A Gathering of Secrets Page 4

  “I suppose it could have been a prank that went south, but who would do something so dangerous and stupid?”

  “Could it have been accidental? I mean, the Amish do use lanterns.”

  He looks around, raises an arm to blot sweat from his forehead. “Look, all I’m saying at this juncture is that either one of those scenarios is a stretch. I mean, the door was locked. It was barricaded. That’s not to mention the presence of an accelerant. That’s all I got to go on.”

  We fall silent, our minds working that over. “I know you’re still in the preliminary stages of your investigation, but was there any physical evidence left behind?” I ask. “Footwear impressions? A gas can? Anything that might have fingerprints on it?”

  “Not that I’ve seen, but it’s a mess in there. Hayloft burned and all that hay came down. I got debris everywhere. Still got a few hot spots, too. Once we get everything photographed, I’m going to do some digging around, see if there’s anything left that needs to be preserved and taken back to the lab. We’ll check everything for fingerprints—”

  “Can prints survive a fire like that?” I ask.

  “Interestingly, latents can survive temps up to a hundred degrees Celsius. For a few hours anyway. It’s premature to know if we’ll get anything at this point, but we’ll do our best.”

  He glances at his watch again. “Look, I’m going to get back to it. Once I get my samples, photograph everything, video the scene, and collect any evidence, I’ll turn the body over to the coroner.” He nods at Doc Coblentz. “I’m probably not going to have a final ruling on any of this for several days, maybe a week. That said, I’m telling you now, unofficially, that there’s enough evidence here now for me to tell you this was no accident.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Nothing happens quickly in the course of investigating a crime scene. Any evidence left behind must be painstakingly collected, preserved, and documented, especially if there’s a fatality involved. It takes a tremendous amount of time, expertise, and patience. Any cop will tell you: Waiting for results is the bane of their existence. Fingerprints. DNA. Footwear impressions. Tire tread imprints.

  Doc Coblentz and I wait for more than four hours while Schoening collects samples, utilizes the hydrocarbon sniffer, photographs and videotapes the entire scene, both the interior and exterior. In the meantime, Doc’s technician unloads a gurney upon which a body bag and tarp have been unfolded. As soon as the scene is turned over to the coroner, the victim will be transported to the morgue at Pomerene Hospital, where the official identification process will begin.

  While we’re waiting, Gideon Gingerich emerges from the house twice. The first time, he walks over to us, looks at the gurney, doubles over as if he’s going to be sick, then turns and goes back inside without saying a word. The second time, he stops next to me and asks, “Is it him?”

  “We haven’t been able to get in there yet,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I know the waiting is difficult.”

  The Amish man can’t seem to stop staring at the wrecked barn or the two biohazard-gear-clad men tromping around inside it. He makes a sound, a whimper, and for the first time I see tears. He returns to the house without saying anything else.

  At just before five P.M., Bob Schoening walks over to me, his expression grim. “We’re done here for now, Chief Burkholder. Everything’s been documented. Samples taken. We’ve bagged a few items. I’ve marked the location of the body with flags.” He motions toward several small white flags that are about a foot tall; the kind a utility company might use to demark underground electric or gas lines, the small squares of vinyl flapping in the breeze. “The coroner is free to take control of the scene and retrieve the body.”

  “Are you still confident this was arson?” I ask.

  He nods. “I believe the evidence will support that.” He passes me his card. “If you need anything else or have any questions, give me a call.”

  After pulling on biohazard gear, Doc Coblentz and his technician wade into the ash and debris, toward the flags demarking the location of the victim.

  Not for the first time I wonder how he does it. How a man committed to healing the sick can look death in the face so often and still remain such an upbeat and optimistic person. But when the dead are brought to him, he doesn’t see the victim as they’d been in life; he doesn’t mourn their passing or get caught up in the tragedy of their death. He sees a puzzle that must be solved—and sometimes an injustice that must be remedied. I once asked him if this part of his job ever bothered him. His answer was straightforward and far too easy to understand. When it’s a kid, he’d said.

