Page 111 of Rage

“That’s why this case was so difficult to figure out.” I shrug. “Yutzy and Shetler were Amish; they’re not going to come forward. Neither Wingate nor Brooks had records. The women were afraid—and ashamed—so they didn’t say a word.”

“Until you showed up,” Tomasetti points out.

“If it hadn’t been for those three women,” I say, “I wouldn’t be sitting here this evening.”

The silence that follows has a hard, uneasy edge.

“Speaking of past records,” Tomasetti says. “We just started looking at the club Wingate managed a few years ago in Cincinnati. Interestingly, Brooks worked there at the same time.”

“That’s how they knew each other,” Rasmussen says.

Tomasetti nods. “Get this: Three years ago, the owner of the club in Cincy was arrested for sex trafficking. Wingate and Brooks had already left the company by then and were never implicated.”

“They’d had a taste of it.” Rasmussen’s voice is bitter. “Evidently, they liked it. Decided they’d try their hand here in Holmes County.”

“I’m glad we were able to show them that we don’t oblige criminals here in Painters Mill,” I say.

“Thanks in part to the victims themselves,” Tomasetti puts in.

And the hollow feeling that had previously stolen any semblance of gratification transforms into something a little closer to justice.

CHAPTER 28

Even when you’re young and Amish and ensconced in the protective web of your community, innocence can be a precarious thing. The three young women who were there the night Lance Wingate and Carter Brooks tried to kill me are a case in point. Taking my own history into consideration, it occurs to me that I’m a case in point, too.

Two weeks have passed since the incident at The Cheetah Lounge. Life in Painters Mill has recommenced full bore. Summer with its unrelenting heat is little more than a glimmer in the rearview mirror. The Amish are harvesting corn, early due to the drought. Alas, the first frost is right around the corner. My small department has resumed taking the usual calls: loose livestock, Jim McCormick’s son driving his Mustang too fast, and some as-of-yet-unknown individual egging the high school cafeteria windows. The older I get, the more I’ve come to realize that the mundane is underrated.

The Yutzy, Shetler, and Borntrager cases may be closed, but I’ve spent a lot of time in the last couple of weeks thinking about them. I spent more time thinking about the women who were caught up in the trafficking ring. They are the survivors. Damaged and forever changed, but alive and with futures. Each of them has a long journey ahead. A journey that likely won’t be easy. I’ve reminisced about my own formative years, too, my troubled teens, and the trauma of that fateful summer when I was fourteen. Parallels, I think, and I make it a point not to examine any of them too closely.

Lance Wingate, Carter Brooks, and the bouncer, Gene Rossi, were formally charged with aggravated murder, murder, engaging in a pattern of corrupt activity, compelling prostitution, felonious assault, and trafficking a fentanyl-related compound. The other bouncer, who’s since been identified as Jake Hopkins, turned state’s evidence and to date has only been charged with two of the lesser crimes. It’s a far cry from fair, but such is the nature of the justice system. On a personal level, I find some comfort in knowing there’s a higher court that waits for all of them and their true day of reckoning will come.

The dinner hour is in full swing when I pull into the dusty gravel lot of The Sweet Maple Kitchen. The diner is located in a low-slung cinder-block building on County Road 407 between Painters Mill and Charm. There are only two vehicles parked outside the front door. I park next to the vintage pickup truck and head inside.

The aromas of coffee, toasted bread, and seared meat greet me when I enter. A row of four booths, two of which are occupied, line the wall to my right. A smattering of tables to my left. I’m not here to eat, so I go to the counter and claim a stool.

There’s a serving window between the counter and the kitchen. Through the opening, I see a young man in a white apron and hairnet hovering over a grill, his face shiny with perspiration. The double doors leading to the kitchen swing open. I glance over and see Angelica Kuhns come through, a stack of restaurant-style cups and saucers in her hands. She’s wearing a light blue waitress dress that falls to just below her knees, a white apron with pockets, off-brand sneakers on her feet. Her hair is pulled into an unruly bun at her nape. She’s not wearing a kapp.

She spots me immediately. I don’t miss the falter in her stride, the uncertainty in her expression as she carries the dishes to the counter.

“Guder nochmiddawk,” I say.

“We’re getting ready to close,” she mutters as she sets the cups and saucers on the counter.

“I can’t stay long.” I upend the cup in front of me. “I hear you guys have good coffee.”

She chokes out a laugh. “We don’t.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I slide the cup and saucer toward her.

Taking her time, she pours from a carafe and then places a tiny bowl of creamer and sugar packets in front of me. “How did you find me?”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Painters Mill is a small town and I am the chief of police. It wasn’t too hard.”

“And of course the Amish are gossips.”

“That, too.”

She looks away, concentrating on arranging the cups and saucers just so on the counter.