Breaking Silence

CHAPTER 4

There are few things I’ve done in my life that are more difficult than telling someone they’ve lost a loved one. It’s a helpless, hopeless feeling to break that kind of news and not be able to do anything as the bottom drops out of that person’s world. In my nine years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve seen grief in all its insidious forms. Though I’m merely the messenger, I’ve been cursed, screamed at, threatened, spit on, and struck. Cops aspire to believe they’re not affected by such things. But it takes a toll. That’s one of many reasons I’ve never put the burden of notification on my officers. Still, I don’t ever go alone. This morning, I’ve got Glock with me.

Adam Slabaugh lives on a well-kept farm on a quiet township road between Millersburg and Painters Mill. The old house is white, with a green tin roof, green shutters, and a wraparound porch that’s sheltered by a hulking spruce. The place sits on a hill, overlooking acres and acres of plowed fields. I park the Explorer in the gravel area between the barn and the house and shut down the engine.

For the span of several heartbeats, Glock and I sit there, watching snow gather on the windshield.

“Hell of a way to start someone’s day,” he says.

“Hell of a way to start our day.”

“Is this guy going to take the kids?”

I tell him about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Might be some problems there.”

“Tough situation for the kids,” he says.

“And everyone else involved.”

Neither of us wants to walk up to that house and knock on the door. Of course, we don’t have a choice. I reach for the door handle first. We’re midway to the house when the back door opens. A Border collie and a fat yellow Labrador bound out, tails wagging, tongues lolling. Behind them, a man shrugs into an insulated coat and closes the door behind him. He’s a tall, thin man who doesn’t look Amish. No beard. No hat or suspenders. But he possesses the kind eye I’ve come to associate with the culture.

“Good morning.” He’s still buttoning his coat when he reaches us. “Is something wrong?”

Glock and I start toward him. “Adam Slabaugh?” I ask.

He has light blue eyes, which remind me of a summer sky, and a face that has seen a lot of years of Ohio’s sometimes extreme elements. He takes in our uniform parkas, and his eyes go wary. I see his shoulders stiffen in a brace, and I know at some point he’s done this before. “Yes?”

I show him my badge and identify myself. “There’s been an accident. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

“Accident?” His gaze flicks to Glock and then back to me. “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”

“I’m afraid so.” I motion toward the house. “Would you like to go inside and sit down, so we can talk?”

“Must be bad if you want me to sit down.” He looks down at his boots, blows out a breath, as if preparing himself for the blow. “Who is it?”

“Are Solomon and Abel Slabaugh your brothers?”

“Yes.” He blinks rapidly. “What happened to them?”

“Your brothers and sister-in-law were killed this morning at their farm.”

“Aw, God.” He takes a step back. “Killed? All three of them? Are you sure?” He looks at Glock, as if expecting him to contradict me.

“We’re sure,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”

He makes a choking sound, takes another step back, as if to distance himself from us and the news we bear. “How in God’s name did it happen?”

“We believe it was methane gas asphyxiation from the manure pit.”

“My God.” Tugging off a glove, he bows his head, scrapes a trembling hand over his face. “I told Solly to keep that old barn ventilated. He never listened to—” He stops speaking mid-sentence and raises his gaze to mine. “The children?”

“They’re fine,” I say. “Unhurt. Physically anyway.”

He closes his eyes briefly, as if thanking God for sparing them, and I know that even though he’s no longer Amish, he’s still a religious man. “How did it happen?” he asks.

I tell him what I learned from the kids’ statements. “Apparently, Rachael was trying to rescue her husband and brother-in-law. I suspect she succumbed to the gases, blacked out, and fell into the pit. The kids tried, but they couldn’t get them out.”

“Poor, poor children. Where are they now?”

“They’re still at the house. Bishop Troyer is there with them.”

Adam’s face darkens. “Then you know I’ve been excommunicated.”

“The bishop told me.”

“I bet he gave you an earful.” His laugh is bitter. “What else did he tell you?”

Knowing the value of silence, I say nothing.

“They’re my nephews and niece, Chief Burkholder. They should be with family. With me.”

I can’t dispute the statement. From all appearances, he’s a decent, hardworking farmer. More importantly, he’s a blood relative. Their only blood relative. The house and property are neat and well kept. I’ll run a criminal check on him, but I’m betting he doesn’t have any convictions. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t assume custody of his niece and his nephews. I don’t mention the bishop’s assertion that the children should be raised Amish. But I can tell from Adam’s reaction that he’s already keenly aware of this.

