He could have refused to talk to me because I’m using my home phone. Sometimes if a cop isn’t certain of who he’s talking to, he’ll call them back at the police department. I’m guessing it was the fact that I’m looking at a cold case that prompts him to speak to me without verifying my credentials.
He comes back on the line a few minutes later. “You think you got a lead on this case?” he asks.
“We’ve had three murders here in Painters Mill. I’m looking at cold cases in surrounding states for a signature match.”
“Anything I can do to help. What do you need specifically?”
“The report I’m looking at mentions a ritualistic carving on the victim. I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about the carving.”
Papers rattle on the other end. “I’ve got the coroner’s report here. Says, and I quote ‘carving in the skin is superficial and is located eight centimeters above the navel.’ ”
“What is the carving of?”
More papers rattle. “I don’t see any notes, but I got a crime scene photo here. Let me get my glasses.” He pauses. “It kinda looks like a capital I and a V.”
“Like a Roman numeral?”
“Could be.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Was there any reason this data wasn’t entered into VICAP?”
“We didn’t start using VICAP here until 2001. Nothing in the archive has been entered yet. Lack of manpower and budget. You know how that goes.”
“Can you scan and e-mail that photo to me?”
“Sure thing. What’s your e-mail address there?”
I rattle off my e-mail address and hang up. My first impulse is to call John, but I hesitate. All I have are some vaguely suspicious circumstances. My looking at Detrick as a suspect could be perceived as an embittered and disgruntled former chief lashing out at the person who took her case. I need more before I involve anyone else. I’m not even convinced I’m right about Detrick. If I move prematurely, the whole thing could blow up in my face like a stick of dynamite.
Back at my laptop, I pull up a spreadsheet and start a timeline, filling in the blanks with information gleaned by phone or the Internet. Detrick was a wilderness guide for Yukon Hunting Tours from February 1980 to December 1985. All three Fairbanks murders occurred during that period. In early 1986 he moved to Dayton, Ohio, where he began his law enforcement career with the police department, working as a patrol officer until 1990. The murders in Kentucky and Indiana happened while he lived in Dayton. If I’m correct, Lucinda Ramos was victim four. Jessie Watkins was victim number five. In 1990, he landed a job with the Holmes County Sheriff’s office as a deputy and moved to Millersburg, which is when the Slaughterhouse Murders began. He killed four women during that time, victims six through nine. He sold his house in 1994 and moved to Columbus where he made detective and stayed until 2005. No similar murders that I know of occurred during that time frame, but then I haven’t researched it thoroughly. He returned to Painters Mill in 2006, ran for sheriff and won by a landslide. The most recent murders began with victim number twenty-two. I’m missing ten victims during the time he lived and worked in Columbus. Other than that discrepancy, the timeline fits like O.J.’s glove.
I jump when the phone rings. “Hello?”
“Chief.” Mona whispers my name with urgency. “You better get down here.”
It’s nearly midnight. Judging from her tone, I know the news isn’t good. “What happened?”
“Jonas Hershberger just tried to hang himself.”
CHAPTER 32
The worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched.
Or so says the Bible with regard to hell.
Had I not had those conservative moral values branded into my brain at a young age, I might have believed Jonas Hershberger tried to commit suicide. But I don’t. The Amish believe in living their lives the way Jesus lived His life. Forgiveness and humility are part of that undertaking. Suicide happens, but it is rare. And it is the one sin for which no forgiveness is granted.
My wipers wage a losing war with the snow as I park next to Mona’s Escort. I spot Pickles’s old Chrysler along with a city car. Glock’s vehicle is glaringly absent. I hit the ground running and enter the reception area with a swirl of snow. Mona stands near the switchboard with her headset on. “What happened?” I ask.
“Jonas tried to hang himself. Detrick and Pickles are in the basement with him now.”
“He okay?”
“I think so. He’s conscious.”
“Call an ambulance.” I rush to the rear hall, and take the steps two at a time to the basement. The jail is outdated and small with two six-by-six cells and a tiny jailer area. I emerge from the staircase to see both Detrick and Pickles standing over Jonas, who is sitting on the bench.
“What happened?” I ask.
Both men swing around to look at me, obviously surprised by my presence. “You are not authorized to be here, Burkholder.” Detrick’s face is red. His bald head gleams with a sheen of sweat.
