Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 7

The October sun has burned through the clouds by the time Glock and I leave the Zook place. As I speed down the lane, I glance toward the Plank farm a mile to the north. The barn roof and the top of the grain silo are visible, but the hedge apple trees growing along the fence line block my view of the yard, house and outbuildings.

“Witness would have been nice,” Glock says.

“Murder’s never that easy.”

He looks around. “We going back to the Plank place?”

“I thought we’d swing by David Troyer’s farm first.”

“Neighbor?”

“Bishop.”

Glock arches a brow.

“Amish version of a priest.”

“Gotcha.” He pauses. “You think he might know something?”

“The Amish talk to their bishops. They confess. If there was something going on with the Planks—some kind of problem or crisis—there’s a good chance he knows about it.”

“Let’s hope he’s a good bishop.”

“He is.” I know this because he was my family’s bishop. He was instrumental in placing me under the bann when I refused to confess my sins, but I never held it against him.

We find Troyer in the cornfield in front of his house, astride an antique corn thresher, driving his team of gray Percheron geldings. The thresher is an awkward-looking contraption that cuts and bundles cornstalks. A few yards behind the binder, the bishop’s three grown sons stack the bundles into neat rows. Farther back, dozens of bundles of dry yellow cornstalks litter the field, and I know they’ve been at it since the wee hours of morning.

“They’re trying to beat the rain,” I say.

Glock looks up at the cloudless sky. “How do you know it’s going to rain?”

“Checked the weather online this morning.”

“For a second I thought you were going to reveal some ancient Amish secret for weather predicting.”

We both grin. It’s the first semblance of humor I’ve felt all morning, and it’s a welcome diversion.

I park on the shoulder and we traverse the bar ditch. Standing at the fence, we watch the men work. Autumn harvest is a busy time for an Amish farmer. The days are long and the work is backbreaking. Though female chores most often take place inside the house—canning, cleaning, sewing and baking—I always managed to end up outside with my datt. I never told anyone, but I secretly enjoyed the sweat and dirt and physical labor. It was one of many ways I didn’t fit in.

Spotting us, Bishop Troyer waves, letting us know he’ll hand the reins over to one of his sons and stop to speak to us next time around.

“Is he bound by any kind of confidentiality?” Glock asks after a moment. “I mean like a priest and the confessional?”

I shake my head. “If he knows something, he’ll talk.”

It takes fifteen minutes for the team of horses to round the field. The second time around, Troyer hands the reins to his son and starts toward us.

Bishop Troyer is one of those people who always looks the same no matter how many years pass. He has a full head of thick gray hair, blunt cut above heavy brows and a full salt-and-pepper beard. He has the rounded belly of a well-fed man. As a kid, I remember asking my datt why his legs were so bowed. Datt replied that Bishop Troyer spent many hours as a young man training and riding horses. In hindsight, I think my datt was just trying to keep me off our old plow horse.

“Weigeth’s alleweil?” How goes it today? Removing his flat-brimmed hat, the bishop wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Ich bin Zimmlich gut,” I respond.

He looks up at the sky. “ We are trying to beat the storms.”

“Looks like a good harvest.”

“Best we’ve had in six years.” His gaze slides to Glock and then back to me. His expression sobers. “Reuben Zimmerman came by an hour ago. He told me about the Plank family.”

Word of a death spreads quickly in the Amish community. Word of murder travels even faster. Not for the sake of gossip, but because other families will drop everything and descend upon the injured or bereaved to help. In the case of the Planks, there’s no one left to help. I tell the bishop what happened, leaving out as many of the details as I can.

He places his hand over his chest. I see the veins standing out on his temple. Sweat forming on his brow. For a moment I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.

“Are you all right, Bishop Troyer?”

“It is the will of God.” He shakes his head, blinking away sweat. “Der Keenich muss mer erhehe.” One must exalt the King.

We spend the next ten minutes rehashing the same things Glock and I went over with the Zook family. The conversation shifts into new territory when I ask him if any of the Planks had come to him with a problem.

A shadow I can’t quite read passes over his expression. “Ja.” Wiping his face with the kerchief, he meets my gaze. “Bonnie approached me after worship with concerns about Mary.”

“The younger of the two girls?”

The bishop nods, his brows knitting. “Bonnie did not want to speak to me with her husband present.”

