Breaking Silence

CHAPTER 9

Skid and I are in my Explorer a few blocks from the station. I’m thinking about swinging by the sheriff’s office to talk to Tomasetti, when my radio crackles. “Chief, we got a ten-sixteen out at the Slabaugh place,” says Lois.

We use the ten-code system in the department. A 10-16 is the code for a domestic dispute. I’ve been the chief of police for three years now, and I have yet to take a call for any kind of domestic problem at an Amish farm.

Skid and I exchange “What now?” looks, and I pick up my mike. “You got details on that, Lois?”

“CSU guy called it in. Said there was a bunch of Amish people out in the yard and there was some kind of argument. He said it looked like a fight was going to erupt.”

“I’m ten-seven-six.” Pulling into the parking lot of a Lutheran church, I turn around and hit the emergency lights.

“Well, that’s a first,” Skid says. “What about Lauren Walker?”

“She’ll have to wait a little while.”

A few minutes later, we arrive at the Slabaugh farm. Sure enough, a dozen or so Amish men and women are standing in a group between the barn and the house. Quickly, I park and Skid and I get out. As we approach, I identify Bishop Troyer’s grizzled form in the center of the group and then see Adam Slabaugh, who’s wearing his English work clothes. I notice Salome’s slight form in her blue dress and white kapp. Several Amish women stand at the perimeter of the group, hovering like nervous hens.

I reach them in time to see Mose Slabaugh charge his uncle. Head down, the teenager butts the larger man like a bull, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. I hear a whoosh of breath, and then the elder Slabaugh reels backward, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his butt. Snarling, Mose drops down on top of him. He draws back and lands a blow to his uncle’s cheekbone. Behind me, Skid mutters, “Shit,” and I lunge at the boy.

“Mose!” I bring my hands down on his shoulders, try to haul him back. “Cut it out!”

It’s like trying to wrestle a steak from a starving rottweiler. He twists hard. My hands slide off his shoulders. I see him draw back, hear the wet-meat slap of his fist connecting with his uncle’s face. Vaguely, it registers that Adam makes no effort to protect himself.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Right now! Get off him!”

“He killed my mamm and datt!” Mose screams. “He killed them!”

“Mose! You need to calm down.”

The next thing I know, Skid is beside me. Simultaneously, we lock our hands around the boy’s biceps and drag him back. Mose’s head swings around. Blind, furious eyes connect with mine. His teeth are drawn back and his contorted face is the color of raw hamburger.

Lightning fast, he draws back. I duck an instant before his knuckles careen off my left temple. It’s only a glancing blow, but it’s enough to whip my head around and make me see stars.

Skid thrusts himself between us, jostling me out of the way. I fall to the right and watch in dismay as Skid takes the boy down, flips him onto his stomach, and snaps the cuffs into place. “You just hit a police officer, partner,” he says.

“He killed my datt!” Mose screams.

“You just lay there a second and cool off.” Pressing the boy down, his breathing elevated, Skid turns to me. “You okay, Chief?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, but I can still feel the lingering effects of the blow, glancing or not.

“Katie, are you hurt?”

I glance over my shoulder, to see Bishop Troyer and his wife come to my side. “I’m fine,” I say. “Move aside.”

Shaking off the aftereffects of the blow, I step around them and focus on Adam Slabaugh. He’s standing a few feet away, brushing mud and dried grass from his clothes. Aware that my temper is lit, I point at him. “You. Come here.”

Looking like a guilty little boy facing corporal punishment, he drops his gaze and trudges over to me. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“He slugged you,” I snap. “Who else’s fault could it be?”

He stares at me, silent.

Realizing we’ve drawn an audience, I motion toward the Explorer. “Walk.”

I start off at a brisk pace, and he falls in beside me. “What happened?” I ask.

Slabaugh tosses me a sidelong look, shakes his head again. “I don’t know.”

I stop, another wave of anger cresting in my chest. He faces me and I shove my finger in his face. “I’m getting tired of people not answering my questions. If you don’t start talking right now, I’m going to haul you to jail and you can tell it to the judge in the morning.”

“I came to see the children.”

We reach the Explorer and stop. “Why?”

Slabaugh looks at me as if I’m dense. “They are my nephews and niece. I want them to come live with me.”

“That’s up to the court system, not you.”

“I’m their uncle.” Looking away, he shrugs. “I’m their only family. They are alone.”

Some of my anger begins to dissipate. “Tell me what happened between you and Mose.”

