Is that something our citizens need to be worried about? If not, how do I reassure them?”

“There is a known pseudo-cult down near McConnelsville,” the Ohio State Highway Patrol detective puts in. “Don’t know much about them, but they’re on our radar.”

I look around, realize I’m out of personnel to whom I can assign the task. “I’ll ask Mona to look into it,” I say. “See if we can find any connections.”

The state highway patrol detective rattles the report in his hand. “One more thing, Chief Burkholder. Spillman that came over indicated the body was discovered by two of your officers.” His brows knit. “The crime scene is sort of an out-of-the-way location, especially in the middle of the night. Did a citizen call it in? Or did your officers just happen upon the scene?”

I look at Skid and nod, giving him the floor. “Skidmore?”

Something in the way his gaze shifts away from mine gives me pause. Skid’s not shy. He doesn’t mind the limelight and will be the first to cut up or utter some uncouth joke, even during the most serious of situations.

“I was on patrol,” he says, then assumes a sheepish countenance. “Got out to take a leak. Officer Kurtz must have seen my taillights and rolled up behind me. We got out to talk and we heard what sounded like a scream or shout. At that point, we also discerned smoke. So, we scaled the fence and immediately observed the fire through the trees. Within a minute, we spotted the victim and made efforts to extinguish the fire.”

In the seconds that follow, half a dozen questions occur to me, and I can’t help but wonder what they were doing in that area at that hour. I don’t say anything because we’ve more important concerns to deal with at the moment.

“We’ll have statements from both officers available end of day,” I tell the detective.

I’ve been so absorbed in the case, I hadn’t realized until now that not all of the details add up. For one thing, it’s against department policy for any officer to pull over to take a leak, even on a back road at three o’clock in the morning. And what the hell was Mona doing there? Even if she’d stayed late and was on her way home, she would have been traveling in the opposite direction.

The press conference is an overcrowded free-for-all of shouted questions, outlandish theories, an overzealous media, and the flashing of cell phone camera lights, all of it fielded by me, Mayor Brock, Tomasetti, and Sheriff Rasmussen. The mayor is still speaking when I make my exit and steal away to my office.

It doesn’t take long for me to find the names that go along with the addresses I found in the notebook at Swanz’s trailer. The first are Amish bishop David Troyer and his wife. The second is Noah Stutzman, the son of Swanz’s former employer. The third address belongs to Monroe Hershberger. I don’t know him personally, but recall he’s a well-thought-of Amish elder here in Painters Mill. The fourth address is for Swanz’s neighbor Lester Yoder. The man who accused Swanz of burning his cornfield. The final address, of course, belongs to my brother and sister-in-law, Jacob and Irene. I know Swanz had disputes with Stutzman and Yoder. Since Swanz had been excommunicated, it’s likely he was not a fan of Bishop Troyer, either. If memory serves me, I believe Monroe Hershberger is one of the Diener of the Amish church district. If that’s the case, he may have been involved with Swanz’s excommunication as well.

So why is my brother’s address included? Did he have a beef with Swanz?

“Only one way to find out,” I mutter, and reach for my keys.

CHAPTER 8

The farm where I grew up isn’t quite pretty. The fence along the driveway needs paint. The ground surrounding the barn and outbuildings is trampled to mud. The barn could use a new roof. But this place is rich in memories, some good, some bad, and when I was a kid, it was my universe. As I drive up the long gravel lane, past the cherry tree I helped my datt plant when I was twelve, it strikes me that I’ve finally come to terms with not only my past and the things that happened here, but the relationship I share with my Amish family.

I park in the gravel area at the rear of the house. I sit in the Explorer for a moment and watch the snow flutter down from a brooding sky. The cop inside me is cognizant of the ticking of the clock. The part of me that remembers so well what it was like to be that Amish girl who never quite fit in relishes being surrounded by the place that will always be the foundation of me.

I take the narrow sidewalk to the back door and knock. It’s quiet; my nephews are likely still in school. The cattle and hogs have long since been fed. The sound of boots on the wood-plank floor sounds just inside the door and then my brother is there, looking at me as if his own memories aren’t too distant, and yet the woman standing before him is a stranger he doesn’t quite recognize.

“Katie.” He looks past me, taking in the lightly falling snow, and then he steps back. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

Taking off my hat, I follow him through the mudroom and into the large kitchen. A welcome blast of heat from the stove hits me in the face as I enter. My sister-in-law, Irene, stands at the sink, washing a big Dutch oven. She looks at me over her shoulder and smiles. “Katie!” she says. “How’s married life treating you? My goodness, you’re right on time for date pudding and coffee. I just made both if you’ve got the time.”