An uneasy ping sounds in my brain. The Amish are generally a patriarch-cal society. Secrets between a husband and wife are rare. What was Bonnie keeping from her husband? And what did that have to do with Mary?

“Do you know what she wanted to speak to you about?” I ask.

The bishop shakes his head. “We never got the chance to speak privately. I tried several times but Amos was always present.” He shrugs. “I took the buggy to the house last week, but she said it was not a good time. I even met her at the shop in town where Mary worked part-time.”

I didn’t know Mary had an outside job. “Which shop?”

“The Carriage Stop.”

One of Councilwoman Janine Fourman’s shops. I make a mental note to swing by and speak to the manager. “Do you know why Bonnie wouldn’t speak to you in front of her husband?”

“I do not know. Perhaps Amos is—was—a private man.”

Or he was into something he didn’t want anyone to know about. It’s a powerful, uncomfortable thought. I know being suspicious of Amos is cynical, especially since he is among the dead. But as a cop, I know sometimes victims play an unintended role in their own deaths. I’ve seen more than one innocent person get in over his head. And I’ve seen them pay the consequences, too.

“So you have no idea why Bonnie wanted to speak to you about Mary?”

“No.”

Beside me, Glock leans closer. “Did Bonnie or any of the Plank family seem upset lately?”

He considers the words and then nods. “Bonnie seemed upset sometimes, but she was a nervous woman.”

“Did she ever seem afraid?”

He shakes his head. “I had planned to pay them another visit, but with the harvest . . .” He looks down at his boots.

The bishop and I have had our moments of disagreement over the years. He can be a hard, judgmental man. But he can also be kind and fair and generous. At this moment, looking into his eyes, I know he blames himself for not forcing the issue with Bonnie.

“What can you tell us about Mary?” I ask.

“I did not know the family well, Katie. They were new to the area. They kept to themselves more than most. Mary seemed like a kind, happy girl. Generous. Smart in school. She helped care for her younger siblings.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?” I ask.

“I do not know.”

“Do they have family in Lancaster?” Glock asks.

“I do not know.” His face darkens, and I realize he feels guilty for his lack of knowledge. “Will you let me know if they left behind family in Lancaster County, Katie? Perhaps I can be of some comfort to them.”

I touch his shoulder. “Of course.”

As I drive away, I feel as if I know even less than when I started. Who were the Planks? Why did they leave Lancaster County? Why was Bonnie worried about her daughter?

The questions taunt me, but I have no answers. The one thing of which I’m fairly certain is that the Plank family left behind secrets. Where there is a secret, there will be a revelation.

I drop Glock at the Plank farm with instructions to assist the crime scene unit from BCI. The CSU will process the scene, dust for latent prints, collect blood evidence and footwear imprints, bag any hair and fibers and whatever else they can find. I know it’s petty in light of the loss of life, but I find myself watching for John Tomasetti’s Tahoe. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t show. In my current frame of mind, I’m probably better off not analyzing my feelings too closely.

On my way to the police station, I call Lois, my first shift dispatcher, and ask her to let all of my officers know there will be a briefing at the station in an hour so I can bring them up to speed on the case.

As I drive through downtown Painters Mill, life goes on as usual. I pass by the Carriage Stop Country Store where Mary Plank worked part time. I’m tempted to pull in, but I know the store isn’t open for another twenty minutes, so I keep going. On the steps of the City Building, Mayor Auggie Brock and Councilman Norm Johnston are in the midst of some gesticulation-inducing exchange. Auggie spots me and waves; Norm pretends not to see me, which makes me sigh. His daughter was the victim of a serial killer last January. He didn’t agree with the way I was investigating the case, and to this day he blames me for her death. One more demon riding my back, spurring and whipping, keeping all the others company.

Down the street, Tom Skanks, owner of the Butterhorn Bakery, squeegees the front display window with the verve of a New York City high-rise window washer. The elderly Farmer brothers sit in steel chairs on the sidewalk in front of the hardware store and argue over their morning chess game.

I should be comforted by the constancy of our existence. The routine of small town life. The prettiness of the town. The friendliness of the people I’ve sworn to protect and serve. Instead, I feel strangely indignant that life continues on with so little interruption when just down the road a family of seven has been wiped off the face of the earth.

The predator inside me has been roused. I look upon every man, woman and child with hard-edged suspicion. Maybe because I know the possibility exists that hidden somewhere behind all this normalcy, a monster roams.

