A Gathering of Secrets Page 5

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I figured you’d want to let the family know as soon as possible.”

  Grabbing my keys, I head for reception, catch my first-shift dispatcher just as she’s finishing up a call. Lois Monroe is in her mid-fifties, a mother and grandmother, and a much-appreciated fixture in the department. She’s coolheaded and candid; I’ve seen her take more than one overly cocky young cop down a notch or two.

  “Lois, I need you to dig up everything you can find on Daniel Gingerich. Check for warrants. Run him through LEADS. Family members, too. Parents, Gideon and Miriam. Girlfriend, Luane Raber. He’s got a teenaged sister, too. Fannie.” LEADS is the acronym for the Law Enforcement Automated Data System, which is a statewide criminal justice database administered by the Ohio State Highway Patrol.

  “You got it.” Scribbling, she cocks her head. “I take it you confirmed the victim was him?”

  I reach the door, turn to face her, and nod. “We don’t have manner or cause yet, but we’re treating his death as a homicide. I need you to get a tip line set up. We’re offering a five-hundred-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person responsible. Get that out to all media outlets.” I have no idea how I’ll come up with the money, but I’ll figure something out.

  “You got it.”

  “I’m going to see the family. If you get any media inquiries about the fire or investigation, tell them we’ll be sending out a press release end of day.”

  * * *

  I call Sheriff Mike Rasmussen on my way to the Gingerich farm. “I suspect Doc Coblentz is going to rule the manner of death as a homicide.”

  “Considering there was an accelerant present, I suspect that’ll jibe with the fire marshal’s report, too.” He pauses. “Kate, is there any way this was some kind of practical joke that got out of control?”

  “I thought of that, Mike. Teenagers aren’t exactly the smartest of God’s creations. But I don’t think that was the case here, especially with the presence of gas.” I choose my next words with care. “Interestingly, the Amish church district here in Painters Mill doesn’t allow gasoline for their generators, just diesel fuel.”

  “So whoever did this wasn’t Amish?”

  “Gideon Gingerich told me he doesn’t keep gas anywhere on the farm. Whoever set the fire went to some trouble and brought the gas with them.”

  “Sounds pretty goddamn premeditated.” He sighs. “Someone made sure that kid couldn’t get out, too. Kate, who the hell does something like that?”

  The image of a young man trapped in a small room while smoke filled his lungs and fire slowly consumed him flashes unbidden through my brain, and I have to suppress a shiver. “Look, I’m on my way to talk to the family. I’ll run through some questions with them while I’m there and let you know if anything pops.”

  * * *

  I arrive at the Gingerich farm to find the investigator with the fire marshal’s office poking around inside the remains of the barn. I park behind a buggy and offer a wave as I head toward the house.

  Gideon Gingerich comes to the door as I’m about to knock. Desperate for news, but dreading it. A sleepless night piled atop another. I see all of those things in his beleaguered expression, and my heart gives a quick, hard twist.

  “Is it him?” he asks.

  I nod. “I’m sorry, Gideon. I’m afraid so. The dental records from Dr. Gray match the X-rays taken by the coroner. I’m very sorry.”

  Miriam Gingerich has come up behind him, dish towel in hand, her eyes seeking mine. Evidently, she overheard the tail end of my response, because she puts her hands over her mouth and turns away.

  Steeling myself against their grief, I train my attention on Gideon. “May I come inside?”

  He sags as if he’s suddenly too exhausted to remain standing. But he straightens, opens the door wider, and trudges inside.

  Miriam is standing at the sink, her hands against the counter, leaning heavily, looking out the window. She’s started coffee, but somehow ended up with spilled grounds all over the counter. The dish towel lies on the floor at her feet. She doesn’t seem to notice either. The weight of their grief is tangible.

  Gideon pulls out a chair and sinks into it. His face is pale, his eyes blank. “Our boy is with God.” He addresses his wife without looking at her.

  The Amish woman bends to pick up the dishcloth and then stares down at it as if wondering how it got into her hands. “God always has a plan.” She whispers the words but her voice lacks conviction. “Sometimes we just don’t know what it is.”

  Gideon turns his attention to me and motions to the table. “Sit down, Chief Burkholder.”

  I take the nearest chair. “Mr. Gingerich, the fire marshal believes the fire was arson.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would do such a thing.”

