Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 8

Pickles and I hit the Krause place first. The farm sits on a dirt road four miles north of town. A decade earlier, Dirk Krause farmed soybeans, corn and tobacco. But as he got up in years and his capacity for physical labor dwindled, the farm fell to ruin. Instead of taking over the operation, his twin sons, Derek and Drew, let the fields go to shit. They sold the International Harvester tractor—for drug money more than likely—and leased the land to a neighbor. Talk around town is that the two sons, in their twenties now, work just enough to eke by. The brunt of their income is derived from selling crystal meth.

“You really think these losers had something to do with murdering that family?” Pickles asks as I turn the Explorer into the long gravel lane and start toward the house.

“Since we don’t have squat as far as suspects, I thought talking to them might be a good starting point.”

I park behind a rusty manure spreader surrounded by waist-high yellow grass. To my left, an ancient barn with weathered wood siding and a hail-damaged tin roof leans at a precarious angle. To my right, the house squats on a crumbling foundation like an old man in the throes of a cancerous death. Every window on the north side is broken. The back porch door dangles by a single hinge.

“Good to see they’re keeping up the place.” I slide out of the Explorer. The buzz of cicadas is deafening in the silence of the old farm.

“Place used to be nice,” Pickles grumbles as he gets out. “Looks like a goddamn junkyard now.”

“Except for that.” I point.

In stark contrast, a brand new fourteen-by-sixty trailer home with a satellite dish and living room extension perches on an old concrete foundation. A bright red barbecue grill lies on its side outside the front door, ashes and chunks of charcoal spilling onto the grass. A few feet away, four metal chairs and a brand-new cooler form a semicircle. A white Ford F-150 gleams beneath the carport. I think of a pistol in the hands of a paranoid meth freak and find myself hoping neither man is crazy enough to shoot at a cop.

“Looks like someone’s home,” Pickles says.

“Let’s do some rattling.” I start for the trailer.

I’ve had a couple of run-ins with the Krause brothers in the three years I’ve been chief. I arrested Derek twice, once on a drunk and disorderly charge after a fight broke out at the Brass Rail Saloon. He got off with a fine and probation. The second time, however, he did time for assaulting a nineteen-year-old woman, beating her so severely she had to be hospitalized. I witnessed some of the assault and happily testified against him. I’ve kept my doors locked and my sidearm handy since he was released last spring.

I’ve never arrested Drew, but I know him by reputation. I pulled his sheet before leaving the station. He did time at Mansfield for possession of meth with intent to sell. No arrests since, but as far as I know he’s just been lucky. I’m pretty sure both men are in the drug business up to their hairy armpits.

The curtains at the window move as I climb the steel stairs. Standing to one side—in case whoever’s inside thinks I’m a space alien and decides to shoot me through the door—I knock on the storm door. My right hand rests on the .38 in my holster. I’m aware of Pickles behind me, his breathing slightly elevated. I can feel the adrenaline coming off both of us.

The door swings open, and I find myself looking at a chest the size of an SUV, DD cups and enough hair to make a fucking coat. I have to look up to meet his gaze.

“Derek Krause?” I recognize him, but I ask anyway.

“Who wants to know?”

His eyes are frighteningly bloodshot. His breath smells like week-old road-kill. The body odor that wafts up from beneath his armpits is strong enough to make my eyes water. “The police.” I show him my badge.

“Oh, it’s you.” He looks past me at Pickles and smirks. “What’d you do? Raid the fuckin’ old folks home?”

Pickles offers a harsh laugh. I don’t take my eyes off of Krause. “I need to ask you some questions.”

He looks down at me as if considering ramming his fist through my skull.

“Step outside,” I say.

“You got some kind of warrant?”

“We just want to ask—”

“Then I ain’t steppin’ nowhere.”

My teeth grind. Behind me, Pickles swears. I raise my hand slightly to silence him. “We just want to talk to you.”

Derek tries to close the door. I ram my boot into the space. “Get out here and talk to us, or I’m going to come back with a warrant and tear this place apart.”

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“Nobody said you did.”

He shoves open the door. I step back just in time to avoid getting hit in the face with it. “Down there.” I point to the base of the trailer steps.

Sighing, he shoves past me. I glance at Pickles. He points covertly at his gun and raises his brows. You want me to shoot him? That makes me smile.

“What do you guys want with me?” Krause asks, shuffling down the steps.

I follow, hoping he’s not in the mood to fight because he’s huge. Two-fifty. Six-four. The last kind of guy I want to get into a scuffle with. “Where were you last night?” I begin.

“Here.”

“Can anyone collaborate that?”

“My dog.”

“Someone who can talk?” Pickles spits out his toothpick.

Derek sneers at him. “No.”

I motion toward his vehicle. “Nice truck. Yours?”

He turns his attention to me. “It gets me around.”

“Where do you work?”

“Farnhall.”

