Breaking Silence (11 page)

I walk over to Kaufman. “What happened?”

“We do not want your help,” he responds.

“Please, Mr. Kaufman, I need to know who did this. If you could just give me a description of the vehicle.”

He stares at me, his expression as hard and unmoved as a stone statue. “This is an Amish matter and will be dealt with by us.”

My father cited that very same phrase a thousand times when I was growing up. Even after all these years, those words still wield the power to send gooseflesh up my arms. When you’re an Amish kid, you obey your parents without question. I learned early in life that such blind trust can come back to bite you in a very big way later in life.

Shaking off thoughts of the past, I frown at Kaufman. “I’m trying to help you,” I say firmly. “Please. Work with me. Help me. You can’t deal with this kind of violence alone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt.”

“God will take care of us.”

A stinging retort teeters on the tip of my tongue. But I know losing my temper won’t win me any points. Trying not to gnash my teeth, I step back and walk over to Liza Kaufman. She refuses to make eye contact with me, but the two teenage boys have no problem meeting my gaze. “Can one of you tell me what happened?”

“We want no involvement in this,” says a tall blond boy. I guess him to be about fourteen years old. He wears a brown wool coat that looks at least two sizes too big, and has the sharp, intelligent eyes of his father.

“You’re already involved, whether you like it or not.”

He tightens his lips.

“Sticking your head in the sand is only going to make things worse.”

When he has nothing to say about that, I skewer the second boy with a hard look. “What about you? Do you know who did this?”

He’s older. Maybe sixteen. Tall and skinny, with huge feet he hasn’t yet grown into. I can tell by the way his eyes skate away from mine that he takes after his mother. Less confrontational, but no less stubborn. “I do not wish to be involved,” he tells me.

“You don’t have to get involved. Just tell me what you saw, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“
Enough!
”

I look over my shoulder and see the elder Kaufman glaring at me. “‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers!’” his voice thunders. “‘For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? What communion hath light with darkness?’”

Those two Bible passages epitomize the Amish view of separation from the rest of the world. I heard them many times as a child. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I began to question the whole idea of separateness. By the time I was eighteen, I knew I would never fit in.

I glare back at Kaufman.
“Mer sott em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.”

For an instant, he looks taken aback. I can’t tell if it’s because of the words or my use of Pennsylvania Dutch, but his uncertainty doesn’t last. Bringing his hands together sharply, he motions toward the house. “I’ve said my piece.” He looks toward his wife and sons. “There’s work to be done.”

I stand in the lightly falling sleet and watch the family walk away. Frustration is a knot in my chest. For the span of several minutes, Pickles and I don’t speak. It’s so quiet, I can hear the sleet hitting the trees and the dry leaves on the ground. The sizzle and pop of moisture against the still-hot wood of the burned-out buggy.

Pickles comes up beside me. “Chief, I hate to lay this on you, but I think I just connected a couple of dots that are starting to make a pretty ugly picture.”

I start toward the Explorer, pissed, my mind still on Kaufman. “What are you talking about?”

He falls in beside me. “I took a call from the widow Humerick last night.” He tells me an unsettling story about an old Amish woman whose four sheep were found slaughtered in their pens. “Them sheep wasn’t killed by dogs or coyotes, Chief. Someone went into the pen and slaughtered those animals.”

I’ve met the widow Humerick a couple of times over the last three years. She’s one of the more colorful characters in Painters Mill. No family or friends. She claims to be Amish, but the church district refuses to claim her as one of its own. Of course, when she shows up for worship—albeit on a hit or miss basis—Bishop Troyer doesn’t turn her away. She’s got a personality like sandpaper and invariably rubs people the wrong way. She’s been involved in half a dozen incidents over the years, ranging from simple assault to making terroristic threats. Every time, she’s been the perpetrator, not the victim.