  Once again, I ask if he uses or stores gasoline anywhere on his property. I have to, because I know some Amish try to skirt the rules of the church district—to save money or for the sake of convenience—and hope they don’t get caught. “Maybe you stored it for someone else? One of your neighbors maybe?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “The Ordnung allows only diesel fuel. That’s all we use.”

  “Did you keep small square bales of hay near the tack room?”

  He cocks his head, his expression puzzled. “I keep a few bales down by the stalls for the horses. Makes it easier for Fannie when she feeds in the mornings.”

  “What about a wheelbarrow?”

  “We keep it for mucking stalls. I usually push it against the wall, next to the stall doors, out of the way so we have room to bring the horses into the aisle when we need to.” His eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me these things? What does it have to do with … Danny?”

  I hesitate, knowing the details surrounding his son’s death will undoubtedly upset him and his wife. But sooner or later, the details will get out.

  “Mr. Gingerich, the investigation isn’t complete, but the fire marshal believes Danny somehow became trapped or was locked inside the tack room. He believes some of those items—the wheelbarrow, cinder blocks, and bales of hay—may have been used to barricade the door.”

  I watch him carefully as I relay the information. His eyes widen as he realizes what I’m telling him. Vaguely, I’m aware of Miriam rushing from the room. I don’t take my eyes off of Gideon. He’s begun to shake. His mouth quivers. A tremor overtakes his hand when he reaches up to wipe his eyes.

  “Locked?” He utters the word as if it’s a foreign language. “I don’t see how that can be true. The door can only be locked with a key. The investigator must be mistaken.”

  “The lock was engaged,” I tell him.

  “But…” Grief flashes, but he pushes on. “Chief Burkholder, it was a double-cylinder dead-bolt lock. The only way to lock it is with a key. That can be done from the inside or the outside. There’s no way he could have locked himself in the tack room by accident.”

  Which can only mean the door was locked from the outside.… “Do you have the key?” I ask.

  “No. There are two. I keep them in the barn, tied together with a string, and hang them on a peg across the aisle. We figured if some thief came in at night, they wouldn’t be able to find the keys, yet the keys would still be handy when we locked up.”

  “You keep the tack room locked at night?”

  “Usually.”

  I nod. “Mr. Gingerich, can you think of anyone who was angry with Danny? Someone who may have wanted to harm him?”

  He looks straight ahead, unseeing. I see abject horror in the depths of his eyes and I know his mind has gone to a place he is loath to venture. “No,” he whispers. “Danny was a good boy. Hardworking. Well liked.”

  “Can you think of any reason why he would’ve gone into that tack room at night?”

  “I don’t know why he would do that.”

  I’m still thinking about the keys, wondering if they’re buried in all that debris—or if the person who lock
ed that door took them when they left. “Who knows about the keys?”

  “Just me and Danny. My wife and daughter. The little ones probably, but they don’t go out there much.”

  “Is there anyone who might be angry or upset with you or your wife? A relative? Neighbor? Extended family? Business associate?”

  “We are Amisch.” He says the words as if that somehow explains everything. “There is no one,” he tells me. “No one.”

  I pull out my notebook, glance down at my notes. “What can you tell me about Luane Raber?”

  “She’s a good girl. Quiet. Demut.” Humble. “She never got caught up in all the Rumspringa goings-on.” He looks down at the tabletop, his fingertips shaking against the surface. He raises his eyes to mine. “Danny was going to marry her.”

  “Her family approved of the relationship?”

  “Of course they did.”

  “Who else was Danny close to?”

  “His best friend is Milo Hershberger. He lives up to Millersburg now. Trains horses for the Englischers. He and Danny were good friends. Practically grew up together. Don’t see him much anymore. But Milo is a good man and Danny thought the world of him. They worked together down to the farm store in Painters Mill for a spell.”

  We fall silent, our minds working over everything that’s been said. “Mr. Gingerich, is there anything else you can tell me that might be important?”

  “We had some things stolen from the barn a few months ago. A saddle. A couple of harnesses.” He shrugs. “That’s when we started locking the tack room door.”

