Among the Wicked Page 3

  Betancourt nods. “That didn’t sit well with Jim. Frankly, doesn’t sit well with me, either. I mean, we have a dead fifteen-year-old kid who’d ingested OxyContin. Gotten herself pregnant. Had an abortion. Froze to death in the woods. And no one will tell us shit.”

  “What’s the age of consent in New York?” I ask.

  “Seventeen,” Betancourt says. “There’s a Romeo and Juliet law, but if the guy who got her pregnant is more than four years older than our girl, we got him on statutory rape.”

  “Do the parents know about the abortion?” I ask.

  “Didn’t even know she was pregnant.”

  Tomasetti shrugs. “You check with local clinics? Area doctors?”

  Betancourt and Bates exchange a look. “ME thinks maybe the abortion wasn’t done at a clinic.”

  “Home abortion?” I ask.

  “Probably,” Bates replies. “No sign of infection or anything like that, but—and I’m speaking in layman’s terms here—I guess there was some internal damage. Not life-threatening, but present nonetheless.” Sighing, he motions toward his counterpart. “So we got all of this and then the sheriff gets a visit from a neighbor.”

  All eyes fall on Betancourt. Expression intense, he leans closer. “A few days after the girl was found, a neighbor, who’d heard about the girl’s death, called Jim Walker at home and informed him that a few weeks before her death, Rachel told her there were ‘bad goings-on’ out at that Amish settlement.”

  “What kind of goings-on?” I ask.

  “According to the neighbor, the girl clammed up, wouldn’t get into details. But she thought the girl might’ve been referring to some kind of abuse and afraid to talk about it. Apparently, there are a lot of rumors flying around.”

  Tomasetti shifts in his chair. “What kind of rumors?”

  “The kind that’ll put a chill in your fucking spine.” Betancourt tugs a smartphone from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Sheriff Suggs knows a lot more about the situation than I do. You mind if I put him on speaker?” He doesn’t wait for anyone to respond and scrolls through his phone. “Dan wanted to drive down here with me but couldn’t get away. I got him standing by.”

  “Sure.” I slide a couple of files aside to make room for his phone. He sets it on my desktop.

  The sheriff answers on the fourth ring with a stern “Yeah.”

  “You’re on speaker, Dan. I’m here in Painters Mill, Ohio, and I got Chief Kate Burkholder with me.” A quick nod at me and he identifies Tomasetti and Bates. “I briefed them on the situation up there in Roaring Springs. We’re wondering if you can give us the particulars.”

  “All I got is rumors mostly.” A scraping sound as the sheriff shifts the phone. “Let me give you guys some background first to help fill in some of the blanks and put all this into perspective. About twelve years ago, several Amish families moved from Geauga County, Ohio to a rural area outside Roaring Springs.”

  “Geauga County isn’t far from Painters Mill,” I tell him.

  “We’re located in upstate New York, by the way, about twenty miles from the Canadian border, not far from Malone.” He sighs. “Anyway, over the years, these Amish families established a solid settlement and integrated into the community. They were good citizens, good neighbors, and their presence here was, frankly, good for the town. Some of the local merchants started doing business with the Amish, selling everything from eggs to quilts to furniture. Folks started coming into Roaring Springs from miles around to buy things. Tourists started showing up. Everything changed three years ago when the bishop passed away and the congregation nominated an Amish preacher by the name of Eli Schrock.”

  “Name’s not familiar,” I tell him.

  “Rumor has it that Schrock—and a few of his followers—felt the previous bishop had been too lenient with the rules, so Schrock tightened the screws. I’ve heard he’s big into the separation thing. Most of the Amish stopped coming into town, stopped selling their trinkets, and basically stayed away.” He huffs a short laugh. “Mayor didn’t like it much; he was banking on Roaring Springs being the next Lancaster County. Of course, the Amish weren’t breaking any laws and they’re certainly entitled to stay separate if that’s what they want.

