Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 13

Half an hour later, I’m locked in my office with Glock and Aaron Plank. On the way to the station, I called Skid and had him run Plank through LEADS, which provides access to criminal history files. To my surprise, we got two hits. A DUI when he was eighteen years old. And an assault charge when he was twenty. Both times he pleaded no contest and paid his societal dues.

Plank sits across from me with his legs crossed. To the untrained eye, he might appear calm. But I’m a cop, and I don’t miss the constant picking at a hangnail. The wiping of damp palms on wool-blend slacks. He’s an unassuming young man. Attractive, with an earnest expression and honest eyes. But I know from experience never to make judgments based on appearances.

“I’m sorry about your family,” I begin.

“I still can’t believe they’re gone. My sisters and brothers. Little Amos.” Grimacing, he shakes his head. “Do the police have a suspect yet?”

“We’re working on a few leads.”

“I don’t understand why someone would do that. So violent . . . My God.” He looks away, the muscles in his jaws working.

“How did you find out?” I ask.

“Friend of mine heard it on the news, and called me.”

“We looked for family. The sheriff of Lancaster County looked, but came back with nothing.”

“I would have been hard to find.”

“Why is that?”

He laughs, but it’s a sad sound. “Well, as you can see I’m no longer Amish. The sheriff’s deputies probably looked for Planks living in Lancaster County. He won’t find any relatives there.”

“No aunts? Uncles?”

“Datt had a brother. We had three cousins.” He purses his lips. “They were killed in a buggy accident six years ago.”

“That’s a lot of tragedy to beset one family.”

“It was horrible.”

I let that settle for a moment. “When’s the last time you saw your family?”

“I haven’t seen them since the day I left for Philly over three years ago.”

“No letters? Phone calls?”

“We never had a phone, so phone calls were out. I got one letter from Mary.”

My interest surges. “What did she say in her letter?”

“Just the usual teenaged girl stuff. You know, who’s courting whom. Who’s getting married. Gossip.” He smiles. “Amish style, of course.”

“She ever mention a boyfriend?”

Aaron hesitates. “No.”

I nod, but I’m wondering about the hesitation. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

Wanting as much information as I can get, I switch gears. “How long ago did you leave the Plain life?”

“Shortly after my rumspringa. I decided at that point not to be baptized.”

“Any particular reason?”

His eyes flick away, then back. “That was about the time I realized I was gay.”

Surprise ripples through me and at the same time my cop’s suspicions jump. I know even before I ask that the news did not go over well with his parents. The Amish are generally tolerant. But that doesn’t mean Aaron’s being gay was met with approval. How bad had it been for Aaron?

His eyes dart to Glock and then back to me. “I’d been . . . confused about it for a long time. Since I was little, I think. I pretended I wasn’t different. I hid what I was.”

Religion pervades all aspects of Amish life. Most live their lives according to the Ordnung. The Ordnung is a sort of unwritten charter of basic Amish values that is passed down from generation to generation and varies from church district to church district. Over the passage of time, the rules evolve and, to some, they are open to interpretation. The more conservative Amish adhere strictly to the Ordnung. Some of the more liberal-minded live their lives a bit more loosely, going so far as to utilize electricity and drive cars. Having been born into a conservative family, I know how difficult life could be for someone in Aaron’s shoes.

“How did they react when you told them you were gay?” I ask.

“They weren’t pleased.” Shrugging, he looks away. “They didn’t understand. Thought I was perverted. Sick.” He gives a rough laugh. “They wanted grandchildren.”

“So your being gay caused problems between you and your parents?”

“To put it mildly.” His gaze snaps back to mine, and he smiles sadly. “Chief Burkholder, I was not distraught enough to do something like this, if that’s what you’re getting at. All of this happened a long time ago, and I’ve long since come to terms. I still loved my parents. I just couldn’t abide by their ways.”

The familiarity of his words strikes a chord within me. I wish I didn’t understand, but I do. All too well. I know what it’s like to be Amish and not fit in. Though I haven’t ruled him out as a suspect, my empathy is profound.

“Where were you the night of the murders?” I ask.