“The boy is angry. Understandably so.”

“Who threw the first punch?”

Slabaugh doesn’t answer, and I get the sense he doesn’t want to get his nephew into trouble. “Adam, come on,” I say, pressing him. “Tell me what happened.”

“The women would not allow me in the house, so I called out for the children to come outside and speak to me,” he tells me. “They did, and I asked them how they felt about coming to live with me. Mose made it clear he didn’t want that to happen. The younger boys were more open to the idea.” He shrugs. “I suppose I may have pushed too hard.” His expression hardens. “Solly poisoned them against me. He told them I am a bad man because I am not Amish.”

“Why did Mose hit you?”

He shakes his head. I wait him out. After a moment, Slabaugh shrugs. “He says he doesn’t want to live with me at the farm.” Another shrug. “He got angry. I tried to reason with him, tell him how I felt.…” Another shrug. “I didn’t intend to provoke him.”

“Did you touch him or threaten him in any way?”

“No, of course not. I would never strike a child.” He makes eye contact with me. “The anger is part of grief, Chief Burkholder. Mose will change his mind about me once he comes to terms with all this. Once they come to know me, I know I can give them good, happy lives.”

I remember the rage I saw on Mose’s face. I think of the blind punch he threw at me. Already I can feel the bruise burgeoning at my left temple. “Stay here,” I say, and start toward Mose and Skid. Some of the Amish women have gone back to the house. The ones who remain watch me with frigid stares. I feel their eyes upon me as I approach.

Skid meets me halfway. “You okay, Chief?”

“Just pissed.”

“Kid’s got a hell of a jab.” He motions toward Adam Slabaugh. “So what’s his story?”

“Says he came to ask the kids to live with him.”

“Guess it didn’t go down too well.” Nodding, Skid looks over his shoulder at Mose. “Kid says he doesn’t want to go.”

A few yards away, Mose stands alone, his hands cuffed behind his back, staring down at the ground. Ohio doesn’t have a mandatory arrest law, though in domestic violence situations a warrantless arrest is the preferred course of action. Since it’s my call and there are extenuating circumstances, I probably won’t take him in. But I need to let him know this kind of behavior won’t be tolerated.

“Keep an eye on the uncle, will you?” I say to Skid. “I’m going to talk to the kid.”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

I’m midway to Mose when I spot Bishop Troyer and his wife talking with another Amish couple, and I decide to give Mose a few more minutes to cool off while I get some information from them. “Bishop Troyer.”

He turns to me, bows his head slightly. “Chief Burkholder.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask.

While the bishop isn’t above giving me an “I told you so” look, I know he won’t lie to me. “Adam Slabaugh arrived about twenty minutes ago and demanded to speak with the children. Of course, we turned him away at the door.” He grimaces. “But Adam would not leave. The children ran out to speak with their uncle. Mose and Adam began to argue.”

“Did Slabaugh touch the boy?”

“No, he did not.”

“What about Mose? Did he strike his uncle?”

The bishop hesitates, struggles with some internal conflict, then gives a minute nod. “Ja.”

Neither of us is happy with the answer, but I thank him anyway and start toward Mose.

The bishop stops me. “Katie, the children have been through a terrible ordeal. Do not cause them further suffering.”

Since it’s my policy not to make promises I can’t keep, I turn away and continue on toward Mose. Salome is standing beside him, speaking quietly, as if trying to calm him down. Her eyes are red, her cheeks shiny with tears. Mose watches me approach, as if I’m his executioner. He knows he screwed up.

I call out the girl’s name. She jerks around. Her mouth opens in surprise, then she looks down at the ground. “Go inside,” I say to her.

She looks at Mose, then back to me. “He was only trying to protect us.”

“Go inside,” I repeat. “Right now.”

Something in my voice convinces her I’m serious, because she takes a final look at her brother, then starts toward the house.

I stop a few feet from Mose. The belligerence I saw earlier in his expression slips away, leaving in its wake the expression of a young man who knows he’s going to have to own up to what he’s done.

“I don’t want to live with my uncle,” he says without preamble.

“At the moment, where you’re going to live is the least of your problems,” I say. “You struck a police officer.”

“I didn’t mean to. I thought you were—”

“You were out of control and itching for a fight.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You assaulted your uncle. You assaulted me. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cart you off to jail right now.”

Glaring in the direction of his uncle, Mose yanks on the cuffs binding his wrists behind him. “He killed my datt!”

