Page 58 of The Burning

The Amish woman looks to be on the verge of tears as she recounts it. “Milan had already been excommunicated, and I can tell you he wasn’t happy with the bishop. Wasn’t happy about anything, to be honest. He’d go down to Clarence Raber’s place and they’d drink like fools.”

She huffs. “Anyway, I overhead Erma telling the other women that Clarence and Milan got drunk one night, and drove over to the bishop’s house.” She presses a hand to her abdomen as if to ease a cramp. “She said Milan and the bishop had words and somehow the bishop ended up on the floor. Milan had a knife on him and hacked off a piece of the bishop’s beard. Some of his hair, too. When Freda came out with that crop of hers—you know, the one she’ll use on you if you get out of line—he pushed her down, tore off her kapp, and cut her hair, too.”

When you’re Amish, hair is an expression of your obedience and submission to God. A man stops shaving upon marriage; his beard symbolizes his personal identity and his standing in the community. An Amish woman stops cutting her hair after she is married. To have such a personal piece of individuality stolen is an assault not only on their identity, but on their faith.

“It’s the most awful thing I ever heard.” Bertha puffs hard on the cigarette. “I was so ashamed.”

“No one called the police.” I don’t pose it as a question.

“No. It was too much. To think an Amish man would bring that kind of shame onto his own. The bishop. Can you imagine?” She shakes her head as if trying to rid the images from her brain. “No one wanted anyone to know, least of all the English.”

She tosses the cigarette to the ground, steps on it, grinds it into the asphalt. “That’s just about all I got to say about that,” she says. “Just thinking of it shames me all over again.”

“Mrs. Swanz, do you have any idea who might’ve killed your ex-husband?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Were you involved in any way?”

She cuts loose with a bitter laugh that’s fraught with pain. “I might be a liar and a sinner, Kate Burkholder. The one thing I am not is a murderer. Even if that evil bastard deserved it.”

CHAPTER 15

Almost everyone has something to hide, from the little white lie you tell to protect someone’s feelings to the kinds of secrets that destroy lives. I think about the lengths to which people will go to keep certain information from coming to light. I know better than most that in the minds of a few, some secrets are worth killing for.

It’s eleven P.M. and I’m behind the wheel of the Explorer, trying not to think of my own skeletons. It’s been a long and unproductive day. I’m beyond exhaustion, but too wound up to go home. Instead of making the turn toward the highway that will take me to the farm, I make a left and head toward Dogleg Road.

Most murders are a far cry from the way they are depicted in movies and novels. They’re not particularly complex, or thoughtful, or intelligent. Most are mindless acts of stupidity or rage or impulse committed by a psychopath or jackass for some fatuous reason no one gives a damn about. There is no reason or supposed justification. Just a life lost and a dozen more destroyed. And for what? Jealousy? Greed? Evil?

When it comes to the homicide investigation, I’ve always believed that once a cop understands the why, he can usually figure out the who. This case is different. The things I know about Swanz do not paint him in a positive light by any stretch of the imagination. He was physically and emotionally abusive to his wife and children. If he perceived he’d been wronged, he sought revenge. According to my brother, he was a child predator. His former employer suspected him of arson. His ex-wife asserts that he assaulted an elderly bishop and his wife. All of those things are the actions of a man devoid of a moral compass, a complete lack of self-control, and sociopathic tendencies. More than one person may have been compelled to do away with Swanz. And yet here I am, at the end of day two of the investigation, and I have next to zero in my investigator’s tool kit.

I’m a hundred yards from the crime scene, thinking about my brother and so distracted I almost don’t notice the vehicle in the ditch. I’m nearly past when I hit the brakes and come to a stop. Quickly, I throw the Explorer into reverse for a better look. It’s a four-door, dark-colored sedan with Pennsylvania plates. No driver inside that I can see. The vehicle is nose down, the front tires in several inches of mud, the rear tires on the gravel shoulder. It doesn’t look crashed or stuck. The engine isn’t running.

Reaching for my mounted spotlight, I level the beam on the vehicle and pick up my mike. “Ten-eighty-five,” I say, using the ten code for abandoned vehicle. “Jodie, can you ten-twenty-eight?” Check vehicle registration.

“You got it, Chief.”

“Pennsylvania plates.” I recite the number and give her my location. “I’m going to take a quick look around.”

“Roger that.”

Snagging my Maglite from its nest, I get out of the Explorer, and sweep the beam in a 360-degree circle. There’s no one in sight. No voices or movement. Just utter quiet and light snow slanting down in a northerly breeze.

I set the beam on the driver’s-side door and start toward it. There’s no one inside, front seat or rear. The car is a newish-model BMW. Clean interior. The hood and trunk are securely closed. I set my hand against the hood, find it warm to the touch. It hasn’t been long since the engine was running. I check the tires, but there’s no flat. That’s when I notice the footprints, partially obscured by snow, as if someone got out of the vehicle a short time ago. I set the beam on the prints, see that they go to the fence, over it, and into the woods.

Toward the crime scene.

The place where I’m standing is about fifty yards from where Milan Swanz was killed. The CSI technicians have long since released the scene. It’s not unusual for curious citizens, crime aficionados, and bored teenagers to show up and explore. Of course, it’s late and cold and, perhaps most importantly, the out-of-state plates tell me the driver is likely not local.

“Painters Mill Police Department!” Calling out, I approach the fence, shine the beam into the woods beyond. “Hello! Anyone there?”

Someone has repaired the fence. I’m looking for a place to climb over when movement to my left sends a burst of hot adrenaline to my gut. I spin, catch sight of a male an instant before he plows into me with so much force that I fly backward, the breath knocked from my lungs. My feet tangle. I’m reaching for my lapel mike when the ground slams into my back. My head hits hard enough to daze; then he comes down on top of me.

“Police officer!” I shout. “Get off me!”

The command has no effect. My attacker is large and strong. He’s quick. No hesitation. Straddling my waist. I grapple for my radio, only to see his hand flash, and I feel the mike ripped from my collar.

“Get the fuck off!” Snarling, I reach for my .38, fumble it beneath my parka. Shit. Shit! A hand clamps around my throat, thumb and fingers like a steel trap cutting off the blood to my head.