“Home.”

“Where’s that?”

“I rent a house. In Philly.”

“Can someone substantiate that?”

“My partner, Rob Lane, was there part of the evening.”

“What about the rest of the evening?”

“I was alone.”

“What’s Mr. Lane’s contact info?”

Plank rattles off two phone numbers, and Glock scribbles them down.

“Tell me about your relationship with your parents,” I say.

He shrugs. “Not much to tell, really. Once I told them I was gay, they sort of . . . shut down. At first they pretended everything was the same. They prayed for me.”

“What was the catalyst for your telling them?”

“I met Rob. That’s when I sort of figured out I wasn’t going to change. When I began to question my parents’ assertions that there was something wrong with me.”

“How did you meet Rob?”

“He traveled to Lancaster County to write a book about the Amish. He was from Philly. I met him by accident. In town. I know this probably sounds hokey, but after a few minutes with him it was as if we’d known each other our entire lives. I let him photograph me. A lot of the other Amish wouldn’t. I agreed to an interview and a few days later we . . . started a relationship.”

“How long was he in Lancaster County?”

“Three weeks.” He sighs. “They were the best three weeks of my life. We were discreet, but my parents couldn’t handle seeing us together. They called it devilment.”

“What happened?”

“They talked to the bishop. They forced me to talk to the bishop.” He smirks. “I refused to confess. Needless to say it didn’t go well.”

“I talked to one of the bishops in Lancaster County. I specifically asked about relatives, but your name never came up.”

“Well, there are several church districts and more than one bishop in the county. That’s not to mention the rift in communication between the Amish and the English.”

“Who was your bishop?”

“Edward Fisher.”

I write down the name. “So what happened?”

“I was pretty much excommunicated.”

“Were you upset?”

“You bet I was. I was seventeen years old. I hadn’t even been baptized. Yet I would be cut off from my family and the rest of the community. No one would take meals with me.” He gives a shrug. “I was sad because I knew no matter how hard my parents and the bishop tried, I couldn’t go back.”

“Must have been a tough transition.”

“My parents and the Amish community made me feel . . . dirty. I had a lot of guilt.”

“Were you angry?”

“I know what you’re getting at. I’m not that way.”

“You’ve got an assault conviction on your record.”

His face reddens. “I guess you did your homework.”

“I know about your juvie record, too.”

“Oh, come on! I was a kid. I was confused and angry.”

“Sometimes a confused and angry kid grows up to be a confused and angry adult.”

“That’s not the way it was.”

“Look, Aaron, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to get some answers. It would save both of us a lot of time if you just opened up and talked to me.”

We fall silent a moment, and then I ask. “So what did you do as a juvenile?”

Shaking his head, he presses his fingers against his forehead. “I burned down a barn.”

“Why?”

The muscles in his jaws clench. “Because my parents forbade me to see Rob.”

I nod. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

“How did the cops get involved?” Having grown up Amish, I know many Amish parents would not contact the English police.

“A sheriff’s deputy saw the smoke. Called the fire department.” He sighs heavily. “We were trying to put it out when the fire trucks arrived, but it was a total loss. The sheriff’s office showed up. In the end my father told them I’d done it.”

“You must have been really angry.”

“I was.”

“You were arrested?”

He nods. “And charged. Arson.”

“Went to court?”

“I pled no contest. Judge gave me two hundred hours of community service. Ordered me to help with the rebuilding, which came in the form of a barn raising a month later. Believe me, I paid for what I did.”

“What about the assault?”

He flushed. “Look, it’s not what you think. I’m not a violent person.”

“You torched a barn. You slugged someone. What do you expect me to think?”

He settles himself. “I lost my temper. And, frankly, he had it coming.”

“Who is ‘he’?”

“Some guy at a bar. Some fucking . . . homophobe. He made a bunch of inappropriate comments.”

“You touchy about your sexuality?”

“No, I’d just . . . had too much to drink.”

I nod, but I’m not yet satisfied.

“Can I go now?” He stands abruptly, looks from me to Glock and back to me. “I just attended the funeral of seven of my family members. And you have the nerve to drag me in here and question me like I was some kind of criminal.”