The police station is housed in a century-old red brick building that had once been a dancehall. It’s sweltering in the summer and cold as a meat locker in winter. But it’s my second home; the people who work for me are my family. At this moment, I’m unduly thankful for them.

I enter to find both my day- and night-shift dispatchers at the window that faces the street. Lois Monroe is about fifty years old with pretty blue eyes and a disposition as prickly as her overprocessed hair. She might look like someone’s mom, but I’ve seen her put more than one cocky young cop in his place. Mona Kurtz, on the other hand, is twenty-four going on sixteen with a head full of wild red ringlets and a personality that matches her hair to a T. Working on an associate’s degree in criminology, she’s totally enamored with all facets of law enforcement—and doesn’t mind working third shift. Neither woman is perfect, but they keep the police station up and running.

Mona is kneeling at the window, braced, with her hands on the sill, straining to open it. Lois is using the heel of her practical shoe to tap on the seal, trying to break it loose.

“I’m afraid to ask what you’re doing,” I say as I pass the dispatch station.

Both women turn at the sound of my voice.

“Oh, hey, Chief.” Mona grins. “We’re trying to get the window open.”

“It’s hot in here,” Lois adds.

“She’s having another hot flash.”

Lois wipes her forehead. “If I don’t get cooled off I’m going to have to call the fire department.”

I steer clear of the hot flash comment. “You look like a couple of inmates trying to break out of jail.” Reaching over the top of the desk, I grab messages from my slot. “Mona, did you hear back from Lancaster County?”

She crosses to me, and I try not to notice the black tights, red miniskirt and little black boots. “The sheriff’s office checked the names over the phone and sent a couple of deputies to some of the Amish farms. I haven’t heard back.”

“Call them again. The Planks have got to have relatives somewhere.” Notifying NOK is one of the most difficult aspects of my job. There’s nothing I’d hate more than for someone to find out about a family member’s death from the six o’clock news.

“Any media inquiries?” I ask.

“Steve Ressler,” Mona replies. “Channel eighty-two in Columbus. Radio station in Wooster. The usual suspects.”

Lois sighs. “I swear the gossips in this town are the best informed people in the world. Everyone’s got everyone else on speed dial.”

“Text messaging.” Sliding behind her desk, Mona pulls the headset over her head. “It’s faster.”

“Our official response is ‘no comment,’ ” I tell them.

Mona puts her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset. “What’s your unofficial response?”

“We don’t know shit.”

She gives me a smile.

“I’ll have a press release ready this afternoon.” I turn my attention to Lois. “Glock’ll get that window for you.”

“If he can’t get it open, I guess he can always shoot it.” She gives the window a final whack, then gives me a sage look. “You guys have any idea who killed that poor family?”

“The devil himself, more than likely,” I say and head toward my office.

An hour later, I’m sitting behind my desk thinking about murder. Ten months ago, I faced my first truly unfathomable case. The Slaughterhouse Killer investigation tested me to my limits, both professionally and personally. But while the case was a tough one, the fact that we were dealing with a serial murderer made him predictable to a degree. I knew his motive. His modus operandi. I knew he couldn’t stop. And I knew that eventually his dark compulsion would lead him to make a mistake. The case nearly cost me my life, but in the end, I got him.

This case promises to be different. I don’t have any parameters to guide me. No motive. No suspect. All I have to work with is a slaughtered family, a crime scene that has been stingy with evidence, and a jumble of unanswered questions.

“You look like you could use this.”

I start at the sound of Glock’s voice and look up to see him standing just inside my office, holding a brown paper bag from the diner. “If you’re angling for a raise, you’re on the right track,” I say.

“Being married has taught me two things, Chief.”

I smile. “Just two?”

He smiles back. “Understanding a woman begins with knowing what she wants even before she asks.”

“Not bad.” I take the bag from him. “What’s the second thing?”

“When in doubt, bring food.”

“You’re a wise man, Glock.”

“My wife thinks so.” He takes one of two visitor chairs. “Some of the time, anyway.”

I smell chili as I unpack the Styrofoam bowl, paper napkin and plastic spoon. The rest of my team shuffles in. Skid looks like he hasn’t slept for two days. I know third shift has been hard on him. It was the only way I could think of to discipline him for mishandling a drunk-and-disorderly case a couple of months back. Pickles smells like cigarette smoke and looks as content as a sixth grader at recess as he drags in a chair. T.J. brings up the rear. He’s my youngest officer and the only one of us who’s had any decent sleep.

