Page 45 of The Burning

“Nothing serious.” He laughs, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. “You know, the usual kind of rumspringa stuff. Drinking and raising hell.” His expression softens as if the words rekindle fond memories. “Terrorizing the girls. The way a couple of teenaged idiots do.”

I can tell by his Deitsch pronunciation of rumspringa that he’s Amish or at least grew up Amish. “When’s the last time you saw Swanz?”

A flicker of something I can’t quite identify in his eyes. “Been four or five months now,” he says.

Curiosity pings. “Did you have a falling-out?”

“Well.” He scrubs his hand over his beard, looks back toward the scaffolding as if he’d rather be up there greasing bearings instead of down here talking to me. “I guess I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” He smiles sheepishly.

“Clarence.” I say his name firmly, wait until he stops fidgeting and meets my gaze. “We’re trying to figure out what happened to Milan Swanz and you’re wasting our time. If something happened between the two of you, you need to tell me about it. Right now.”

“We had a falling-out about four and a half months ago.” As if realizing the statement might be misinterpreted, he raises his hands, chokes out a laugh. “Not that kind of falling-out! I mean, I didn’t kill him.”

“What kind of falling-out?” I ask.

“Look, the problems between me and Milan had nothing to do with what happened to him. Can we just leave it at that?”

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Raber. We can do this here all friendly-like, or we can drive you to the station in Painters Mill and do it in an interview room. It’s your call.”

He heaves a sigh, shakes his head. “Milan had a tendency to overreact when something didn’t suit him. When he was a kid, it was all fun and games. Everyone thought he’d straighten out as he got older. Truth of the matter is, it got worse.”

“How so?”

“He had a temper. Everything was a slight, you know? He took things personal and then he couldn’t let it go. It’s like he’d dwell on it and stew. When he got pissed, you’d best look out because he didn’t exactly have a lot of self-control. Sometimes he got mean.” He shakes his head. “Especially when he drank.”

“Did he have any problems with anyone in particular?” I ask.

“I know he had some problems with the people he worked for.” He recaps the story about the fire at Stutzman’s cabinet shop, which corresponds with what I already know. “Milan took it bad when they fired him. Said they humiliated him. And he sure didn’t have no soft spot for the dude’s son.”

“Noah Stutzman?”

He nods.

“Did Milan start the fire?”

“He said he didn’t. I believed him. But everyone else sure had their suspicions.”

“Did Milan have any problems with anyone else?”

“That’s about all I know about.” He shrugs. “Pulled him off a guy in a bar once, but that was a long time ago up in Canton.”

Glock speaks up for the first time. “What about your falling-out with him?”

“It wasn’t good.” Shaking his head vigorously, he swears beneath his breath. “Damn, I hate to trash him now that he’s dead. It just don’t feel right.”

“If it’s any consolation,” I say, “you don’t have a choice.”

“Right.” He shoves both hands into his pockets. “I was over at his house one afternoon, drinking a beer like we’d done a hundred times before. His wife was there. The kids.” He heaves a sigh. “His son runs into the kitchen and accidentally knocked something over, made a mess.” Raber’s jaw tightens as if he’s bitten into something unpalatable. “One minute Milan was sitting there chilling and the next he grabbed that kid. Just fucking … yanked him around way too rough. The little guy squealed and started crying. I’m no fighter, but I swear to God I just about tore into Milan.”

I write it down. “What’s the child’s name?”

“Aaron. He’s the middle kid.”

“Did anyone call the police?”

“No.”

“Was Milan abusive to his children?”