Regardless of her reputation, I have a sinking suspicion the dead sheep might have more to do with hate than with an old woman’s prickly personality; that we may be dealing with something much more insidious than vandalism. “Used to be these kinds of crimes were harmless pranks,” I say. “Bored teenagers. Drunken idiots.” I sigh. “Sounds like this might be something else.”

“I don’t get the Amish-hating thing,” Pickles says.

“Hate never makes any sense.” But I’ve heard all the reasons behind the crimes. The Amish are stupid. They’re dirty. Incestuous. Religious fanatics. The buggies hold up traffic. It’s all bullshit, except for the traffic reference, anyway.

Part of the problem is that a large number of incidents go unreported. As a result, the perpetrators are rarely caught or punished. The Amish endure in silence much the same way they’ve endured persecution the last two hundred years.

“Someone’s kicking it up a notch.”

“Molotov cocktail’s pretty damn serious.”

“Someone could have been killed.”

Killed.
The word conjures a possibility my brain wants desperately to deny. For a moment, I’m so shocked by the direction my mind has gone, I can’t speak. I sure as hell don’t want to say it aloud. That would make the connection too real. “Shit, Pickles. You don’t think…”

The old man’s eyes widen. “The Slabaughs? I don’t know, Chief.”

I nod, and we go silent, our minds grinding out thoughts too ugly to voice. After a moment, I shake my head. “Triple murder would be one hell of a leap.”

“Yeah.”

But the thought is still echoing inside my head when I pull onto the dirt road and we head toward Adam Slabaugh’s farm.

CHAPTER 7

We find Adam Slabaugh in the barn, his legs sticking out from beneath the undercarriage of a Kubota tractor. From atop a fifty-gallon drum, a radio spews static and gospel, harmonizing weirdly with the ping of sleet against the tin roof.

Adam must have heard us walk in, because he rolls out from beneath the tractor and gets to his feet. “Chief Burkholder.” His eyes slide to Pickles and then back to me. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Is everything all right?”

I give him a level look. “Where were you last night and this morning?”

He blinks, takes a quick step back, as if trying to distance himself from something unpleasant. “Why are you asking me that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer the question.”

“I was here at the farm.”

“Was there anyone with you?”

“No,” he replies. “I live here alone.” His eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me these things?”

“We learned from the coroner that your brothers and sister-in-law may have been murdered.”

He staggers back, as if the words wield a physical punch. “But … how can that be? They fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”

I refrain from telling him about Solomon Slabaugh’s head injury. You never know when someone’s going to slip up and mention something he has no way of knowing—unless he was there. “One or all of them could have been shoved into the pit.”

“Aw, God.” He raises his hands, sets them on either side of his face, and closes his eyes, as if the horrific images are being branded into his brain. “Who would…” When he opens his eyes, I see realization in them, and I know he knows why we’re here. “You think
I
did that?” Incredulity resonates in his voice. “You think I
killed
my own brothers? My sister-in-law? You think I’m
evil
enough to do such a thing? That I would leave my nephews and niece
orphaned
?”

“You had a beef with your brother.”

“We had our differences. But I would never have hurt him. I would never have hurt any of them.”

“We know about your arrest,” I tell him.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Two years ain’t that long,” Pickles puts in.

“You have no right to come to my home and accuse me of this terrible sin.” His mouth flutters, as if he can’t get the words out fast enough.

I sense an escalation coming. I don’t know if it will come in the form of tears or violence or both, but I brace for an attack. Pickles senses it, too, because he eases his five-foot-two frame between us, daring the younger man to make a move. I stare at Slabaugh, trying to see inside his head, inside his heart, see beyond the theatrics and drama and the hard slap of grief. But when I look into his eyes, all I see are the jagged layers of shock and outrage, interspersed with flashes of sorrow so heavy that his shoulders seem to bow beneath the weight.

None of those emotions exonerates him. Experience has taught me grief doesn’t equal innocence. When I was a homicide detective in Columbus, I worked a case where the killer truly mourned the loss of his victim. When the confession came, he explained how difficult it was to dismember someone you loved. Looking at Slabaugh, I know it would be premature to take him off my suspect list.