“Were you and the kids close?” I ask.

“Up until four years ago, I was a big part of their lives.” Adam looks away for a moment, then raises defiant eyes to mine. “As you can see, I’m no longer Amish.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

“Lust, of course.” He gives me a wry smile. “I fell in love with an English woman.” The smile turns bitter. “We married, which is against the Ordnung, so I was put under the bann. I was unrepentant, refused to confess my so-called sins, so I was eventually excommunicated.” He shrugs. “Solly cut me out of the children’s lives.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It was a bad time.”

“So you were estranged from the family,” I say.

“Yes.” His sigh is tired and heavy. “Maybe this is God’s way of bringing those children back to me. Maybe it’s His way of punishing those with small minds.”

The statement takes me aback. It seems odd at a time like this—when he’s just been informed of his brothers’ deaths. Anyone who’s ever lived any length of time knows God doesn’t even the score and that sometimes that bitch Fate gets her way, right and wrong be damned.

“Are you married?” I ask.

“My wife died. I’m a widower.”

I look down at the dogs, letting that bit of information settle in my brain. For a moment, the only sound comes from the caw of a crow perched on the fence.

“I would like to see the children,” Adam says after a lengthy pause.

I know the Amish will not keep this man from seeing his niece and his nephews. But he will not be welcomed by them. He’s an outsider now, an interloper. As a cop, I know the Amish have no right to keep Adam Slabaugh from his own blood.

“Are there any other relatives?” I ask. “Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?”

He gives me a sage look. “You mean Amish relatives?”

“I’m asking you if the children have any other living relatives,” I reply firmly.

“Rachael’s mother, their grandmother, passed away just two months ago. She was old and frail. I am the only family they have left.”

I nod, understanding all too well, and knowing everyone involved is destined for heartache. “Are you going to pursue legal custody?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Those children need to be with family. I’m their uncle.” He blinks, his eyes watery. “I love them.”

I don’t expect any trouble from the Amish, but I know from experience that when kids are involved, emotions many times supersede civility. I offer the best piece of advice I can. “If you plan to pursue custody, you might want to get yourself a lawyer.”

“Do you think I’ll need one?”

“A lawyer will be able to help you navigate through the legal end of it. That’ll make things easier for you. Probably best to do things by the book in this case.” I reach into my pocket and hand him my card. “Let me know if you have any problems.”

Back in the Explorer, I put the vehicle in gear and head down the long gravel lane. Glock breaks the silence with the same question that’s echoing inside my head. “You think there’s going to be a custody issue?”

“I don’t think the Amish will fight him. Not legally anyway. They’re not big on the whole litigation thing. But that’s not to say there won’t be problems. People do crazy things when it comes to protecting their kids.”

Glock nods, and I know he’s thinking about his own child, a little boy not yet a year old. “Maybe Solomon had a will. Maybe he specified provisions for the kids.”

“Most Amish don’t use a legal will and testament. Everything’s almost always passed down to the children. Property goes to the eldest male child.”

“Simpler that way, I guess,” he says.

“No one ever expects to die young.”

We’re two blocks from the police station when my cell phone erupts. I’m surprised to see Doc Coblentz’s name appear on the display.

“Hey Doc,” I say, giving him only half of my attention.

“I was about to begin the autopsy on Solly Slabaugh when I found an irregularity I think you’ll want to see.”

“What kind of irregularity?”

“During my preliminary examination, I found evidence of blunt-force trauma to his head.”

The words yank my full attention to the call. A small part of my brain hopes I misunderstood. “What?”

“Solly Slabaugh sustained a substantial blow to the head before his death.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. Then my brain kicks back into gear. “Is it possible it happened in the fall? The sides of that pit are concrete.”

“Judging from the location of the laceration, I don’t believe that’s the case.”

Shock is like a battering ram against my brain. A hundred questions fly and scatter inside my head as the repercussions start to sink in. “Are you saying this wasn’t an accident?”

“I won’t know the cause or manner of death until I complete the autopsy, so I don’t want to jump to conclusions at this juncture. But this is very suspicious, Kate. I thought you might want to see for yourself.”

A glance at the clock on the dash tells me it’s already past noon. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

My mind is still reeling when I clip my cell phone to my belt.

“That didn’t sound good,” Glock comments.

I relay to him my conversation with the coroner.