  “Once Schrock took over, the Amish community just kind of faded away. We saw their buggies and hay wagons around on occasion, but they were quiet and law enforcement never had a problem with them. No neighbor disputes or anything like that. Honestly, no one paid much attention to them until this dead girl showed up.”

  “Where was the girl living?” I ask.

  Papers rattle on the other end. “With Abe and Mary Gingerich.”

  “What’s your take on them?”

  “Talked to them at length after the girl was found. They’re decent. Religious. Quiet. They were pretty broken up about the girl, but I got the impression they don’t care much for us non-Amishers.”

  “Do you have a sense of what might be going on, Sheriff Suggs?” I ask.

  “I’ve been sheriff of Franklin County for more than sixteen years. I know this county like the back of my hand. But honestly, Chief, I don’t know shit about what goes on up there in that Amish settlement.” He sighs heavily. “Look, I don’t judge people because of how they dress or what they believe. I sure don’t have anything against the Amish. But it’s sort of common knowledge around here that some of those people are odd.”

  “Anything specific?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Last summer, there was this Amish kid, ten or so years old, came into town with his mom. The cashier at the grocery noticed he had bruises all over his legs. She called us, claiming they looked like whip marks. One of my deputies drove out there. No one would talk to him—not a soul stepped forward. So we involved Child Protective Services. They investigated but were unable to locate the boy or the family.

  “In addition to that, we’ve had a couple of phone calls in the last year. Anonymous. One female claimed people were being held against their will. We were able to trace both calls to the Amish pay phone a mile or so down the road from the settlement. I went out there myself, but as was the case with the boy, no one would talk to me and I was never able to locate the woman who’d made the call or anyone who would substantiate her allegations.”

  Betancourt makes a sound of disapproval. “Tell them about Schrock.”

  “Eli Schrock is the bishop out there. He’s a charismatic guy. Smart. Well spoken. Devout. Respected by the community. Followers are loyal. I mean these people are devoted to him.” He pauses. “All that said, there are rumors flying around that some of his followers are scared of him and afraid to speak out. That he’s been known to punish people who don’t follow the rules.”

  “What kind of punishments?” Tomasetti inquires.

  “Allegedly, he locked one guy in a chicken coop. Held him there for two or three days without food. I heard secondhand that a young man took a few lashes from a buggy whip. One of my deputies says he was told of at least one family that fled in the middle of the night, leaving everything they couldn’t carry behind, lest they be stopped by Schrock or one of his followers.”

  “Any charges filed?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Again, no one will talk to us. No one will come forward,” Suggs tells him. “Not a damn soul. I spent some time out there after the Esh girl was found. Had a couple of deputies with me, and we couldn’t get anyone to answer a single question.”

  “What’s the settlement like?” I ask.

  “Eight hundred acres of farmland and forest. River cuts through, so there are some ravines, too. It’s pretty isolated. Rugged in places. Pretty as hell in summer. Schrock bought it at a rock-bottom price when he first arrived twelve years ago. Moved into the old farmhouse. Lived quietly up until the previous bishop passed away.”

  “How many people live there?” Bates asks.

  “I’d say there are a dozen or so families. The Amish built some nice homes. No electricity, of course. They built barns, too. Got some cattle and ho
rses. A few hogs. They farm the land. Corn and wheat. Hay. Had a couple trailer homes brought in, too. Most of the families have their own land. Only way I know all this is property tax records. Solid information is tough to come by because the community’s interaction with the rest of the town is pretty much nonexistent.”

  Betancourt looks from Tomasetti to Bates, his eyes finally landing on me. “Sheriff’s department is worried about the kids out there.”

  “Especially after this girl showed up dead,” Suggs says.

  “How many kids?” I ask.

  “There are at least forty children under the age of eighteen living inside the settlement. After the Esh girl was found, we sent two social workers from Child Protective Services out there. There’s no indication of abuse, neglect, or maltreatment. But frankly, I don’t think CPS got the whole story.”