“I know this is tough,” I tell him. “I know you just lost your family. But it’s my job to get to the bottom of it. In order to do that I need to ask the hard questions.”

“I didn’t kill them.”

“Nobody said you did.” I take a breath, reel in impatience. “Sit down. Please.”

“You’re treating me like a suspect, for God’s sake.”

Aaron is not a suspect at this point, but I’m not inclined to tell him. I need to know all the family dynamics before I let him off the hook, especially the ones nobody wants to talk about. “You have motive. You have a record. A shaky alibi. What am I supposed to think?”

“I haven’t seen my family for nearly four years!”

“That’s a long time for anger to fester. Sometimes those emotions don’t go away.”

“Look, do I need a lawyer?”

“That’s your prerogative.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m not going to let you or anyone else railroad me.”

I stare hard at him, trying to see inside his head, inside his heart. “Did you kill your family?”

“No!” His hand shakes when he scrubs it over his forehead, and he sinks back into the chair. “I loved them. All of them. I would never do anything to hurt them. Never.”

“You believe him?” Glock asks a few minutes later.

“I don’t think he did it.” I’m sitting at my desk, watching Aaron Plank through the blinds as he gets into a newish Camry. “But I think he might be holding out.”

Glock raises his brows. “You mean when you asked him about his sister having a boyfriend?”

I nod, relieved I’m not the only one who caught Plank’s moment of hesitation. “I think he’s lying about having been in contact with her.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

He nods. “Hard to tell when someone is lying.”

“That’s the thing about liars. There are good ones and there are mediocre ones. What separates the two is that the good ones convince themselves it’s the truth. It’s like the Big Lie theory, if you repeat a lie enough times, people will start to believe it.”

“Adolf Hitler,” Glock says.

I watch Aaron Plank pull away. “If someone convinces himself a lie is true, he’s basically not lying.”

I spend the next twenty minutes digging up everything I can find on Aaron Plank. Arrest record. Conviction record. Background check. But other than the juvenile record, the DUI and the assault, the information is unimpressive. He’s a graphic artist, living in an established Philly neighborhood of renovated old homes where a high percentage of his neighbors are young gay professionals. Not exactly the profile of a mass murderer. But I know how difficult excommunication can be for a young Amish person. At the age of seventeen, Aaron basically had to reinvent himself and start over. Hatred can be a strong motivator. Did he hate his parents enough to murder his entire family?

It’s hardly a viable theory. For one thing, I can’t see him torturing his sisters or cutting the fetus from Mary Plank’s body. In the short span of time I spent with Aaron, one thing I noticed is that he’s got plenty of emotions, including guilt; he’s not a sociopath. That’s not to mention the other loose ends: Mary Plank’s mysterious relationship, her pregnancy, and the sperm found inside her body. Of course, Aaron could have hired a paid killer. The torture could have been added for the sole purpose of misleading the police. But it’s far from a perfect fit.

I also run checks on Aaron’s partner, Rob Lane, but he comes back clean. I Google his name to find he’s got two books to his credit. Zipping to Amazon, I enter his name and click on the title Amish Country: A Place of Peace. It’s a lovely coffee table book chock-full of artsy black-and-white photographs, folk art, and literary musings. His tastes run to the avant-garde, but his talent is evident.

Locating the phone number Aaron gave me, I call Rob at his office. He’s a well-spoken young man who just landed an editorial job with a well-known magazine. Despite my resistance, he charms me and then substantiates everything Aaron told me. He didn’t sound scripted, but as I hang up, I wonder if the two men coordinated stories. It wouldn’t be the first time someone covered for a lover.

Next, I call the Lancaster County sheriff’s office and get transferred to a corporal by the name of Mel Rossi. I quickly identify myself and tell him about the case.

“I heard about the murders,” he says. “Hell of a thing. You guys know who did it?”

“We’re still working it.” I pause. “I was wondering if you could have one of your deputies run out to Bishop Fisher’s place so I could speak to him via cell phone.”