It’s the third time I’ve heard that statement. Each time, the words sent a chill through me. “That’s a serious accusation, Mose. Do you know something about what happened that morning that you haven’t told me?”

He stares at the ground.

“What makes you think your uncle had something to do with the death of your father?”

“He hated my datt, and my datt hated him! I hate him, too!”

“Why?”

“Because he wants us. He wants to be our datt. He’s not! He won’t ever be my datt!”

I move closer, lower my voice. “Do you honestly believe your uncle killed your parents and your uncle?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t meet my gaze.

“Did your uncle do something to make you believe that, Mose?”

“No,” he mutters reluctantly.

“Then why did you say it?”

Mose doesn’t answer, but for the first time he looks remorseful. Looking down at the ground, he drags his toe across the brown grass. “I don’t want to go with him.”

“You mean to his farm?”

He nods. “Don’t make us go with him.”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Tell the social people to leave us alone.”

“Why are you so dead set against living with your uncle?”

He raises his eyes to mine. “My datt didn’t like him. I don’t like him, either.”

Sensing I’m getting only part of the story, I take a calming breath. “You can’t stay here at the farm by yourself.”

“It’s my farm,” he says defiantly. “I know how to care for the livestock. I know how to work the land.”

“I’m sure you can. But you’re only seventeen years old.”

“I’m a man.”

“Legally, you’re still a minor. I have to obey the law.”

“English laws are not for the Amish. I’m not going with him. He is not Amish. Er hot net der glaawe!” He doesn’t keep up the faith.

There’s no translation needed; I’m all too familiar with the phrase. I heard it a thousand times growing up, especially after I’d decided not to join the church.

“I know this is hard,” I tell him.

“You don’t know anything,” he snarls.

I sigh. “I was older than you are, but I lost my parents, too.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s not the same.” I pause, studying him, trying to figure out how to reach him. “I’m trying to help you, Mose. I’m not your enemy. I just want what’s best for you and your brothers and sister. Children Services—”

“No!” Panic flares in his eyes. “The social people will separate us. They’ll take the farm and leave us with nothing.”

The unspoken nuances of the situation crystallize in my mind, like a tiny puzzle with a thousand pieces flying together to make a picture. One I wish I’d detected before now, because for the first time I realize I’m being manipulated. “This isn’t about whether your uncle is Amish, is it, Mose?”

Refusing to meet my gaze, he digs a trench in the mud with the toe of his work boot.

“This is about your wanting to stay here on the farm with your siblings, isn’t it?”

When he finally raises his eyes to mine, they’re filled with tears. “That’s what my datt would have wanted.”

“Your datt would have wanted an adult to care for you until you’re old enough to care for yourself.”

When he says nothing, I sigh. “Turn around.”

He obeys, and I use my key to unlock the handcuffs. “Children Services is not the bad guy, Mose.”

“They’ll separate us. Take the farm. Datt told us that’s what the Englischers want.”

“I don’t believe that,” I tell him.

“That’s because you’re one of them.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Maybe it’s because I understand so very well. To the Amish, the Englischers—particularly those in the government—are outsiders and not to be trusted. “I won’t let anyone harm you or your brothers and sister,” I say quietly. But I don’t think I’m going to convince him of anything.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. For an instant, I think he’s going to slug me again, and I regret removing the cuffs. Instead, his face screws up and he chokes out a sob. “Don’t break up what’s left of us.” He uses his fist to wipe at the tears. It’s an embarrassed, angry gesture that makes me feel as if I’ve just kicked a puppy. “Please don’t take my brothers and sister away from me. They’re all I have left.”

The statement moves me more than it should. I know better than to get sucked into the plight of these kids. I’m a cop, not a social worker. I have faith that Children Services will do the right thing and place these kids with a good family, at least until Adam Slabaugh is cleared of any suspicion. I know they’ll do their utmost to keep the children together. But I know from experience that sometimes kids fall through the cracks. I’ve seen it happen. What’s right for one family can mean heartache for another.

I set my hand on Mose’s shoulder and squeeze. “Think about what I said, okay?”

He nods, crying silently, humiliated.

I don’t want to leave him like this, but I don’t have a choice. I have a murder to solve. Taking a deep breath, I turn away and start toward Skid and Adam Slabaugh.

Skid starts toward me. “So which one are we taking to jail?” he asks.

“Neither one.” I stop a few feet from Slabaugh. “Don’t come back here until an official decision has been made about the kids.”