  Tomasetti eyes Betancourt; his expression isn’t friendly. “What do you want with Chief Burkholder?”

  Betancourt stares back, unmoved. Tension clamps bony fingers around the back of my neck.

  “I think those kids are at risk,” the investigator says. “I think Schrock is abusing his followers. I think people are afraid to come forward, and if we don’t get someone in there to figure out what the hell’s going on, someone else is going to show up dead, or just disappear and no one will be the wiser. Someone in law enforcement needs to get in there and get to the bottom of things.”

  “Undercover?” Tomasetti asks.

  “That would be ideal,” Suggs tells him. “Problem is, we have no one who meets that particular criteria.”

  “You need someone who understands the culture, has some insights into the religion; someone who knows the language,” Bates adds.

  “So whoever goes in,” I say slowly, “would need to pose as an Amish person and become part of the community.”

  “Exactly,” Suggs replies.

  A beat of silence ensues.

  “You mean me,” I say.

  “I know it sounds kind of extreme…” Betancourt begins.

  Tomasetti cuts him off. “Not to mention dangerous. Especially if Schrock is unstable or fanatical or both.”

  Betancourt takes the comment in stride. “We would create an identity for you. Set up some form of communication. And of course, we’d pay for travel, housing … whatever supplies and clothing you’d need.”

  “The county will pay your salary while you’re there,” Suggs adds. “You’ll be officially deputized and work on a contract basis with Franklin County.”

  “You’ve got the background and the experience, Chief Burkholder.” Bates offers a full-fledged smile. “Besides, you’re the only cop we could find in the country who’s fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch.”

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time the three men leave my office, it’s after six P.M. I’d expected Tomasetti to stick around, but he had to drop Bates off at the BCI field office in Richfield, since Betancourt was leaving directly for New York. I know the conversation we began here will continue once I get home.

  He’s got a good poker face, but I know he’s not pleased at the prospect of my going into a suspect community nearly six hundred miles away for an unspecified period of time. Of course there wasn’t much he could say about it with two of his peers present. I’d assumed Bates knows, or at least suspects, that Tomasetti and I are involved. Now I’m not so sure. If Bates had any inkling that we’re together, Tomasetti would have been excluded from the meeting. In fact, once Bates got wind of us living together, Tomasetti would be transferred so that Painters Mill no longer fell within his region. Like most law enforcement agencies—my own small department included—BCI has strict rules about fraternization. Another complication piled on top of an already complicated situation.

  I rush through my end-of-shift reports, but my mind isn’t on the stops I made in the course of my day. The part of me that is a cop is flattered, even a little tantalized, at the prospect of an undercover assignment. I have a respectable amount of law enforcement experience under my belt. I spent nearly seven years as a patrol officer in Columbus. Two years in homicide. That’s not to mention the four years I’ve been chief. But I’ve been around long enough to know that no amount of law enforcement experience automatically qualifies you for undercover work.

  That type of environment takes a certain breed of cop with a specific set of personality traits, not all of which I possess. I’ve known several undercover cops over the years, most of whom worked in narcotics. It’s dangerous, intense work that involves weeks or months of assuming an identity, infiltrating a sometimes-hostile organization or group, and earning the trust of those in the know. You’re isolated, cut off from friends and family, and most often surrounded by individuals you can’t trust and don’t necessarily like.

  Most cops who take on the challenge are young and male. Adrenaline junkies who like being in the thick of things. Extroverts. Good liars. High-energy. Most important, they have an innate ability to transform themselves and take on another persona. They’d never admit it, but a lot of them think they’re bulletproof. A few of the narcs I’ve known have gotten in too deep and ended up in rehab afterward.

  I’m none of those things. A few years ago, I might have jumped at the opportunity, if only to prove to myself that I was capable. But I’ve reached an age where I’m secure in my job. I’m comfortable in my own skin and content with my accomplishments. I like my life the way it is: stable and predictable. While I still like a challenge, I have nothing to prove to anyone. And I’m sure as hell not bulletproof.