Farnhall is a manufacturing firm in Millersburg that makes oil filters. “What do you do there?”

“I work on the line.” Another sigh that reminds me of a bored teenager. “What’s this all about?”

“Do you know the Plank family?”

“Never heard of no Planks.”

“Where was your brother last night?”

“Dunno.”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Derek, come on. Work with me.”

“Look, I ain’t his fuckin’ keeper, all right?”

“Was he home?”

“Yeah, he was here.”

“What time?”

He lifts a big shoulder, lets it drop. “Eight. Nine o’clock.”

“Which was it?”

“I don’t know.”

Pickles mutters a word that sounds like dipshit.

Krause looks over the top of my head at Pickles and snarls. “At least I’m not half senile like you, old man.”

“That’s enough,” I snap. “Why aren’t you at work today?”

“I’m sick, man. Got a stomachache.”

“You don’t look sick.”

His massive shoulders lift, then drop. “Well, I am. Had the squirts all morning.”

I raise my hands to shut him up. “Where’s your brother now?”

Derek looks away. “Dunno.”

“He’s on probation, isn’t he?” I know he is, but I pose the question, anyway.

His gaze goes wary. “I guess.”

“Look, I can make this easy. Or we can do it hard. It’s going to be a lot better for both of you if you cooperate. Now where is he?”

“He’s at the bar, man. He’s not s’posed to be, so cut him some slack, will you?”

“If he didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t have a beef with him.”

“You cops always got a beef with us.” Shaking his head, he puts his hands on his hips. “Can I go now?”

“Don’t leave town.”

“Fuckin’ cops.” Turning away, he slogs up the steps and disappears into the trailer.

I look at Pickles. “Nice young man.”

Pickles grins. “You think he’s scary, you should see his mama.”

“Big lady, huh?”

“No, just hairier.”

There is an underground society that runs beneath the Norman Rockwell–façade of most small towns, and Painters Mill is no exception. While regular folks are working at their jobs, paying their bills and raising their families, others are selling drugs, getting high and generally leading lives of crime.

In Painters Mill, the Brass Rail Saloon is the heart of that underground, and it’s the first stop on my list after Pickles and I leave the Krause place. I’m surprised to see the parking lot half full. Then it strikes me that the Farnhall plant’s first shift lets out at four o’clock. It’s a quarter past, so the booze is just beginning to flow. Tongues will be loosened. Inhibitions will wane. Drugs will be snorted, swallowed, injected, bought and sold. We’re right on time.

I park next to a vintage VW with a bumper sticker that reads: If you don’t like my driving call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. In the back of my mind, I hear the clock ticking down those crucial first forty-eight hours. The passage of time taunts me. The Planks have been dead for over fourteen hours now and still I have nothing.

“So is Drew as big as his brother?” I ask Pickles as we get out of the Explorer.

“No, but he’s a mean son of a bitch.”

“Terrific.”

“Smells better, though.”

“Something to look forward to.”

Ten yards from the entrance, I feel the bass rumble of rock music vibrating beneath my feet. I push open the door and we step inside. The place is as dark and dank as an underground cave. I look up, half expecting to see bats hanging from the ceiling. Cigarette smoke hovers like fog. On a lighted dance floor a dozen or so bodies undulate to some chainsaw rock music I don’t recognize.

My eyes have barely adjusted when Pickles jabs a finger toward the bar. “Speak of the devil,” he says.

I follow his point and spot Drew Krause. Pickles was right; he’s not as big as his brother. Maybe six feet. One-eighty. He wears faded blue jeans and a navy T-shirt with the phrase I didn’t do it emblazoned on the front. He looks like a normal guy, enjoying happy hour after a long day. But I learned a long time ago just how deceiving appearances can be. That’s particularly true in the drug world.

Leaning against the bar as if he owns the place, he watches Pickles and me approach with the amusement of a parent watching a toddler take his first steps.

“Drew Krause?” I ask.

“Chief Burkholder.” He turns his gaze to Pickles. “Officer Shumaker. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I bet.” I show him my badge.

“What’d I do now?”

“We’d like to talk to you.”

Smiling disarmingly, he taps an index finger against the T-shirt. “Can’t you guys read?”

I invade his space, letting him know we’re serious. “We can do this here or I can embarrass you in front of all your buddies by cuffing you and hauling you down to the station.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not easily embarrassed.”

I pull the cuffs from my belt. “Neither am I.”

“Hey. Come on.” Smiling, he raises his hands. “I’m just kidding around.”

“Here’s a newsflash for you, slick,” Pickles says. “We’re not amused.”

“I’m getting that.” Sobering, he looks from me to Pickles and back to me. “What can I do for you?”

“Where were you last night?” I begin.

He assesses me, a wily teenager poking fun at his clueless, overbearing parents. The bartender moves to within earshot, picking up a glass I know is already dry, and running his dingy towel over it.