“You cannot keep me from my family,” Slabaugh says. “They are my blood.”

“If you come back here again, I’ll put both of you in jail,” I snap. “You got that?”

Slabaugh skewers me with a stare so cold, I look over my shoulder twice on my way to the Explorer.

Back at the station, I go directly to my office and call the Holmes County Department of Job and Family Services. I’m put on hold twice before being transferred to the program manager of Children Services. The conversation goes much as I’d imagined. Once a social worker is assigned the case, he or she will drive out to the Slabaugh farm and “assess” the needs of the children. When I ask about placement, I’m told they almost always try to place orphaned children with family members. In the case of the Slabaughs, blood trumps religion. I wonder if Adam Slabaugh knew that would be the case.

I’m barely finished with the call when Glock appears at the door to my office. “A 911 just came in, Chief. Someone out on Township Road 2 says they found a half-naked Amish guy tied to his buggy.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” I ask as I hang up the phone.

“That’d be pretty hard to make up.” Glock shakes his head. “The motorist who called it in says the victim looks like he’s had the crap beat out of him.”

Hate crime. The words flash like red neon in my brain. In an instant, I’m on my feet and grabbing my keys. “Get an ambulance out there,” I snap. “And call the sheriff’s office.” That makes me think of Tomasetti, and I unclip my cell phone, flip it open.

“Sure thing.” Glock watches me cross to the door. “Want me to go with you?”

I shake my head and tell him about my earlier conversation with Jerome Rankin. “I want you to go talk to Lauren Walker and verify Rankin’s alibi.”

He gives me a mock salute. “I’m on it.”

Then I’m down the hall and heading toward the reception area. Lois stands when she sees me. “Tomasetti just called for you.”

I don’t stop. “I’ll call him on the way.”

Then I’m through the door and jogging across the sidewalk to the Explorer. I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti’s number as I slide behind the wheel. He answers just as I crank the engine. “I think we have another hate crime,” I say without preamble.

“Where?”

I give him the location. “I’m on my way now.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Jamming the Explorer into reverse, I back onto the street, put it in gear, then hit the gas.

I’m not sure what to expect at the scene; hopefully, no one is seriously injured. The one thing I do know is that I won’t tolerate any kind of hate crime in my town. The very thought puts my blood pressure into the red zone. All hate crimes are troubling. But the fact that the Amish are being targeted somehow makes it even more insidious. Maybe because I know the culture so intimately. The Amish are kind, hardworking, and deeply religious. They are pacifists, and most just want to be left alone. I can’t help but wonder: How could anyone hate them?

But I know the answer, and it’s as disturbing as the question itself. Some people hate for the sake of hating. They hurt others for the sake of hurting. In the three years I’ve been chief of police, I’ve seen both of those things in all their hideous forms. I’ve heard the explanations, too, and they’re as pathetic and ugly as the people who act on them: The Amish are stupid; they only go through the eighth grade. The Amish are dirty. The buggies slow down traffic and cause accidents. The Amish are a cult of religious fanatics. The diatribe goes on and on, as senseless as the people who spew it.

I hit Township Road 2 doing eighty. My rear tires fishtail as I turn onto the narrow asphalt track, so I back it down to sixty. Less than half a mile in, I see the horse and buggy. It’s parked at a cockeyed angle in the bar ditch, as if someone ran it off the road. The horse has managed to work the reins loose, but it can’t move forward or backward. Judging from the trampled ground, the animal has been standing there for quite some time.

I slide out of the Explorer. Anger is a knot in my chest as I take in the sight of the young Amish man. He’s sitting on the ground, his hands stretched above his head, his wrists tied to the buggy wheel. He looks to be in his early twenties. He’s not wearing a shirt. Someone—the Good Samaritan driver, more than likely—has draped a coat over him. His shoulders are bare and flecked with blood, and I pray he hasn’t been stabbed or shot. He’s wearing trousers, and I can see his work boots sticking out from beneath the coat. An older man wearing a navy jacket, dark slacks, and Walmart loafers stands next to him, looking upset.

Going around to the rear of the Explorer, I pull out a thermal blanket and a bottle of water I keep stored next to the first-aid kit, then start toward them.

The driver looks to be in his mid-fifties and has a receding hairline and a paunch. “I was going to cut the ropes, but I didn’t have a knife,” he tells me. “Poor guy says he’s been here all night. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

“How long have you been here?” I don’t stop walking, but continue on toward the buggy.