“I can probably get someone out there today.” Corporal Rossi has a strong New York accent. “Give me your contact info and I’ll have someone call you.”

I give him my cell phone number and disconnect. I wonder if the bishop will be able to shed any light on the Plank family. I wonder what he’ll have to say about Aaron Plank.

I’m ruminating the possibilities when my phone trills. I look at the LCD display to see that the main switchboard is buzzing me. Absently, I hit Speaker. “Yeah?”

“Chief, you’ve got a visitor.”

“Who is it?”

“Me.”

The voice goes through me like a blade. I look up to see John Tomasetti standing at my office door. I shouldn’t be surprised; I knew he was coming. A flurry of emotions whip through me anyway. Shock. Pleasure. Uncertainty. All of which are followed by a thrill that feels like a thousand volts of electricity. For a moment I’m dumbstruck and can’t think of anything to say. Then my brain is flooded with a jumble of words, none of which are appropriate.

I finally settle for, “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

I can’t tell if he’s serious, and a nervous laugh escapes me. “You live a hundred miles away. You can’t just be in the neighborhood.”

He has the poker face of a card shark. I’m adept at reading people, but not Tomasetti. It’s unsettling not knowing what he’s thinking. He stares at me, unblinking, his expression as inscrutable as stone. “I thought you might like some help with the case.”

Silence reigns for the span of a dozen heartbeats. Tomasetti looks away, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and for a split second he looks as uncertain as I feel.

“In that case, have a seat.” I punctuate the words with a smile, then look down at my notes.

He takes the chair across from me. “So, what have you got?”

Relieved that we share the familiar ground of police work, I recap everything I know about the case.

“Do you think it’s possible this girl, Mary, embellished in the journal?” he asks.

“I don’t think so.” I fumble for the right words. “There was an earnestness to her writing. A naïveté that’s hard to fake.” I sigh. “She was in love with this guy.”

“So the lover is a suspect.”

“She was pregnant. A minor.”

“Could be a motive. Who else?”

“There’s Aaron Plank, but he’s not really a viable suspect at this point.” I glance at him over the top of my notes to find him staring at me intently. “That’s not to say he didn’t have issues with his parents. He was excommunicated when he was seventeen. That would have caused a lot of pain. Maybe even rage. Maybe he couldn’t let go.”

“Enough rage to shoot his brothers and torture his sisters?”

“That’s my stumbling block. I can’t see him doing that.”

“Okay, what else do you have?”

“Home invasion–type robbery. Things go bad. The killings could have been an afterthought. Or it could be a hate crime.”

“You’re keeping all your options open.”

“Nothing seems to be a good fit.”

“Yeah, well, our jobs would be a lot easier if murder ever made sense.” He picks up the journal from my desk. “She never names the lover?”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t give us anything.”

“Sounds like maybe he told her to keep her mouth shut.”

“Probably. He was manipulating her. She certainly had cause not to tell her parents, especially after the way they reacted to Aaron’s announcement that he was gay.”

Tomasetti pages through the journal, then sets it back on my desk. “You develop any kind of profile on the boyfriend?”

“I think he’s English. Older than Mary. Twenty-five to thirty-five years old. Charming. Manipulative. Dabbles in drugs. Maybe some amateur photography.”

“Photography?”

“He took some photos of her.”

He arches a brow. “You mean porn?”

“Maybe. I think he may have drugged her, too. She writes about it, but it’s not real clear.”

“You check the Internet for pics?”

“I haven’t Googled ‘Hot Amish Chicks,’ if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. People have all sorts of strange fetishes. Nuns. Feet. Whips and chains.” He shrugs.

All I can think is that I should have already pursued that angle. I hit Speaker on my phone and dial T.J. He picks up on the first ring. “We think Mary Plank’s boyfriend might have been taking pornographic photos of her. He may have been posting them online. I want you to go out there and see what you can find. You might start with some of the search engines. Check out some of the porn sites. You might also check to see if any of them have an Amish slant.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to surf Internet porn sites? Jeez, this has gotta be a first.”

“Probably the last, too.”

He sighs. “Okay, I’m on it.”