I step closer for a better look at Jonas. His hands are cuffed behind his back. Shoestrings from his boots are tangled around his neck. I see bright red abrasions just below his jaw line.
“Idiot tried to hang hisself,” Pickles says between pants. “Sheriff got here just in time to stop it.”
Considering what I’ve discovered recently about Detrick, I have a terrible feeling that’s not the way things really went down.
The sheriff starts toward me. “What are you doing here?”
A ripple of uneasiness goes through me. I have a sinking suspicion he’s going to throw me out. I look at Jonas. “What happened?” I ask quickly in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Jonas looks at me, his expression shaken and afraid. “I was sleeping and the English policeman attacked me.” He motions toward Detrick. “He choked me with the shoestrings from my boots.”
Detrick reaches me, moving in close enough to invade my space. “I asked you a question.”
I meet his gaze. “I thought I might be able to help with the language barrier.”
“If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
All I can think is that Jonas is in danger. “He needs to go to the hospital. Get checked out.”
“Looks fine to me.” Detrick’s eyes narrow. I see cunning and wariness in their depths. He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t know why. “You need to leave, Kate. Now.”
Leaning close, he makes a show of sniffing me. “Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“You’re lying. I smell it on your breath.” He gives Pickles an incredulous look, but he addresses me. “She’s drunk. What the hell are you thinking, drinking and driving on a night like this? Coming over here when we already have enough to deal with?”
“I haven’t been drinking.” I have, but I’m not going to admit it. Detrick is trying to discredit me in front of Pickles.
“Burkholder, you need to go home,” he says. “Right now.”
“Make sure Jonas gets to the hospital,” I say to Pickles.
Detrick grabs my arm. “I’ll escort you out myself.”
Pickles comes out of the cell. “Get your hands off her.”
Detrick jabs a finger at him. “Shut the fuck up, old man.”
Pickles holds his ground, but looks at me. “Maybe you ought to just go, Chief.”
“Don’t let anything happen to—” The next thing I know, Detrick’s hand clamps around the back of my neck. He shoves me hard against the bars. “Give me your hands.”
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“You had your chance. Now give me your goddamn hands!”
Every instinct in my body screams for me to resist. Knowing that will only escalate the situation, I offer my wrists. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You’re drunk and disorderly.” He tugs handcuffs from the compartment on his belt. He’s breathing hard. His palms are slick with sweat as he pulls my hands behind my back and snaps the cuffs onto my wrists, cranking them down hard enough to hurt.
Pickles crosses to us. “Sheriff, that’s not necessary.”
Ignoring him, Detrick glares at me as if he wants to take me apart with his bare hands. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you just bought yourself a lot of trouble.”
“I was trying to help. That’s all.”
“Bullshit. You got juiced up and came here to start problems.”
My heart is beating so hard I can barely catch my breath. I try not to think of the murders this man may have committed. I’m handcuffed and defenseless. If he decided to pull out his sidearm and kill all of us, there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do to stop him.
“I thought Jonas might respond to someone who speaks Pennsylvania Dutch,” I say. “That’s all.”
“In the middle of a blizzard? After midnight? You’re half drunk and you decide to mosey down here to help? Burkholder, I wasn’t born yesterday!”
“Mona called her,” Pickles puts in, obviously trying to defuse the situation. “That’s why she came. Come on. She’s a cop. Cut her some slack.”
Detrick jams his finger at Jonas, but addresses Pickles. “Do you realize her talking to this suspect could cost us this case! She’s not a cop! Some lawyer gets ahold of this, and that piece of shit in there could get off. Is that what you want?”
For the first time, Pickles looks uncertain.
“Let me go or I swear you’ll find yourself in court.” I try to make my voice strong, but it’s breathless and high.
“You are in no position to threaten me.” Grabbing my arm, he shoves me toward the staircase.
When we enter the reception area, Mona gasps and stands, gaping at me as if I’m on my way to the gallows. “What happened?”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“But why did he—”
“She’s drunk.” Detrick forces me to the desk, then spins me roughly around so he can unlock the cuffs.
I look at Mona. “I’m not drunk.”
Detrick sighs. “I’m going to do you a big favor, Burkholder, and cut you loose. But if you show up again drunk or sober or in a fuckin’ spaceship, you’re going to jail. You got it?”
