Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 14

James Hackett Payne lives on the south side of Painters Mill in a three-story brick home that looks old enough to be historical. Surrounded by ancient maple and sycamore trees, the house sits on a large lot set back from a tree-lined street. A dilapidated privacy fence tangled with honeysuckle runs the perimeter of the backyard. I park curbside and we disembark.

“He live alone?” Tomasetti asks.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Glock replies. “Inherited the house when his dad died last year.”

“What’s he do for a living?” I ask.

“He’s on some kind of disability,” Glock answers.

“Mental or physical?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“Terrific,” Tomasetti mutters.

I start down the sidewalk toward the house. The place had once been grand, but years of neglect have turned it into a big, ugly eyesore. The front yard is a collage of tall grass matted with orange and red leaves. From where I stand, I see a detached garage at the rear. I take the concrete steps to the wraparound front porch and cross to the door. I press the doorbell, then open the storm door and knock.

“Creepy fuckin’ place,” Glock comments.

“Creepy fuckin’ guy,” Tomasetti adds.

A minute passes, but no one answers. “You guys hit the neighbors,” I say. “I’m going to check the back.”

Tomasetti and Glock exchange looks.

“For God’s sake,” I snap, “I’m just going to check the garage to see if there’s a car inside.”

Nodding, Glock cuts across the yard to the neighboring house. Tomasetti gives me a look I can’t quite read, but heads in the opposite direction.

Leaves rustle at my feet as I cut through the grass toward the back of the house. I try to see in the window as I pass a small side porch, but the curtains are drawn. The place has the feel of a vacant house. No car parked out front. The leaves aren’t raked. Yard is a mess. The curtains are drawn. I walk through the neighbor’s yard along the privacy fence, which is too high for me to see over the top. Reaching the alley, I go left toward the garage.

The overhead door is closed, so I walk past it to the gate, push it open. The gate opens to the backyard. The first thing I notice is the knee-high grass and the cracked sidewalk that leads to the house. A broken clay pot lies on its side just off the porch. From where I stand, I can see a broken window that’s been repaired with duct tape and a garbage bag.

“James Payne?” My adrenaline zings as I start toward the door on the east side of the garage. “This is the police. I need to talk to you.”

The window is blacked out with some kind of paint. Someone went to extremes for privacy. That makes me nervous. From where I stand, I discern music coming from inside, a haunting tune from some nineties grunge band. I hit my mike. “There’s someone in the garage out back. Come on around.”

“On the way,” comes Glock’s voice.

Knowing Tomasetti and Glock are less than a minute away, I cross to the door and knock hard enough to hurt my knuckles. “Police! Open up!”

No one answers.

Annoyed, I try the knob. To my surprise, the door isn’t locked so I push it open. The music becomes deafening. I feel the bass rumble all the way to my stomach. I don’t know what to expect from Payne. But considering the violent nature of his past crime, I set my hand on my .38.

The smells of paint and burning candles assail me when I step inside. James Hackett Payne stands fifteen feet away with his back to me. It takes my shocked brain a second to realize he’s naked, mainly because nearly every inch of his well-muscled body is covered with intricate tattoos.

For a terrible moment I think the red covering his hands is blood. Then I spot the massive painting before him and realize it’s paint.

“James Hackett Payne?” I shout to be heard above the music.

He turns slowly, making no effort to cover his nudeness. I notice a dozen things about him simultaneously. He’s got peculiar eyes that remind me of Charles Manson, only the color is blue and so light they’re almost white. He’s either bald or shaves his head and there’s a tattoo of a wolf on his scalp. I wonder if he’s some weird offshoot of a skinhead. I see spatters of paint on his chest. He’s aroused; his member stands at half-staff and has a smear of red paint on it.

“Would you mind putting on your pants, sir? I need to talk to you.”

He stares at me with an intensity that makes the hairs on my arms rise. He doesn’t smile, but I see amusement in his eyes. “Of course.”

He gestures toward a pair of sweatpants draped over the back of a chair. I nod and step back. I don’t want this strange son of a bitch getting too close. I hit my lapel mike. “I’m 10-75.”