  I stand outside the caution tape and watch as the technician photographs the remains. When he’s finished, he and Doc Coblentz carry the stretcher to the flagged area and set it down among the debris. I don’t have biohazard gear, and I’m vastly relieved they don’t need my help. I’m not squeamish; I’ve seen my share of death from traffic fatalities, farming accidents, natural causes, even murder. While blood and decomposition are bad enough, there’s something particularly disturbing about the remains of a burned human being.

  Extreme heat causes the skin to shrink, which can bring about splitting. The dehydrating effects of heat also cause the muscles to contract, producing the “pugilistic attitude” of many burn fatalities. Novice investigators have been known to attribute the pose to a defensive position, the splitting to blunt-force trauma. I’m reassured that Doc Coblentz is a veteran.

  I watch from my place at the perimeter of the scene as the two men gently heft the body onto the stretcher and drape it with a blue sheet. Gideon Gingerich has been walking over to us every twenty minutes or so. The last thing any of us want to do is expose him to the charred body of what may be his son.

  When the two men emerge from the ashes, I pull aside the caution tape. After they pass through, I replace the tape and follow them to the van. All the while I keep an eye on the back door of the house, but no one comes out. I wonder if Gideon is distracting his wife and children long enough for us to get the body into the van and out of sight.

  “Are the clothes intact, Doc?” I ask.

  Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “The only thing that’s recognizable is the shoes. Boots, actually, and only then because they’re leather and withstood the heat.”

  Something quickens inside me at the mention of leather boots. Daniel’s sister had mentioned cowboy boots …

  I glance at the technician. “May I take a look at the shoes?”

  Since I’m not wearing gloves, he lifts the bottom corner of the sheet. I brace, my eyes quickly taking in the black, vaguely human form. Arms curled across the chest. Legs bent. The exterior is charred black and covered with gray-white ash. I hold my breath because I know the smell of burned flesh will follow me home and haunt me through the night.

  For an instant, I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking at; then I see the shape of a foot. The pointed toe and slanted heel of a Western boot. The stitching has burned, the sole separating from the leather upper. But I can still make out the distinctive silhouette of a classic cowboy boot.

  “Danny Gingerich’s sister told me her brother’s cowboy boots are missing from his room,” I say. “According to her, he wears them all the time.”

  “Good to know, Kate, but at this point, I believe everyone suspects this is likely Daniel Gingerich,” Doc Coblentz responds in a low voice. “That said, shoes can be put on or taken off after someone is deceased. And so we must be certain and go about the identification process, starting with dental or medical records if there are any. Once we confirm the identity, we’ll move on to determine cause and manner of death.”

  “I’ll check with the parents to see if Danny had any dental work or X-rays done,” I say.

  “That would be helpful,” he tells me, and replaces the sheet.

  The coroner’s van is pulling away as I take the sidewalk to the back porch. The door swings open before I can knock, and Gideon comes through it. His eyes are red, his mouth
drawn into a grim, hard line. I see wet spots on the front of his shirt, and I realize he’s been crying.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” I say, wishing there were something I could do to alleviate his pain. “Mr. Gingerich, I need to ask you a few questions about Daniel.”

  He nods.

  “Do you know if your son has had any dental work done? Did he ever have a broken bone? Any X-rays taken?”

  Closing his eyes briefly, he nods. “He was kicked in the face by one of the cows when he was thirteen. Broke two teeth. We took him to the dentist in town. Dr. Gray, I think.”

  “Did Dr. Gray take X-rays?”

  “I think so.”

  I nod. “Did Daniel ever have any broken bones?”

  The Amish man’s face twists into a mask of agony, but he fights the wave of emotion and recovers. “When he was seven. Fell out of the hayloft and broke his arm.”

  “Do you recall which doctor he saw?”