“I was here,” Drew replies.

“Can someone substantiate that?”

He looks at the bartender. “Hey, Jimmy. Where was I last night?”

The man behind the bar, rail thin and sporting a goatee that’s going gray, concentrates on his glass. “You were here, running your mouth and your tab, as usual.”

I give Jimmy a hard look, wishing I’d gotten Drew outside where we could be alone with him. Get him out of his element. Away from all his fair-weather friends. If he’s the man with the drugs, there’s no doubt his regulars would lie, cheat or steal to maintain a steady flow.

I glance at Pickles, lower my voice. “Go talk to the skinny shit behind the bar. I’ll take Mr. I-didn’t-do-it.”

Reaching over a row of shot glasses lined up on the counter, Pickles snags the barkeep’s shirt. “C’mere, slick.”

I turn my attention back to Krause. “What time were you here?”

“Till closing.”

“Were you alone?”

“Just me and about fifty of my closest friends.” He makes a sweeping motion that encompasses everyone in the bar.

“Can anyone else vouch for you?” I pull out my notebook. “I want names.”

His eyes narrow. “Usually I know why you guys are fuckin’ with me. This time, I don’t have a clue.” He grins. “Whatever you’re pissed about, I really didn’t do it.”

Grinding my teeth, I try not to think about the Plank family, their bodies slowly decomposing atop the stainless-steel gurneys at the morgue. “Names. Now.”

He rattles off six names. Some I’m familiar with. Some I’ve never heard before. I plan to contact all of them. Drew had better hope they have good memories. “What time did you arrive?”

“Six or so.”

“Did you leave at any time?”

“No, ma’am. I drank. Played some pool. Danced with a couple of chicks. That’s it. I swear.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I have a lot of girlfriends.”

“Do you know Mary Plank?”

He stares at me, realization dawning. “I know I ain’t got the greatest reputation in this town, but I ain’t no killer. I didn’t have nothing to do with those murders.”

“How do you know about the murders?”

“Everyone’s talking about it.” He grimaces, but it looks rehearsed and insincere. “Look, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I don’t even know those people. Are you guys fuckin’ desperate, or what?”

I get in his face. “That’s right. We’re desperate. We can make things desperate for you, too, since you’re on parole. So if I were you, I’d get real serious about cooperating.”

“Okay, okay.” For the first time, he appears uncertain. “Look, I got off work around four. Went home to shower and change—”

“Where’s home?”

“I live with my brother. On the farm.”

“Then what?”

“I came here. Had a few drinks. Stayed until closing.”

“Do you know any members of the Plank family?”

“I’m not trying to be a smart-ass or anything, but the Amish and I don’t run in the same circles.”

“Are any of your drug-dealing buddies whacked out enough to kill an entire family?”

He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to chop off his little toe. I know the one thing he won’t talk about are his druggie friends. Even among thieves, there is a code of honor. If that’s what you want to call it, anyway.

“Look it, I got a job now. I’m legit.”

I roll my eyes. “Everyone knows you and your brother are cooking meth at the farm.”

“That’s bullshit. A bunch of damn rumors from people who don’t like us.”

“Do yourself a favor and answer the question, Drew. Have you heard anything? Are any of your freaky friends desperate enough to do something like that?”

“I don’t have any freaky friends. I’m outta the drug business. I learned my lesson.” For the first time he looks rattled. Joe Cool losing his cool.

“You’re full of shit.” I jab my finger in his shoulder hard enough to send him back a step.

“Hey.” He knows I’m daring him to make a move, but he doesn’t take the bait. He’s too smart to hit a cop.

“What about your brother?” I ask.

“He don’t run with the dealers no more, either. I swear.”

“Give me a name.” I jab his shoulder with my finger again, harder this time. Vaguely, I’m aware people are staring at us. Happy hour revelers giving us a wide berth. “Give me one name.”

“I don’t know anyone.” He takes another step back. “Not even the hardcore guys would do something like that. Seven people? And for what? Fifty bucks? No way.”

He’s right, but I’m not ready to let him off the hook. I have a particularly strong dislike for drug dealers. “Don’t leave town, Drew.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sooner or later, you will.” I step closer and whisper. “When you do, I’ll be waiting.”

His face darkens. A tick quivers beneath his right cheekbone. In that instant, I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the I’m-just-a-farm-boy façade, and I know that if I didn’t have a badge and a gun he’d wrap his fingers around my neck and kill me with his bare hands.

I smile at him. “See you around.”

His cheek quivers; he doesn’t smile back.

As I walk away, I hear him mutter something nasty about Amish cops behind my back. Pickles starts toward him, but I snag his jacket and keep him with me. “Let it go.”

“I don’t like that son of a bitch’s mouth,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, Pickles. If either of the Krause boys had anything to do with this, they’ll get what’s coming to them even if I have to dish it out myself.”