Never taking his eyes from mine, he crosses to the chair. “Had I known you were coming I would have dressed.”

“Had I known you were going to be naked, I would have called.”

Glock and Tomasetti enter the garage. I glance over to see both men’s eyes widen at the sight of Payne. They’re seasoned cops; it takes a lot to shock them. I almost smile when I realize Payne has succeeded.

One side of his mouth pulls into a half grin as he jams his legs into the sweat-pants. “My work arouses me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I prefer to paint . . . uncovered. It puts me closer to my art.”

I glance at the painting he’d been working on and another layer of shock goes through me. It’s a stark painting with violent streaks of red, black and yellow. I discern the image of an Amish woman in the throes of childbirth. Two Amish males kneel between her knees, devouring a horribly deformed newborn.

I make eye contact with Payne. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

He ties the drawstring waist. “Ask away.”

Frowning, Tomasetti crosses to the stereo on the workbench and turns it off. Silence fills the studio. Payne glares at him. Tomasetti stares back, maintains his poker face.

“Where were you Monday night?” I ask.

“Here. Working.”

“Can anyone substantiate that?”

He smirks. “God.”

I tamp down a rise of annoyance. “Do you know any members of the Plank family?”

A slow smile creeps across his face. “No.”

“You think something’s funny?”

“I just figured out what this is about.”

“What’s that?”

“I guess I’m a suspect.” He shrugs. “Am I?”

“You committed a hate crime against an Amish man ten years ago.”

Another smile. “So that automatically makes me a suspect in a mass murder?”

For the first time Glock pipes up. “You ate your vic’s ear, buddy. That’s fuckin’ off-the-chart strange.”

Those weird eyes dart from me to Glock and back to me. “I paid my dues for that.”

“So you know the Plank family?” I repeat. “Have you had any dealings with them?”

“I don’t deal with the Amish.” He lowers his voice. “Too much inbreeding. Half the kids are retards. All that bundling, I guess.”

That’s when I know that while this man might have paid his debt to society, the time he spent behind bars did nothing to cure the cancer of hatred that runs thick in his blood. Images of the Plank family flash in my mind. Mary’s journal filled with so many hopes and so much pain. I think of the children, so innocent and with so much life ahead, and I want to tear into Payne with my bare hands.

“If you lie to me about anything we talk about today,” I say, “I’m going to make you regret it.”

Amusement rises in his eyes. “That’s right. You’re the Amish cop. How extraordinary. I’ll bet you have a soft spot for them, don’t you?”

I ignore the jab. “What kind of vehicle do you drive?”

He doesn’t appear to hear the question. “I’ll bet your family tree doesn’t have many branches, either, does it?” An ugly emotion flashes in his eyes. “Did you leave the faith because you didn’t want to marry a cousin? Or did they kick you out for being a dyke?”

I know better than to let a loser like Payne push my buttons. I’m well aware of the array of problems inappropriate conduct on my part can bring down on an investigation. But I’m also a human being and my tolerance has been stretched to the limit.

I lunge, ram the heels of both hands into his chest and shove him hard. Caught off guard, Payne reels backward, arms flailing. His foot catches on a rubber mat, and he goes down on his backside.

“Amish cunt.” In a split second he’s back on his feet. I hear Tomasetti and Glock move in, but they’re not fast enough to stop me. I yank out my baton, snap it to its full length and swing. I aim at his left shoulder, but he ducks and the baton rakes a glancing blow across his back. Payne dances backward, snarling.

Two hands come down on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. “Kate, goddamnit.”

I barely hear Tomasetti’s voice over the wild beat of my heart. “Get off me!” Red crowds my vision, a rainbow of fury that spreads through me like a storm.

“Crazy bitch.” Payne’s lips peel back, revealing canine-like teeth.

I’m aware of Tomasetti dragging me backward. Payne starting toward me.

Glock steps between us, thrusts a finger at Payne. “Back off.”

Payne glares at Glock. “She assaulted me! She can’t do that! I’m a fuckin’ law-abiding citizen!”

At the door, Tomasetti stops dragging me. But he doesn’t release me. His fingers slide down to my biceps and he gives me a shake. “Pull yourself together,” he growls.