“Just a few minutes. Called you guys before I even got out of the car.” He falls in beside me. “You just never know what you’re going to run into on the road these days, do you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Herman Morse. I run an insurance agency up in Wooster.”

I scan the surrounding woods, wondering if the perpetrator is still around, watching with the glee of some high-school prankster. But I know it won’t be that easy. “You see anyone else?” I ask.

“No ma’am. Just the Amish guy.”

I motion toward the green Cadillac parked behind the buggy. “That your car?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to go stand by your car and wait for me, okay? Don’t move around too much; there might be footprints we’ll want to preserve. I’ll need to get a statement from you.”

“Uh, sure.” He lingers a moment, glances toward the Amish man. “He’s pretty banged up. Shouldn’t you call an ambulance or something?”

“They’re on the way.” Reaching the young man, I kneel, take a quick visual assessment.

He’s pale and shivering. His lips are dry and tinged blue from the cold. Probably suffering from hypothermia and dehydration. His left eye is swollen shut. The other is the color of a ripe eggplant. I cringe when I see his hands. Both are swollen and blue. The fingertips are white and hard-looking; I suspect he may have some frostbite. His wrists are chafed and bloody, which tells me he’s been struggling to free himself from his binds for quite some time.

“How badly are you hurt?” Snapping the blanket open, I cover him with it.

“C-cold m-mostly.” He stares at me with bloodshot and glassy eyes. “I think my hands are frozen.”

Tugging my pocketknife from my belt, I cut the rope. He winces when his limbs break free. I can tell by the lack of movement in his hands that he can’t flex his fingers.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“All night.” A groan escapes him when he tries to rise.

I set my hands on his shoulders and ease him back down. “Just stay put a moment.”

“I need to unhook the horse. He’s old. Been tangled in the harness all night.”

“I’ll take care of him. You just relax a moment. I don’t want you moving around too much, in case you’re injured.” I motion toward the blood on his shoulders and chest. “Who did this to you?”

“T-two Englischers.”

“Do you know their names? Did you recognize them?”

He shakes his head. “I never saw them before.”

I look him over, searching for signs of life-threatening injuries—blood, broken bones, stab wounds, bullet wounds. “What happened?”

He shrugs, looks away. “I was on my way to town for some lumber. They came up fast, blocked my way. When I stopped, they ambushed me.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“A truck. Blue. Old, I think.”

“Which direction did they go?”

“Toward town.”

I hit my lapel mike and put out a BOLO for an older blue pickup truck. “Did they have a weapon?”

He shakes his head. “Just their fists.”

“Did they say anything?”

“They called me names.” He shrugs, letting me know that didn’t bother him. “Took the Lord’s name in vain.” That bothered him a lot.

I nod, try hard to bank the fury rising inside me. “There’s an ambulance on the way.” I uncap the bottle of water, put it to his lips, and he takes a sip. “What’s your name?”

“Mark Lambright.” He looks down at his hands. His face contorts in pain when he tries to flex his knuckles. “I need to get home. My wife will be worried.”

“I’ll have someone go by your place and let her know you’re all right. Where do you live?” He cites a farm a few miles down the road after I give him another sip of water. “Can you tell me what the two men looked like?”

His eyes skate away from mine. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’ve already got trouble.”

He doesn’t answer, and a sensation of déjà vu engulfs me. I recall the burning buggy incident, and I know this man isn’t going to cooperate, either.

“Mr. Lambright.” I take a deep breath, reel in my frustration. “I need to find the men who did this to you so that I can keep them from doing it again. You could have been killed.”

He motions toward his body. “As you can see, I’m okay.”

“What did the men look like?”

He stares down at his swollen, frozen hands.

“If you stick your head in the sand, whoever did this is going to get away and do it again. Next time, it could be a woman or child. They might kill someone. Is that what you want?”

He watches me with his one good eye, shakes his head. “I do not wish for anyone to be hurt. I just want to go home.”

I sit back on my heels, frustration churning inside me. In the distance, I hear sirens and I know the ambulance will be here soon. The sound of tires crunching through snow draws my attention. I look up and see Tomasetti’s Tahoe pull up beside my Explorer.

Rising, I start toward him. He gets out of the SUV, looking tall and dark against the smooth gray sky. He wears the long wool coat, no gloves or hat. His espresso-colored eyes meet mine as he crosses to me.

“You look aggravated.”

“Pissed is probably a more accurate description.” I tell him everything I learned from Lambright. “Felony assault at least. Maybe attempted murder. The problem is, he’s not going to be much help.”