He looks as shocked as I feel. “Shit.”

“Are you up to a trip to the morgue?”

He grimaces. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

With a population of about 5,500, Painters Mill is too small to have its own morgue per se. As Mayor Auggie Brock is so fond of saying in town council meetings, “We don’t have enough dead people.” Up until three years ago, autopsies were farmed out to either Lucas or Stark counties. Now, however, when there’s an unattended death or suspected foul play, Holmes and Coshocton counties have the option of utilizing the morgue facilities at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, which now receives funding from both counties.

It takes Glock and me ten minutes to make the drive from Painters Mill to Millersburg. The earlier snow has turned to a cold, driving rain. Fog hovers like smoke in the low-lying fields, creeks, and wooded areas. With the temperature hovering at just above the freezing mark, I suspect driving conditions will deteriorate rapidly once the sun goes down.

Pomerene Hospital is a fifty-five-bed facility located on the north side of town. I park illegally outside the Emergency Services portico. Neither Glock nor I have an umbrella, so we flip up the hoods of our coats and make a run for the double glass doors. Once inside, we pass by the information booth, where a young African-American man in Scooby-Doo scrubs waves us through. I’m still shaking rain from my coat when we step into the elevator that will take us to the basement.

“What’s up with all this fuckin’ rain?” Glock comments as the car descends. “I thought it was supposed to snow in December.”

“Mother Nature likes to keep us on our toes, I guess.”

“That bitch is on crack.”

That elicits a smile from both of us, but I know we’re only working up to our next task. In the back of my mind, I’m already wondering how much animosity existed between Adam and Solly Slabaugh. I wonder if there was enough of it to drive the forsaken uncle to commit murder.

The elevator doors swish open and we step into a hushed gray-tiled hall that reminds me of some deserted underground nuclear facility. We pass a yellow-and-black biohazard sign and go through dual swinging doors mounted with a plaque that reads: MORGUE: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. A middle-aged woman in a navy dress looks up from her desk when I enter. “Hi, Chief.”

“Hey, Carmen.” The fact that I’m on a first-name basis with the coroner’s administrative assistant tells me I’ve been spending too much time here. “This is Officer Maddox.”

We cross to her desk. Smiling, Glock extends his hand. “Call me Glock.”

“I’m not going to argue with a man who goes by that nickname.” She chuckles. “How’re the roads out there? Guy on the radio says we might be in for some freezing rain.”

“Good for now. Might get a little tricky later.” I glance toward the swinging doors, already dreading what comes next. “Doc in there?”

“Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks.”

We go through another set of swinging doors. The medicinal smells of formalin and alcohol and the darker stench of death envelops us like cold, clammy hands as we traverse the hall. The autopsy suite is straight ahead. I can already feel the tension climbing up my shoulders. Glock is silent, but I know he feels it, too. All of us are born with an inherent aversion to death. No matter how many times I make this pilgrimage, it never gets any easier.

To my right is a small alcove where the doc stores supplies, including biohazard protection. To my left, I see Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. The miniblinds and door are open, and I can see him sitting at his desk. An old John Lennon Christmas song oozes from a neat little sound system on his credenza.

He looks up when we enter and gives us a somber shake of his head. “I’ll bet you thought you were going to be able to sit this one out.”

I look toward the autopsy suite. “Are you sure about the head trauma?”

He offers a grim nod. “I’m certain. Of course, I can’t rule on the manner or cause of death until I complete the autopsy. But Solomon Slabaugh definitely sustained a substantial blow to the head shortly before his death.”

“Are you sure it happened before he died?”

“Even though the wound site was compromised with contaminants from the muck, there was some bleeding visible. The victim’s heart was beating. I’m certain.”

“How substantial?”

“There was enough force to break the skin.”

“That’s a lot of force,” Glock comments.

Rising, the doc motions toward the alcove, where the biohazard gear is stowed neatly on the shelf. “Suit up, and I’ll show you.”

Glock and I enter the alcove and hang our coats on hooks mounted on the wall. Anxious to see the head trauma for myself, I quickly don shoe covers, a sea-foam green gown that ties at the back, a hair cap, a disposable mask, and latex gloves. The doc is waiting for us when we emerge.

Our paper gowns crackle as we traverse the hall. The doc pushes open one of two swinging doors and we enter the autopsy room. The temperature is so cold, I almost expect to see my breath, or maybe the cold emanates from someplace inside me.