I can hear myself breathing hard. In the back of my mind, I know I screwed up. I acted like some hotheaded rookie. I broke one of the cardinal rules of police work and hit a suspect without cause. The anger pulsing inside me doesn’t give a damn.

Payne jams a finger at me. “You fuckin’ cops are all the same. A bunch of fascist pigs. I ought to sue you.”

Tomasetti sighs. “I didn’t see her do anything wrong.” He looks at Glock. “Did you?”

Glock shakes his head. “I saw Payne go after her.”

Payne’s face turns deep red. “I’m glad those Amish freaks are dead! Serves them right for being a bunch of hypocritical, incestuous bastards! How’s that, bitch?”

My vision tunnels on Payne’s face. I can almost feel my hands closing around his throat. My heart knocks so hard against my ribcage my chest hurts. I think of those dead kids, and I want to strangle him with my bare hands.

“Kate.” Tomasetti’s fingers squeeze my biceps. “Let it go.”

I thrust a finger at Payne. “Don’t leave town.”

“Or what? What are you going to do about it? Hit me? Your days as a cop are numbered, bitch.”

John pushes me toward the door. I dig in my heels, but he muscles me across the threshold and onto the sidewalk. “Cut it out,” he snaps.

“Get your hands off me.” I try to sound calm, but my voice shakes. “I mean it.”

Glock pauses in the doorway, looks at Payne, and points at the painting. “That shit you call art sucks, man.”

From inside, I hear Payne break into wild laughter.

No one speaks as John, Glock and I traverse the neighbor’s yard. We reach the Explorer, and I yank my keys from my pocket.

“Can’t take you anywhere, can we?” Tomasetti mutters.

“Can the lecture,” I say tightly.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I say nothing as I slide behind the wheel. The truth of the matter is I can’t defend what I did. Payne baited me, and I hit on it like a bass on a lure.

Tomasetti glares at me. “You know better than to—”

“You didn’t see those dead kids.” I crank the key. “You didn’t see those girls.”

He slides into the passenger seat and slams the door. “You let him provoke you.”

“That’s hypocritical as hell coming from you.”

“You played right into his hands. If he wants to push the issue, he can cause problems.”

“Let him push.” The tires squeal as I pull away from the curb. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I push back.”

Leaning back in the seat, Tomasetti groans, looks out the window.

From the rear seat, Glock clears his throat. “So what’s your take on Payne?”

“He’s worth looking at,” Tomasetti says. “The torture aspect fits him better than the others.”

I glance in the rearview mirror, catch Glock’s gaze. “Dig up everything you can find on him. See if he’s in CODIS. If not, get a warrant. I want a DNA sample from that son of a bitch.”

“You think he knew the girl?” Glock asks.

Tomasetti shakes his head. “I don’t think he’d have a relationship with an Amish female.”

“Yeah,” Glock agrees. “Too much hate.”

“He could have raped her,” I put in.

I feel John’s eyes burning into me, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see what I know shows on my face.

“Autopsy substantiate that?” Glock asks.

I shake my head. “Inconclusive.”

I park in front of the police station and get out without speaking. I’m still angry, but now that anger is focused on myself. I feel like an idiot for taking a shot at Payne. I’m embarrassed because I did it in front of two people I respect. Two cops whose opinions matter to me.

I’m midway to the front door when Tomasetti breaks the silence. “I’d like to see the crime scene.”

I know it’s petty in light of everything that’s happened, but I don’t want to go back there. I’m feeling too battered, too vulnerable. I want to blame it on my confrontation with Payne, but I know the feelings zinging inside me have more to do with a dead Amish girl than an ex-con full of hate.

“Come with me,” he says.

We stop on the sidewalk in front of the station. Glock’s gaze goes from Tomasetti to me, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to get some queries going on Payne. See about that warrant.”

“Thanks,” I mutter and watch him disappear inside.

I turn my attention back to Tomasetti. He stares evenly at me. I stare back, determined not to look away despite my discomfort.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m always okay.”

He looks away, studies the building behind me, then gives me a sage look. “It’s not like you to go after a suspect like that.”