I disconnect and look at John. He’s got penetrating eyes. The kind that are hard to meet. Harder to hold. Impossible to read. I sense there’s something going on with him. Some internal discord I can’t put my finger on.

“Tell me about the brother,” he says.

I give him the rundown on Aaron Plank. “He lives with his partner in Philly now.”

“Bad blood between him and his parents?”

“He says no.”

“With his entire family dead, what else is he going to say?”

“There is one person I can think of who might know something about family dynamics.”

Tomasetti raises a brow.

“Their bishop back in Lancaster County,” I say. “I’m waiting for a call back now.”

“Worth a shot.” He nods. “What else?”

“Glock’s checking hate crimes.”

“Hard to imagine someone hating the Amish.”

“It happens. Unfortunately, a lot of it goes unreported.”

“What kind of stuff are you talking about?”

I shrug. “Some people don’t like the buggies because they’re slow and hold up traffic. Or they think the Amish are stupid. They equate pacifism with cowardice.” I shake my head. “I’ve seen buggies run off the road. People have thrown rocks at the horses to spook them. I’ve even heard of some teenagers throwing fireworks at the horses. A few don’t like the religion.”

“Or they just hate for the sake of hating.”

He’s staring at me again. That shouldn’t bother me. I’ve been in this man’s bed. He’s held me. Kissed me. Made love to me. Yet here I am, uncomfortable and squirming beneath his gaze. Turning slightly in my chair, I look out the window, not sure what to say next or how to feel.

“How have you been, Kate?”

“Fine. Working a lot.” My answer is a little too quick. I’m nervous about his being here, and he knows it. I turn back to him. It’s been two months since I last saw him, but it seems like a lifetime. “How about you?”

“Saving the world.” He smiles. “Living the good life.”

I nod, not believing a word of it. “How long can you stay?”

“Till we close the case.”

I want to ask him if he’s up to the task, but I know the question will only piss him off. I admire and respect Tomasetti. Too damn much if I want to be honest about it. But he’s been through hell in the last two and a half years. He’s a troubled man with shadows so deep I haven’t been able to penetrate them. He might say otherwise, but I’m not convinced he’s up to working this case.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say after a moment.

“I bet you tell all the agency guys that.”

I smile.

A rapid knock sounds, then the door swings open. Glock steps in. His eyes widen when he sees Tomasetti. His gaze darts to mine. “Sorry, Chief, I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

“It’s okay,” I say, relieved for the interruption. “What do you have?”

Nodding at Tomasetti, he approaches, passes a sheet of paper to me. “Get a load of this.”

I scan the paper. It’s a ten-year-old police report from Arcanum, Ohio, a small town near the Indiana state line. Four men, all between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, were arrested for severely beating an Amish man and cutting off his ear. The ear was never found, and therefore could not be reattached. One of the men, James Hackett Payne, later confessed to having eaten it. Each of the men was later convicted and sentenced to five to eight years in prison. My pulse kicks when I see that Payne, now twenty-nine, is living in Painters Mill.

“He did extra time on the hate crime designation,” Glock says.

“I’ll bet that improved his outlook on life.” I pass the paper to John.

He scans the report and frowns. “It’s a stretch going from felony assault to mass murder.”

“Eight years in prison is a long time for anger to fester into rage,” I say.

“What the hell kind of person eats a guy’s fuckin’ ear?” Glock asks no one in particular.

“Twisted son of a bitch,” Tomasetti mutters.

“I don’t get the hate thing,” Glock says.

I shrug. “Some people see the Amish as easy targets.” Both men’s gazes swing to me. “They refer to the Amish as clapes for ‘clay apes.’ It’s a derogatory term that somehow relates to farming. The incidents against them are known as clape-ing.”

Glock shakes his head. “I can’t believe it happens enough for someone to coin a term for it.”

I glance at him, knowing that as an African-American cop, he’s experienced a few hate-related incidents himself.

“You got an address on this guy?” Tomasetti asks impatiently.

Glock grins. “You bet.”

I rise. “Let’s go talk to him.”

“Going to wear my fuckin’ earmuffs,” Glock says.