Page 42 of The Burning

“Was there anyone with him?” I ask.

“Didn’t see anyone else,” she replies. “Man didn’t have many friends left. In fact, I don’t know a soul who’d want to spend any time with him. Milan Swanz was one of those people you steer clear of if you’ve got a brain in your head.”

CHAPTER 11

I was a homicide detective with the Columbus Division of Police for two years before becoming chief in Painters Mill. During that time, I worked with a number of cops, and most of them were a lot more experienced than me. It was a difficult and intense time, and a period of rapid professional growth. I learned more during that two-year period than in the entirety of the six I’d spent in patrol. One of the detectives I partnered with during that time was Bud Lawrence. He was a thirty-year veteran, six months from retirement, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was a rookie detective young enough to be his daughter who was under the impression she knew more than he did. That young female detective was me.

I disliked Bud from day one. He was blunt, openly rude, and seemed to go out of his way to make my life miserable. When I screwed up, he ridiculed me—and not in a good-natured way. At the time, I had no way of knowing that of all the people who had mentored me, it would be Bud whose teachings I would come to value the most. After a few rocky weeks and a lot of stress, I learned to keep my mouth shut; I learned to pay attention to the right things, and I began to learn. Bud shared something more important than anything you’d get from a classroom, and a hell of a lot more valuable: his experience. He taught me how to think like a cop, how to push when I didn’t have any push left, and how to think outside the box.

It’s eleven P.M. and I’m sitting in my office at the police station. The switchboard has quieted. The last sheriff’s deputy left an hour ago. It’s just me and my second-shift dispatcher and the knowledge that I don’t have squat in terms of a suspect. My brain squirms inside my head, but I’m intellectually spent and too tired to push.

When you hit that wall, put that voice inside your head on paper and let the damn thing talk.

It was one of Bud’s favorite axioms, and to this day I keep a supply of legal pads in my desk. Tonight, at a loss and batting zero, I pull one out and I go to town on the page.

Symbolism of murder—burned at the stake—connection to Martyrs Mirror?

Victimology: Swanz led a troubled life. Divorced. Misdemeanor convictions. Alcohol abuse. Excommunicated. Not well liked. Ex-wife—lying about boyfriend? Parents—not close to him. Something off?

Argument with neighbor—burned cornfield.

Bishop Troyer—cagey? Something to hide?

Stutzman’s Cabinetry—fire—lost everything. Revenge? Noah Stutzman?

Monroe Hershberger—destroyed crops & garden—reluctant to speak poorly of fellow Amish?

Still need to speak with best friend—Clarence Raber.

I scrawl in longhand, fast, stream-of-consciousness. I fill two pages before I settle into a rhythm, and finally my cop’s brain kicks in and I dig deeper.

List of addresses. Relevant? Bishop Troyer—bann/excommunication. Noah Stutzman—termination. Monroe Hershberger—excommunication. Lester Yoder—neighbor—burned cornfield.

Jacob? Did Swanz have a beef with my brother?

Regular at McNarie’s. Excessive drinking. Unidentified male? Made contact with Swanz. Looked Amish. Need to ID him!!

I stop writing. Look down at my notes. Read through them from start to finish. I underscore Jacob and Unidentified male.

You got nothing, Kate, a little voice reminds. Go home and get some sleep or you’re not going to be worth a damn in the morning.

“Shut up,” I whisper.

But I close the legal pad, tuck it into my briefcase, and call it a night.

Everything I know about the case plays in the back of my mind as I back out of my parking spot and head for the farm. I’m tired and troubled and in need of a hot shower and a few hours of undisturbed sleep. I have every intention of turning onto the county road that will take me north toward Millersburg and Wooster.

I don’t make the turn. Two miles down the road, I pull into the parking lot of McNarie’s bar. For the span of a heartbeat, I consider going inside and slugging back some temporary reprieve. To my credit, I’ve outgrown the destructive behavior of my younger self. Eyeing the vehicles—all six of them—I circle the lot, then stop at the exit, kill the engine, and get out.

Around me, the night is misty, cold, and so quiet I can hear the bass drum of music from the bar fifty yards away. I stand there a moment, listening, thinking, trying to put myself in Swanz’s head. I walk to the shoulder and look in the direction of his trailer home, which is about two miles away. It’s a long walk, especially if you’re intoxicated, but it’s doable.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Milan Swanz was in the bar, drinking. According to witnesses, it was common for him to be without a vehicle. If he’d been unable to get a ride and decided to walk home, he would have passed over the very ground upon which I’m standing.

“Did you walk home?” I whisper, my voice sounding strange in the silence of the night. “Or did someone drive you?”

No one in the bar noticed Milan leaving with another individual. But I can’t ignore the mysterious man he’d been seen talking to. Did he leave with Milan? Drive him home? If so, what happened during that short, two-mile jaunt?

The questions nag as I get back into the Explorer. I start the engine and creep along the route he would have taken. I roll down my window, and a blast of cold air washes over me. It would have been a cold walk, I think. If someone had offered a ride, an intoxicated Milan would have jumped at the offer.