“Nobody likes a bigot.”

He frowns. “Or maybe I’m not the only one this case is hitting too close to home for.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about Mary Plank in general, or the rape she and her sister may have endured before their deaths. The one thing I do know is that he’s right; the case is hitting me in a place that’s bruised and raw—and with a vehemence I’m not prepared for.

After a moment, I rub at the ache between my eyes and sigh. “We’re not catching any breaks.”

“We will.” He pauses. “Do you have time to come with me to the crime scene?”

“There’s one more person I need to talk to first,” I reply. “It’s on the way.”

“I’ll drive.”

The Carriage Stop is a quaint gift shop located just off the traffic circle. I’m not big on shopping. In fact, I’ve only been in the store once and that was to buy a gift for Glock’s wife, Lashonda, when she had her baby a few months back. The shop is a Painters Mill icon of sorts with a large selection of Amish quilts, birdhouses, mailboxes, flavored coffees and candles. It’s owned by town councilwoman Janine Fourman and managed by her sister, Evelyn Steinkruger. My aversion to shopping aside, that affiliation alone is enough to keep me out.

“Mary Plank worked here part-time,” I say as Tomasetti parks in front of the shop.

“I didn’t know the Amish could take on outside jobs or associate with the English.”

“It varies depending on the church district and how loosely the Ordnung is interpreted.” I slide out of the Tahoe.

The bell on the door jingles merrily as we enter. The scents of candle wax, eucalyptus, coffee and a potpourri of essential oils—sweet basil, rosemary and sandalwood—titillate my olfactory nerves. To my left, old-fashioned wood shelves filled with every imaginable type of folk art line the entire wall. I see rustic wooden plaques upon which colorful hex symbols are painted. These are allegedly taken from old Amish barns. I smile at that because the Amish have never used hex signs to decorate their barns. Of course the tourists don’t know that, and shop owners like Janine Fourman don’t necessarily give a damn about cultural accuracy.

Ahead, several dozen Amish quilts bursting with color are draped over smooth wooden racks. To my right, an ancient spiral staircase sweeps upward to the second level where I see a small collection of books and dozens of handmade candles. In the center of the room, a snazzily dressed woman with coiffed gray hair stands behind an antique cash register.

“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of tiny square bifocals. “May I help you?”

My boots thud against the wood plank floor as we cross to her. I flash my badge. “Evelyn, this is John Tomasetti with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus.”

“You’re here about that poor Plank girl.” She shakes her head. “What an awful thing to happen.”

“I understand Mary worked here part-time.”

“Three days a week from ten to three. Such a pretty thing, and from such a nice family. I was shocked to my bones when I heard what happened to them.”

“How well did you know Mary?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. She worked here about five months, but she was very quiet and kept to herself.”

“How did you come to hire her?”

“Mary and her mother brought in quilts every so often. You know, to sell. They did lovely work. I mentioned once that I needed help with stocking the shelves. A few days later Mary’s mother brought her back and she filled out an application.” She lowers her voice. “I guess they needed to get permission from their pastor or something.”

“What can you tell us about Mary?” Tomasetti asks.

“She was a good little worker. Pretty as a picture. Quiet, though. Always seemed to be watching you with those big eyes of hers.”

“Had you noticed any unusual behavior on her part recently?”

“Not really. She did a lot of daydreaming. I’d walk by when she was supposed to be working and catch her staring off into space.” She gives a small smile, as if we share a secret. “I actually had to reprimand her a few times, just to keep her on the ball. I hired her because the Amish have such a good work ethic. You know those religious types, they don’t complain.” She laughs. “But for an Amish girl, bless her heart, Mary was as lazy as a summer day.”

That’s when I realize Janine and her sister share more than blood. They also share a nasty streak that runs straight down the middle of their backs.

“Had you noticed anyone hanging around the shop?” Tomasetti asks. “Any customers talking to Mary? Males paying too much attention to her?”

“Well, all the males gave her a look when they came in. She really was a very pretty girl even though she didn’t wear a shred of makeup and wore the same frumpy dress almost every day. But she never paid them any heed.”