I address him first. “You up to speed on this?”

“Skid filled me in.” He whistles. “Unbelievable.”

I speak to all of them now. “On the chance the killer is an outsider, someone passing through town, I contacted the State Highway Patrol.”

“You think that’s the case?” Glock asks. “Or do you think he’s local?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh, frustrated by the lack of leads. “We have to assume he’s local for now.”

Four heads bob nearly in unison.

I turn my attention to Glock. “CSU find anything?”

Glock scoots his chair closer. “Tomasetti sent two technicians. They were still working the scene when I left. Found a slew of latents. Some could be from the family. Blood evidence was done. Got a partial off the bloody print on the door.” He looks down at his notes. “They found two slugs so far, including the one in the basement that went through the floor. Looks like the fucker who did it picked up his brass.”

“Of course he did,” I say dryly. “They able to get footwear impressions?”

“They were working on that. Tech thinks they’ll get some decent impressions.”

“Any latents on the instruments found in the barn?” I ask.

“Smears.” Glock frowns. “No prints.”

“That sucks,” Skid says.

“Hair?” I ask, hopeful. “Fibers?”

“Both. They vacuumed the house and the tack room in the barn. Bagged everything and sent it via courier. Won’t know anything until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Keep on the footwear thing. If we can figure out what kind of shoe and match it to someone in town . . .”

“You bet.”

“Have the bodies been transported?” I ask.

“Paramedics were loading up when I left the scene. Doc Coblentz borrowed a resident from Cuyahoga County to assist with the autopsies. They’re going to work through the night.”

“That will speed things up.” In the back of my mind, I wonder if Tomasetti will drive down. I wonder if I should have filed an official petition for assistance. “Were the techs able to give you a caliber from the slugs?”

“Not definitively,” Glock says. “But it was a small caliber. Probably a twenty-two. Could be a thirty-two or nine millimeter. They’re sending the Beretta to the lab for testing.”

I address Glock. “They get a serial number?”

“Filed off,” he says.

“That’s interesting,” says Skid.

“Yeah.” I scan the faces of my team. “What else do we have in terms of evidence?”

“The instruments in the barn,” T.J. begins.

“The speaker wire,” Skid adds.

“Until the lab gets back to us,” I tell Skid, “why don’t you call around, see who sells speaker wire here in town?”

He nods.

“Anyone find any money?” I ask. “Valuables? Was anything grossly out of place or broken?”

The men shake their heads. “Aside from the bodies, there didn’t seem to be a damn thing outta place,” Pickles says. “Nothing looked as if it had been tossed.”

I tell them about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Bonnie was evidently concerned about her daughter, but no one knows why.”

“Might be a good idea to talk to her friends,” Glock says.

“Can you follow up on that?” Get me a list? I ask. “I’m going to talk to the owner of the shop where she worked.” I look at my team. “We need a motive.”

“Murder for the sake of murder,” Glock says. “It looks like whoever did it went in there to kill.”

“And torture,” Pickles adds. “Seems like that was a big part of it.”

I nod. “I agree.”

“What about robbery?” Skid looks around the room. “Maybe the murders were an afterthought. They went in for money or valuables, saw those two girls . . .” He shrugs. “Acted out some kind of twisted fantasy.”

It’s a stretch, but I’ve had too much experience with the utter senselessness of murder to dismiss it out of hand.

T.J. speaks up for the first time. “Do the Amish use banks?”

“Some do. Some don’t.” The perfect assignment for him comes to me. “See if the Planks had an account at Painters Mill Credit Union or First Third Bank and Trust. If the bean counters balk, get a warrant from Judge Seibenthaler.”

“Will do.”

I look at Pickles; I’m thinking about drugs now, a silent scourge that affects many small towns, no matter how postcard perfect the façade. Back in the 1980s, he worked undercover and singlehandedly busted one of the biggest meth labs in the state. Despite his age, he’s always ready for action, the more the merrier, and if he gets to pull his sidearm, it’s an bonus. “You still on top of our friendly neighborhood meth guys?”

“Some.” Leaning back in his chair, he unwraps a toothpick and sticks it between his lips. “You think this is drug related?”