The thing that always surprises me most when I come here is the smell. Even with a state-of-the-art ventilation system and a constant temperature of sixty-one degrees, the stink of decaying flesh is ever present. I’ve been here more times than I care to count, and no matter how short my stay, I invariably feel the need for a long soapy shower afterward. Not for the first time, I wonder how this veteran pediatrician deals with it day in and day out.

Stark fluorescent light rains down on gleaming stainless-steel counters. To my right, a dozen or more white plastic buckets are stacked on a portable stainless cart. I see trays filled with unfathomable medical instruments, two deep sinks with tall, arcing faucets. A scale that looks as if it belongs in the produce department of the grocery hangs above the counter to my left. Ahead, three draped bodies lie atop guttered aluminum gurneys.

Doc Coblentz crosses to the nearest gurney and pulls down the sheet. Solomon Slabaugh’s face and shoulders loom into view. His skin is gray. Blue lips are stretched taut over yellow teeth. His left eyelid has come up, revealing a filmy eyeball that’s rolled back, exposing the white of his eye. Though the bodies have been rinsed, the stench of manure mingles with the darker, sweeter stink of death, and I get a quivery sensation in my stomach.

“The bodies have been photographed and the clothing sealed in bags,” the doctor begins.

“We’ll want all the clothing and personal effects sent to the BCI lab,” I tell him.

“I figured you would. I’ll have everything couriered immediately.” The doctor tugs the sheet down a few more inches and smoothes the fold. “Because of the manure contamination, I had to rinse the bodies before my preliminary external examination.”

“So we may have lost hair or fiber,” I venture.

“I’m sorry, Kate, but I had no way of knowing at that point that we might have been looking at foul play.” Doc Coblentz looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “It wasn’t until after I’d rinsed the bodies that I noticed the contusion.” He moves to the head of the victim, turns it to one side so that the back of the head is visible from where we stand. Solomon Slabaugh’s hair is still wet and sticks to his scalp like a greasy cap.

“How can you tell there was bleeding, since his body was immersed in liquid manure?” I ask.

“There was a good bit of blood that coagulated and matted in the hair at the back of his head. He was facedown, so that area was not completely immersed. The amount of bleeding indicates the contusion occurred before death. But it was initially difficult to detect.” Using his fingers, Doc Coblentz separates the hair. “See here?”

I see a white scalp and the red-black fissure of an open wound.

“There’s bruising here.” Using a cotton-tipped swab, he indicates the scalp surrounding the wound. “Some of the purpling could have occurred postmortem. But there’s enough bleeding and bruising present for me to safely say the trauma occurred while he was still alive.”

“Any idea what might have made that sort of wound?” Glock asks.

I glance at Glock, to find him staring down at the corpse with the rapt attention of a kid working on some fascinating science project. He’s one of those people who can remove himself from the emotional aspect of almost any situation. He keeps his cool, doesn’t get angry or outraged. That’s one of many traits that makes him such a good cop. I wish I could do the same. On the other hand, maybe my passion for the job is the instrument that drives me forward when it would be so much easier to quit.

“A blunt object, more than likely,” the doc answers. “Probably quite heavy, or at least wielded with some force. Something sharp would have opened the flesh even more. The edges of the wound would be more cleanly cut. There would be less bruising. Less swelling.” He crosses to a light box on the wall next to an overhead cabinet. “I suspected there might be some fracturing, so I took the liberty of taking an X-ray.” Moving to the counter, he picks up a film and takes it to the wall-mounted illuminator. He flips on the light, then shoves the film beneath the ledge.

A monochrome image of Solomon Slabaugh’s skull materializes. Taking a pen from his lab coat, the coroner indicates the upper-rear section of the skull. “You can see here that there’s a break in the outline of the parietal vault. See this small crescent?”

Glock and I move closer. I find myself squinting. Though the image is slightly blurred, I can make out the minute indentation in the curvature of the skull. “A fracture?” I ask.

He smiles, as if I’m an astute pupil who’s pleased him with the correct answer to a difficult question. “It’s a fracture of the right parietal bone. There’s also an acute extradural hematoma. The convexity here displaced the brain matter, producing the small crescent.”

I stare at the image. “Is it possible this could have happened a while back? Maybe he fell or was in some kind of accident and didn’t realize he had a fracture?”