Tomasetti cocks his head. “Why not?”

“He doesn’t want to get involved.”

“What is this, some kind of conspiracy? He just had the shit hammered out of him. How much more involved could he be?”

“He doesn’t want to deal with the English.”

“You tried?”

I nod. “If the passerby hadn’t called us, this probably would have gone unreported.”

“We need to ID whoever did this. Without it, we don’t have shit.”

I glance toward the victim. “We could try waterboarding him.”

“Probably wouldn’t go over too well with the brass.”

I heave a sigh. “I’ll get my guys out here to canvass, see if anyone saw anything.”

“Scene doesn’t look too promising.”

The ambulance pulls up behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe. We watch the two paramedics open the rear doors and unload the gurney. They roll it across the road to the bar ditch and kick down the brake. One of the men kneels next to Lambright and begins a field assessment. The other, a freckle-faced man with a red goatee, approaches Tomasetti and me. “What ya got, Chief?”

“Assault,” I say. “Hypothermia. Frostbite, maybe. He’s been out in the cold all night.”

“Cold night. He’s lucky.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You guys know who did it?”

“We’re working on it.” That’s my standard answer in situations where I don’t know squat.

Tomasetti and I stand in the dirty snow and watch the two paramedics load Lambright onto the gurney. The Amish man makes eye contact with me briefly as they roll him across the asphalt. I stare back, letting him know I’m not happy with his lack of cooperation.

That’s when I realize I’ve yet to make good on my promise to take care of the horse. It’s been standing all night with nothing to eat or drink. “I need to unhitch the horse,” I say.

Tomasetti arches a brow. “Can’t help you there.”

I cross to the animal, moving slowly, my hand outstretched. “Whoa, boy. Whoa.”

It’s an old gelding with a sorrel coat and the kind eyes of a working animal. Stepping into the mud, I set my hand against the animal’s neck, then run both hands over its shoulder and down both front legs, checking for injuries. Finding none, I go to work on the harness. Having tacked up our own horses many times as a girl, I let the dormant memories come rushing back. I unbuckle the crupper and girth, unfasten the shaft tugs, pull the long reins through the guides, then lift the collar over the animal’s head. In a couple of minutes, the horse is free of the buggy. I lead him to a gnarled fence post, use the scissor snap to attach one of the reins to the halter beneath his bridle, and tie him until a neighbor arrives to walk him home.

I turn back to the street, to find Tomasetti watching me. “You’re pretty good at that.”

“Lots of practice as a kid.”

“I’m impressed.”

But I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that the horse is the last thing on his mind. “What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking about connections.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You have my attention.”

He moves closer, his eyes meeting mine. “You mentioned earlier you had considered the possibility that these hate crimes are related to the Slabaugh case. Do you still think that’s a possibility?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “They feel different.”

The statement doesn’t need any explanation, not for Tomasetti. And he doesn’t dispute it. “I agree. But maybe we shouldn’t close the door on the possibility.”

The frustration I’d been feeling earlier transforms into something edgy and uncomfortable. “What’s your angle?”

“What if the Slabaugh murders weren’t intentional?” He shrugs. “What if it started out as a hate crime? The situation somehow got out of control. Things went too far.”

My mind takes the turn into territory I don’t want to venture and runs with it. “Maybe whoever pushed them into the pit didn’t know about the dangerous gases. Maybe they didn’t realize the outcome would be fatal.”

He nods. “Rachael Slabaugh tried to get the two men out of the pit and was overcome by the methane gas.”

“Collateral damage.” I consider the implications of that. “I don’t know, Tomasetti. If the deaths weren’t intentional, it seems logical that the person or group responsible would stop now that the police are all over it.”

“Unless they liked it. Or decided those deaths weren’t such a bad thing. A benefit to their cause.”

“That puts all of this into a whole new category.”

“A really ugly one.”

“Not to mention dangerous.” I glance over at the trampled snow where a young Amish man nearly froze to death, and I shiver. Everything Tomasetti said runs through my head like a ticker tape streaming bad news. “Why not just kill him outright, since they’ve already crossed that line?”

“A few more hours and he might not have made it.”

I nod without enthusiasm. “I’m not convinced it’s a viable theory, but I’ll keep an open mind.”

“Something to think about,” he says.

Watching the ambulance pull away, I find myself wondering if he’s right, if they’ll strike again, and what they’ll do next time.