  “We took him to the emergency room at Pomerene.” His mouth quivers again. “I know why you’re asking these questions. I cannot…”

  Unable to finish the sentence, he lowers his face into his hands, emits a sob fraught with unbearable sadness.

  I reach out and set my hand on his arm. “I’ll come see you the moment I know anything, good or bad.”

  Raising his head, he nods, then walks into the house without a word.

  * * *

  The Mercantile was usually silent at nine P.M. The shop closed at six o’clock sharp six days a week, and that schedule hadn’t altered since the place opened a year ago. Tonight, however, Shania Twain belted out a song, proclaiming to the world she felt like a woman. The industrial lighting that lent so much character to the old barn, with its ancient beams and concrete floor, buzzed with electricity. The aromas of apple cider and cinnamon filled the air with the essences of autumn.

  Neva Lambright would never tell anyone, especially her mamm, but this was her favorite time of day. After hours, when the customers, with all their stupid questions and nitpicky complaints, were gone, the music was blasting something that would make her datt frown, and it was just her and her friends, Ina Yoder and Viola Stutzman.

  The three girls had been best friends for so long, Neva couldn’t even remember when they met. They’d grown up together, attended school together, shared the trials and tribulations of becoming young women together. And so last year, when Neva’s mamm and datt opened their Amish tourist shop, Ina and Viola were the natural choices for employees.

  Tonight, the three of them were at the front of the store, working on the two display windows for Allelieweziel, or Halloween, which was a month away. Viola, the most creative of the three, had come up with the idea of displaying a few of their trick-or-treat costumes for the little ones, everything from pirates to Superman to cute Amish outfits replete with dresses and kapps for girls, and trousers with suspenders and straw hats for boys.

  The second window had been fashioned to look like a spuk haus, or haunted house. They’d borrowed one of the boxed electric fireplaces from the housewares department. Viola added the skull lantern with its grinning mouth and backlit eyes. Ina had kiddingly suggested adding a skeleton, but Neva had run with it. They’d dragged a chair from the café, put Mr. Skeleton in the chair, and given him Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” to read.

  “Some of the Amish aren’t going to like all this spooky stuff,” Ina pointed out.

  From her place inside the display window, Viola sprayed cobwebs onto the chair. “The Englischers are going to love it.”

  “Especially the little ones.” Neva stood just off the front window, studying the display with a critical eye. “It’s perfect.”

  “Oh, you Beachy Amish,” Ina said teasingly. “Always pushing the limit of what’s acceptable.”

  Neva took the gibe in stride. The Beachy Amish are a progressive group that allows its members to drive cars and the limited use of technology like phones and computers. Some of the Old Order don’t even consider them Amish. But Neva never felt lesser in any way, especially when it came to her friends.

  “Car comes in handy when it’s ten below or raining,” Neva said breezily.

  “I’ll second that.” Viola cleared her throat. “Car aside, if it’s all the same to you two, I’d like to finish sometime before midnight.” Brushing the spray-can cobwebs from her dress, she stepped out of the window display. “Let’s see how all of this looks from the outside.”

  Exchanging grins, the girls headed toward the door. The evening was crisp and breezy. Neva smelled burning leaves and she knew the English boys down the road had spent the afternoon raking Mr. Groves’s yard.

  “It’s the best we’ve ever done,” Viola said.

  “Better than any of the other shops.” Ina rubbed her chin. “What if we add some of those little lights?”

  “Too cheerful,” Neva replied. “We want this to be scary.”

  “As long as we don’t frighten the little ones,” Viola said.

  “Little pansies need not apply,” Neva said, and the three of them broke into laughter.

  Ina sighed. “I can’t wait for your mamm to see it.”

  “We still have to do the pumpkin display,” Viola pointed out.

  Ina looked from girl to girl. “Are we carving them?”

  “Definitely carving and using those tea lights for the inside,” Neva said. “Tomorrow, though. I’ve been here since seven A.M. and I’m beat.”

  “Says the slave driver,” Ina muttered.

  Viola elbowed her. “Let’s clean up and get out of here.”