“No one accused you of anything,” I say.

Slabaugh takes a step toward me. “You insinuated—”

“She didn’t insinuate shit.” Pickles sets his hand against the other man’s chest and pushes him backward. “Now back off.”

Slabaugh looks down at Pickles as if he wants to strangle him. His eyes are a little wild when they find mine. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s in my heart. I loved my brothers. And I love those children.”

Setting my hand on the baton strapped to my belt, I sidle back a step. The last thing I want to do is get into a confrontation with this man. Guilty or innocent, if he crosses a line, I won’t hesitate to take him to jail. “You need to calm down.”

“I don’t like your questions!” he shouts.

“I’m investigating a triple murder, Mr. Slabaugh. I’m asking questions that need to be answered. If you want us to catch who did it, you’d be wise to cooperate.”

He’s breathing hard. I see spittle on his lower lip. His eyes are wide and slightly out of focus. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do that. They were my brothers.”

I give him a minute to regain his composure. “Did you leave the farm at any time last night or early this morning? Did you go anywhere?”

“I worked here. Feeding livestock. Mucking the pens. I worked on the tractor. I was alone the whole time.”

“Did you speak with anyone on the phone?” I ask.

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might’ve had a problem with your brothers or sister-in-law? Any kind of dispute or argument?”

“They were good people. Good neighbors.” He shakes his head. “They were
Amish,
for God’s sake. I can’t see anyone wanting to hurt them.”

“No money disputes? Land disputes? Anything like that?”

“Solly and I were once close, but after I was excommunicated…” He lets the words trail off. “He didn’t exactly confide in me. But I don’t believe he had any enemies. He was a decent man. Fair-minded.”

Pickles jumps in with the next question. “What about his personal life? Any infidelity going on? Anything like that?”

“Solly was a good husband, faithful, and a good father. He would never betray his wife or family in that way.”

“What about Rachael?” I ask. “Is it possible she was involved with someone?”

Another vigorous shake of his head. “No,” he says. “She wasn’t that kind of woman.”

“What about drugs?” Pickles asks. “Any drug use?”

“Never.”

I choose my next words carefully. “Do you mind if I ask you how your wife died, Mr. Slabaugh?”

His lips stretch into a snarl, revealing teeth that are tightly clenched. “What? Do you think I killed her, too? My God!”

“This would be a lot easier on all of us if you’d just answer my questions,” I reply evenly.

“Am I a suspect?”

“We haven’t ruled anyone out at this point.”

He sighs heavily, as if resigning himself to some ultimate humiliation. “My wife was killed in an auto accident three years ago.”

I nod, knowing there will be records I can check. “If you think of anything else that might be important, call me, day or night.”

Slabaugh takes the card and stares blindly at it. Only when Pickles and I turn to leave does he raise his head and look at us. “What about the children?” he asks.

I look back at him. “They’re at the farm. Bishop Troyer and his wife are with them.”

“They should be with family,” he says. “With me.”

“That’s going to be up to Children Services.”

Even from twenty feet away, I see the quiver go through his body. His fists clench at his sides. He makes a sound that’s part grief, part outrage. It’s the kind of sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Back in the Explorer, I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Pickles hefts himself into the passenger seat. “For a moment there, I thought he was going to knock your head off.”

“That would have been a mistake on his part.” I toss him a sidelong look as I turn the Explorer around. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s pretty damn squirrelly.” He shakes his head. “We’ve been cops long enough to know family dynamics play into a crime like this more often than not.”

I nod in agreement. “Even if he loved his brothers, if he wanted those kids badly enough, he might’ve done it.”

“That’s some tough love.”

“Let’s keep him at the top of our suspect list for now.” I think about everything we know about Slabaugh. “When we get back to the station, I want you to pull everything you can get on the accident that killed his wife.”

Pickles gives me a look. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

He laughs. “Yeah, and I ain’t fuckin’ old.”

*   *   *