The cuffs snap open. “I understand.”
“Chief, what’s going on?” Mona asks.
“I’ll explain later,” I say, rubbing my wrists.
Detrick points at the door, as if I’m a stray dog that’s wandered in off the street. “Get out before I change my mind and throw you in the drunk tank the rest of the night.”
“Keep an eye on Jonas,” I say to Mona.
“I called an ambulance,” she says.
“Cancel it,” Detrick snaps. “That murdering piece of shit is fine.”
Shaking her head, Mona grabs the phone and dials.
Detrick glares at me, something darker than contempt glittering in his eyes. “Get the hell out of here.”
I leave without looking back.
Mona Kurtz had always prided herself on her ability to stay calm during stressful situations. Mainly because she was really into the whole cop thing. She liked the excitement. She admired the way they kept their cool when all hell was breaking loose. She didn’t feel very calm tonight.
She used to love her job at the police department. She was a night bird by nature, and working the graveyard shift was perfect. The phones and dispatch radio were relatively quiet, so she could read or catch up on homework from the criminal justice course she was taking at the community college, and the guys always gave her the scoop on all the good gossip around town.
Unfortunately, the job had pretty much gone to shit since the murders began. Everyone was on edge. The guys needed reports typed or data entered into the computer. The phones rang off the hook until the wee hours. People were getting downright weird. To top things off, Nathan Detrick had set up shop in the chief’s office. The sheriff might have some charm—if you liked bald old guys, anyway—but there was something about him that gave Mona the freaking willies.
The job really started sucking after the chief got fired. Mona still didn’t know all the details. But she knew a lot more than people realized. Phone people, no matter how low on the totem pole, could figure out almost anything from who called whom and the messages they left. As far as she was concerned, Chief Burkholder had been royally screwed over.
She couldn’t believe the chief had just about gotten herself arrested. It wasn’t like Kate to cause problems. What the hell was she thinking? Mona had always put the chief on a pedestal of sorts. In fact, Kate was one of her role models. Well, the chief and Stephanie Plum, anyway. Detrick handcuffing her and threatening to arrest her was downright freaky.
“Strange stuff going on tonight.”
Mona looked up to see Pickles approach. “Tell me about it.”
Craning her neck, she glanced toward the hall leading to the basement. “Where’s Baldy?”
Pickles leaned against her desk. “In the chief’s office.”
Mona lowered her voice. “Was the chief really drunk?”
“She’s been under a lot of stress with these murders.” He sighed. “Ain’t the first time a cop turned to booze.”
Mona doodled on her message pad. “I wish she was still chief.”
“You and me both.”
“I hate all this weird shit. Working for Detrick sucks.”
The switchboard trilled. Turning her radio down, Mona slid the headset over her ears and hit Talk. “Painters Mill PD.”
“This is Ronald Duff with the Indiana State Police calling for Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”
“Chief Burkholder isn’t in.” Mona still couldn’t bring herself to tell people Kate was no longer chief. Breaking that kind of news to the public wasn’t her responsibility. She supposed she was hoping everything would get straightened out and Kate would return. After tonight, it sure didn’t look that way.
“You know how to reach her?” the man asked.
“Sheriff Detrick is here. Can he help you?” She’d been instructed by the sheriff to pass all the chief’s calls to him, which Mona had been doing.
“That would be fine. Thanks.”
“Can I tell him what it’s regarding?”
“I found a better image of the victim here in Indiana, and I wondered if he wanted me to fax it.”
Satisfied Detrick was the correct person this man should speak to, Mona transferred the call.
Wind and snow buffet me as I slide into the Mustang and slam the door. I can’t believe what just happened. I’m shaking so hard I can barely get the key in the ignition. I know it sounds crazy, but I think Detrick is the killer. All the evidence points to him, and after what Jonas just told me . . . Detrick must have planted the evidence found at Jonas’s farm. If he gets the chance, he’ll kill Jonas to cover his tracks.
That’s when I realize I’m in over my head. I can’t handle this on my own. Not only am I no longer a cop, but my integrity has come into question. Detrick has done everything in his power to discredit me—and quite effectively. If I start making accusations, people will think I’m disgruntled over losing my job.