“Something ugly like this happens, and drugs come to mind.” All eyes swing to me. “It’s a desperate, money-driven business.”

“Amish might be easy pickin’s.” Pickles chews on the toothpick. “Being pacifists and all.”

He’s right; generally speaking, the Amish renounce any kind of violence. “If some crackhead found out the Planks kept money at the house, they might think they could make off with some easy cash.”

Glock pipes up. “How would anyone know the Planks kept cash on hand?”

All eyes turn to me, and I know they’re wondering how the social crevasse that exists between the Amish and English might have been traversed. “Maybe one of the Planks mentioned keeping cash at the house while they were in town. Maybe the wrong person overheard and decided to rob them.”

Skid looks doubtful. “You mean like ‘My grandma keeps ten thousand dollars cash in her broom closet’?”

I shrug, knowing it’s a stretch. But you never know when a stretch might become the real deal.

“Maybe it started out as a burglary,” Glock says.

“Only the family was home and all of a sudden it’s a robbery,” T.J. adds. “Maybe they didn’t want witnesses.”

“That doesn’t explain the torture aspect.” I look from man to man. “If our perp went in for money or valuables, that level of violence just doesn’t fit.”

Glock weighs in with, “Or maybe the perp figured on robbery and didn’t give a damn who got hurt. They do a home invasion, decide not to leave any witnesses. Maybe this killer is some kind of psychopath, high on God only knows what, and it turned into a fuckin’ melee.”

Pickles pulls the toothpick out of his mouth and uses it to make his point. “If the killer went into that house at night, surely he knew the family was home.”

The direction our collective minds have gone makes me think of hate. Hatred of the Amish is unfathomable to most, but I know it is a cancer that is all too active. I wonder if hate could be part of this. Or all of it. “What about a hate crime?” I venture.

“Definite possibility,” Glock says.

I meet his gaze. “Check into hate crimes against the Amish in Ohio, Pennsylvania and Indiana in the last two years. I want names and addresses. That gets into federal territory, so the feds will have records.”

“I’m on it.”

I turn my attention to Pickles. “Who are the biggest dealers in the area?”

Pickles knows the answer off the top of his head. “Jack Hawley got popped two years ago with a key of coke. Did eighteen months at Terre Haute. Word is he’s hanging with his old friends.”

“These guys never learn,” Glock mutters.

I jot the name on my pad. “Who else?”

“We know that goddamn Harry Oakes is selling meth. Got a network the size of New fuckin’ York. But he’s one paranoid son of a bitch. I can’t see him doing this kind of thing.”

“Who else?”

“The Krause brothers.” Pickles gives a nod. “They’re cooking shit out at their old man’s farm. House is derelict, so they moved a trailer home out there. Lights are burning in those barns half the damn night.”

“Where’s the old man?”

“Sent him to an old folks home down in Millersburg.”

“Huh.” I think about that a moment, tap my pad with my thumb. “These names are a starting point. Let’s go knock on some doors. Feel them out.”

Glock sits up in his chair. “You want me to go with you?”

I shake my head. “I’ll take Pickles.”

The former Marine looks alarmed. “Those Krause boys’ve got guns out there, Chief.”

I don’t have anything against guns in general. I have faith in our constitution, and I believe a law-abiding citizen has the right to keep and bear arms. If I hadn’t had access to a weapon seventeen years ago, I wouldn’t be here today. Still, as a cop, I know that in the wrong hands a gun can become an instrument of death in a split second. “We’re just going to rattle some cages,” I say. “See what runs out.”

“Chief, with all due respect . . .”

Pickles bristles at Glock’s concern. “We can handle it.”

I cut in before the situation escalates. “Pickles and I will take care.”

He nods, but doesn’t look happy about us going out alone.

I look at T.J. “I want you to canvass the area around the Plank farm.” Gaining useful information via canvassing is a long shot since many of the Amish farms in the area are more than a mile apart. Many will not speak openly to the English police. But with nothing to go on and the clock ticking, it’s worth the time and effort. “Ask about the family. Friends. Relatives. And see if anyone saw any strange vehicles or buggies in the area. Find out which homeowners keep firearms and what kind. Make a list.”

“You got it.”

Skid gives me a puzzled look. “What about me?”

“If I were you, I’d go home and get some sleep,” I tell him. “We’ve got a long stretch ahead and it might be a while before you get another chance.”