The doc shakes his head. “This injury would likely have caused a concussion. There would have been pain. Confusion. Nausea. Possibly even unconsciousness. Of course, I’ll know more once I open the cranium and examine the brain. But I’m ninety-nine percent certain this injury occurred very shortly before his death.”

“Are we talking minutes? Hours?”

He shrugs. “I can’t say for certain. My best guess would be a matter of minutes.”

“Is it what killed him?” Glock asks.

“I can’t rule on COD until I complete the autopsy.”

The three of us stare down at the body. Above us, the buzz of the fluorescent lights seems inordinately loud. “Is it possible he struck the back of his head on the concrete wall of the pit when he fell in?”

“At first glance, I surmised the same scenario.” The doctor gives me a look that tells me there’s a gotcha moment on the way. “Then I discovered this.” Lowering the sheet, he lifts the dead man’s right hand.

The skin is gray and mottled. The fingers are clawlike; several fingernails are broken to the quick, as if he’d tried to claw his way out of the pit. Disturbing images scratch at my brain, but I quickly bank them. Then I notice the small red-black mouth of a cut on one of the fingers and I feel myself go still inside.

“Those three fingers are broken,” the doc says. “At first, I thought perhaps it had happened during the fall.”

“That seems like a logical train of thought,” Glock says.

“Until I looked at the X-rays.” The doc picks up another film and takes it to the X-ray illuminator. He removes the first film, jams the second one into place.

I stare at the film. Even with my proletarian eye, I see clearly that three of the four finger bones are broken at the same general point.

Glock asks the obvious question. “So what caused the fractures?”

The doctor picks up the dead man’s hand. “The index, middle, and ring fingers are fractured,” he says. “The breaks are clean, with little or no chipping. As you can see, the flesh of the index finger has been incised, as well.” The doc looks at me over the tops of his bifocals. “I would say this man was hanging onto the side of the pit and someone struck his fingers with a relatively sharp object.”

“Causing him to fall to his death,” Glock says.

“That would be my guess,” Doc Coblentz replies.

A horrific sight flashes in my mind’s eye. A man fighting to save himself from certain death. Someone else making damn sure he didn’t succeed.

I look at Glock, and I know we’re both wondering the same thing. “Would a boot or shoe have done it?” I ask.

“This type of injury would require a relatively sharp object or, at the very least, something heavy.”

“Murder straight up,” Glock says.

“Is it possible he was hanging on to the side of the pit until the weight of his body broke his fingers?” I ask.

“That’s a good question, Kate, but the answer is no. That kind of stress would not cause this type of fracture. It certainly wouldn’t have opened the flesh. Had this man been hanging on to the side of the pit with his fingers for any length of time, the metacarpophalangeal joint might have eventually dislocated, causing him to lose his grip. As you can see, the joints are intact.”

I nod, but my mind is reeling. I can’t fathom someone killing an Amish father in such a cold-blooded manner. “Did you find anything unusual with the other two victims?”

“Not during the prelim exam.”

“How soon can you finish the autopsies?” I ask.

“I’ll need at least a couple of hours per body.”

I nod, but I’m deeply troubled by these new developments. “In that case, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for the heads-up.” I start toward the door.

I hear Glock behind me as I leave the autopsy suite. In the alcove, I yank off my gown and gear and toss everything into the biohazard receptacle. I hear Glock doing the same, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see the emotions banging around inside me: outrage, anger, a keen sense of injustice. Contrary to popular belief, those kinds of emotions are not a cop’s best friend, particularly if you’re female and trying to maintain some semblance of credibility. But when I think about the four orphaned children, the emotions swamp me all over again.

It’s still raining when we leave through the Emergency Services exit. Neither of us bothers with a hood this time. In the face of such a brutal act of murder, petty discomforts seem enormously inconsequential.

By the time I yank open the door of the Explorer and slide inside, I’ve gotten myself under control.

“Pretty damn cold-blooded,” Glock comments as he slides in beside me.

“We need to talk to those kids.” I shove the key into the ignition.

“You think they saw something?”

“Or someone.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t they mention it?”

“Maybe we didn’t ask the right questions.” I think back to my interview with them and shake my head. “I didn’t ask them specifically if they’d seen anyone else at the scene.”

“Still, you’d think they’d have mentioned it.”

“True. But they had an awful lot to deal with. They’d just lost their parents and uncle. They were upset and not thinking clearly.”

“Or scared,” he adds.

Considering all the implications of that, I shove the Explorer into gear and start down the lane toward the road. “Only one way to find out.”