“Did you ever see her talking to anyone?” Tomasetti asks.

“Like I said, she was quiet. Didn’t really talk to anyone.”

“Do you have any other employees?” I ask.

“A couple of high school girls help out on the weekend. Otherwise, I’m it.”

“Can you give me their names?” I ask.

She rattles off two names, and I jot them down.

“What about males?” Tomasetti asks. “Any males come into the shop on a regular basis?”

“You mean customers?” Steinkruger asks. “We get a few, but most of our shoppers are female.”

“What about suppliers?” I ask. “Or have you had any work done on the place recently? Construction work, maybe?”

“Well, we have a coffee guy comes in once a week. Replenishes our coffees and creamers.”

“Same guy every week?”

She nods. “Nice young man. Attractive. His name is Scott, I believe.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know, but he’s cute as a speckled pup.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What’s the name of the coffee service?”

“We use Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters. Fabulous coffee.” She draws out the A so that the word sounds very northeastern. “Our customers love the Pennsylvania Dutch chocolate. Can’t keep it in the store.”

I write the name of the coffee service and the route man in my notebook.

Tomasetti asks the next question. “Did you ever see Mary with anyone? She go to lunch with anyone? Talk on the phone?”

Her brows knit and she slides her glasses onto her crown. “You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I vaguely remember seeing Mary get into a car a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was odd, her being Amish and all. Those people have all those rules about fraternization.”

My cop’s radar goes on alert. “Did you recognize the driver?”

“We were busy that day. I just happened to look out the window. I didn’t think anything of it because she was on her lunch break. I remember hoping she wasn’t late coming back because we’d just gotten in a shipment of candy that needed to be priced and stocked.”

“Do you recall what kind of vehicle it was?” I ask.

Her brows knit. “It was a nice car. Looked new. Shiny paint. Dark.”

“Do you remember the color?”

“Black or blue.” She puts her finger to her chin. “Maybe brown. Dark is all I recall.”

“What about the make or model?”

“I’m so bad with those kinds of details. My husband worked at GM for thirty years. He thinks it’s blasphemous that I don’t know a Ford from a Toyota.”

“That is blasphemous,” Tomasetti mutters.

“I’m sorry. I only saw the car for a second.”

“Do you know if the driver was male or female?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t recall.”

“Did you get the sense that Mary knew the driver?” I try.

“Well, I don’t really know. But I can tell you she wasn’t the kind of girl who would get in a stranger’s car.”

“This could be important, Mrs. Steinkruger. Do you remember any details at all about the vehicle or driver?”

She considers my question for a moment. “I remember thinking it was strange that she got in halfway down the block. She lowers her voice. “And she came back once smelling of cigarettes. I was going to tell her mother about it, but I forgot about it until now.”

Tomasetti and I exchange looks. I can see that his cop’s radar is beeping as loudly as mine.

“Did she have any English friends?” I ask.

“Not that I ever saw.”

“Did she have a desk or locker here at the shop we could take a look at?” Tomasetti asks.

“We don’t have anything like that here.”

The bell on the door jangles. A group of golf shirt–clad, fifty-something tourists wander in.

“Thanks for your time,” Tomasetti says and we head toward the door.

“Fruit didn’t fall far from the tree in that family,” I mutter beneath my breath.

He gives me an amused look. “Rotten fruit?”

“Putrid.”

“Oh, Chief Burkholder?”

At the sound of Evelyn’s voice, we stop and turn.

She speaks to us from her place behind the cash register. “I have Mary’s final paycheck here. What should I do with it?”

“You might give it to her brother, Aaron,” I say. “He may want to put it toward the cost of the caskets.”

I’m thinking about Mary’s diary as I get into the Tahoe. “The guy in the car could be our killer,” I say. “In her journal, she mentioned meeting her boyfriend for lunch.”

“Maybe we could get a couple of your officers to canvass the area.”

“Okay.”

“Not much to go on.” Tomasetti starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. “I should probably read the journal. Can I get a copy of it?”

“I’ll have Lois make you one.”

“Might give me some insight. You know what they say. Two brains are better than one.”

“That’s a scary thought, Tomasetti.”