  While Viola and Ina stowed the stepladder and gathered the trash they’d amassed in the course of their work, Neva went to the café. She dumped the remaining cider into the sink and rinsed the pot. She’d just finished wiping the table where they’d sat and drawn out their plans earlier, when the lights went out. The radio fell silent. The darkness that followed was so complete, Neva couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

  “Not funny!” she called out.

  “I didn’t do anything,” came Viola’s voice.

  Ina countered with, “Maybe your mamm forgot to pay the electric bill.”

  Slowly, Neva’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. She could barely make out the front windows from where she stood. Gray light seeping in.

  “What do we do now?” Viola asked.

  “I think there’s some kind of electrical box out back.” Neva left the café and stopped just outside the rail. “There’s a flashlight in Mamm’s office,” she called out. “I’ll be right back.”

  Carefully, she made her way through the darkness and went into the office. Inside, she felt around for the desk, found the flashlight in the second drawer. Relief slipped through her when she flipped it on and a cone of yellow light filled the room.

  She was on her way to the front of the shop when a crash sounded. It was like breaking glass and was followed by a yelp.

  Holding the flashlight beam in front of her, she ran toward her friends. “What happened?”

  “The window,” came Ina’s voice. “It just … shattered.”

  “What?” Neva shifted the beam. Her friends stood near the display window, looking startled. Glass sparkled on the floor. She jerked the beam to the window. Sure enough, there was a hole the size of a basketball in the center.

  “We were just standing here, waiting for you to come back with the flashlight, when the window just … exploded,” Viola said.

  “I think someone threw something,” Ina added.

  An instant of silence ensued. It was so quiet Neva could hear the wind rushing through the trees outside.

  “What’s that?” Ina motioned toward an object the size of a soccer ball lying on the floor.

  Neva shifted the beam. Recognition flashed, followed by a stab of disbelief, of revulsion. “Mein Gott.”

  The cone of light illuminated the severed head of a hog. It was white with a pink snout. Cloudy eyes. Mouth open. Tongue hanging out. The sm
ear of blood on the floor gleamed black in the semidarkness.

  Gasping, Viola set her hand against her chest and stepped back. “It’s … a butchered hog.”

  “Someone pitched it through the window,” Ina said.

  “Why would someone do such a thing?” Viola whispered.

  The silence that followed sent a shiver through Neva. She hadn’t told her friends what was going on. Hadn’t told anyone. Now, she wondered if she should have. If she should have done something about it.

  “It’s a stupid Halloween prank is all,” she said.

  “It’s creepy,” Viola whispered.

  “What do we do?” Ina asked.

  Another exchange of looks, thoughtful this time, and frightened.

  Neva swept the beam over the macabre scene, felt cold fingers of dread clamp over the back of her neck. She’d hoped it would stop. The threats. The intimidation. The hatred. It was the only secret she’d ever kept from her friends. She’d prayed he would find the strength to move on. To let her move on and forget about what she’d done. The mistake she’d made.

  “Should we call the police?” Ina asks.

  Doing her best to look unaffected, Neva shook her head. “I’ll call Mamm.”

  Ina and Viola exchanged looks.

  “She’ll know what to do,” Neva said. “She always does.”

  CHAPTER 5

  After leaving the Gingerich farm yesterday afternoon, I went to see Dr. Charles Gray—the dentist who’d X-rayed Daniel Gingerich’s teeth when he was thirteen years old. I let him know that Doc Coblentz would be forwarding him a set of dental X-rays for comparison and, as usual, we’re anxious for results.

  It’s eight A.M. now, and I’m in my office, thinking about a third cup of coffee, when the call finally comes. I glance down at the display to see BRIGHT SMILE DENTISTRY, and I brace.

  It’s Dr. Gray.

  “I just compared the X-rays from my archive with the films Dr. Coblentz sent over,” he tells me. “They match. The victim in that barn is, indeed, Daniel Gingerich.”

  “Damn,” I mutter.