  That’s not to mention Tomasetti. He knows, more than anyone, that no one is impervious to tragedy, especially loved ones. I have to take his feelings into consideration. If I decide to move forward, it won’t be easy for him. Five years ago when he was a detective with the Cleveland Division of Police, a career criminal by the name of Conn Vespian targeted Tomasetti’s wife and two children and murdered them in cold blood. Tomasetti is a strong man, but no one recovers from that kind of loss; not unscathed, at least. As a result, he’s overprotective and can be overbearing. He’s a good cop; I value his opinion and I care about what he thinks, but I know even before discussing this with him that he will not give his blessing.

  I’m out the door by eight P.M. The roads are slick with an inch or so of snow, and it takes me forty-five minutes to reach the farm in Wooster. As I drive up the lane, the windows of the old farmhouse glow yellow. Tomasetti has left the porch light on for me. I park next to his Tahoe and enter through the back door. The kitchen is warm and filled with the aroma of the beef stew I tossed into the Crock-Pot this morning. A bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses sit on the counter. I’ve taken off my boots and am in the process of hanging my coat on the rack when he appears at the kitchen door. He’s fresh out of the shower in faded jeans, a flannel shirt over a waffle henley, white socks on his feet. He doesn’t smile, but I can tell by the appreciative way his eyes sweep over me that he’s glad to see me.

  “Sorry we waylaid you like that earlier,” he begins. “Betancourt wanted to beat the bad weather moving in.”

  “Sounds like an interesting case.” I cross to the counter and lift the lid off the Crock-Pot. I stir the stew, but my attention is riveted to the man standing a few feet away. “Does Bates know we’re living together?”

  “No.” He comes up beside me and pours two glasses of wine. “If he’d known, I wouldn’t have been in that meeting today.”

  “Thought that might be the case.” I give the pot another stir and replace the lid. “Is your not telling him by design?”

  “Never came up.” He hands me a glass. “I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

  “It is now,” I tell him.

  He sips his wine, looks at me over the rim of the glass. “I guess that means you’re thinking about taking the assignment?”

  “Considering it.”

  Nodding, he sets down the glass, opens the cabinet and pulls out two bowls, sets them on the counter. “You ever do any underc
over work?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “I don’t have to tell you it can be dangerous.”

  “I have no such illusions.”

  Taking the glass of wine from my hands, he turns to me and wraps his fingers around my biceps. He doesn’t speak until I raise my gaze to his. “Kate, you’re an experienced cop. You’re good at what you do. I know that.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  He stares at me with such intensity that I feel stripped bare, as if he can see all the doubts, the fear, the knowledge of what we both know is coming next. “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he says. “This is your decision, not mine. That doesn’t mean I’m going to shove my concerns aside, pat you on the back, and tell you to go for it. I’m sure as hell not going to congratulate you. I don’t want you to do it for a number of reasons, all of which I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I know it won’t be an easy assignment.”

  “Easy is not the right word, Kate.”

  “Tomasetti, I’m not some foolhardy rookie.”

  “No one said you are.” He gives my arms a gentle squeeze. “But you’ll be on your own, in a rural area. A remote area. You’ll be isolated. No backup. You may not have a reliable mode of communication or transportation. And there’s no way for you to know what you might be walking into.”

  “We’re talking about an Amish community, not some drug cartel.”

  “We both know the kinds of things that can happen in an Amish community, though, don’t we?”

  I ease away from him and pick up my wine. I sip, but I don’t taste. “Tomasetti, there are forty kids in that settlement. A dead fifteen-year-old girl—”

  “And you’re the only one who can save them, right?” He shows his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile.

  “This is not about ego.”

  “Then let someone else handle it.”

  “There is no one else.”

  “They can put someone in there with undercover experience. Have him pose as some schmuck who saw God and wants to join the church.”