  I don’t recall a burglary report, but I’m not surprised. More often than not, the Amish prefer to deal with problems on their own, without involving the police. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering why he didn’t mention it sooner. “Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

  “I know who did it. The neighbor, Chris Martino. Lives down the road in that trashy old house.”

  I’m familiar with Chris Martino. He’s a convicted felon and did two years in Mansfield for possession with intent to sell. He rents the farmhouse next door to the Gingerich family. The owner of the property still farms the thirty or so acres surrounding it. Martino is forty years old, unemployed, divorced—and has a mean streak as wide as Lake Erie. He spends his days drinking and most weekends hawking goods at the local flea market or Amish horse auction. Two years ago, I pulled him over for running a stop sign and ended up arresting him on a DUI charge. He became so combative, I had to call for backup.

  “Did Daniel ever have any run-ins with Martino? An argument? Harsh words?”

  “They had words over the stolen tack. Martino got mad when Danny asked him if he took it.”

  He raises his head, his gaze locking with mine. “Do you think Chris Martino did this thing?”

  “I don’t think anything at this point. I’m just gathering information, Mr. Gingerich.” When he doesn’t elaborate on the altercation between Daniel and Martino, I press on. “Did they argue?” I ask.

  “I didn’t see it, but Danny told me they had words.” He shrugs, shaking his head. “We knew Chris done it, but what could we do?”

  Call the police, I think, but I don’t say it. “Did Chris Martino make any threats? Anything like that?”

  “I don’t think so, but it don’t take much to set him off.”

  I pause, shift gears. “How was Daniel in the last week or so? Was he acting normally? Happy? Sad?”

  His eyes soften, his mouth relaxes, and I know he’s remembering his son. “He was the same as always. Helpful. Conscientious. Danny worked hard. He loved God. Loved his family.”

  “Had he experienced any problems in his life? With friends? His girlfriend, maybe?”

  He shakes his head. “He was looking forward to getting baptized.” He closes his eyes against tears, squeezes them away. “Getting married. Starting a family.”

  “Mr. Gingerich, do you mind if I take a quick look around Danny’s room?”

  “Why on earth do you need to do that?”

  “Maybe Danny left something behind that might be helpful in some way. I don’t know. A note or something.”

  He doesn’t look happy about the request; his wounds are too fresh, bleeding. But he’s too immersed in grief to voice the reservations I see on his face. “You can look if you want.” He motions toward the stairs. “It’s the second door on the right.”

  “Thank you. I won’t be long.” I start toward the stairs, but he calls out my name. I turn and look at him.

  “He was a good young man, Chief Burkholder. Humble and kind and generous. Had his whole life ahead of him. I don’t know who could have done this horrible thing. I just don’t know.”

  Lowering his face into his hands, he begins to cry.

  * * *

  Daniel Gingerich’s bedroom is typical of a room belonging to a young Amish man. Clean, but untidy. Sparsely furnished. Practical. It’s a small room with a single window that’s about halfway open. A dark blue curtain is swept to one side and held in place with a length of string. A twin-size bed with an oak headboard is draped with a well-worn navy quilt. Next to it is a night table with three drawers. A floating shelf is mounted on the wall above the bed. On the opposite wall a rustic length of wood with six dowels holds a jacket, a straw hat, and trousers with the suspenders still attached. From where I’m standing I see a pair of wadded-up socks under the bed, and it reminds me that just days ago, an eighteen-year-old boy called this small, modest space home.

  Ever aware that his grieving parents are downstairs and in need of privacy, I set to work, starting with the night table. The first drawer contains a white, unscented candle that’s melted onto a saucer. A plastic flashlight. A tin of cough drops. A half-eaten bag of potato chips.

  I go to the next drawer and discover that Daniel was a reader. On top is the Es Nei Teshtament, which is a Pennsylvania Dutch–English edition of the New Testament. Beneath it is a tattered Field & Stream magazine. An ancient-looking library book about hunting game in Ohio. The third drawer is a mishmash of junk. A screwdriver. A box of screws. A set of baseball cards. A tape measure.

  Rising, I turn to the mattress, kneel and run my hands beneath it. Daniel Gingerich wasn’t very creative when it came to hiding things from his parents. First thing I feel is a pack of cigarettes. I pull it out, flip the top. There’s a lighter and two cigarettes inside. I replace the pack and my fingers slide over something else. I pull out a sandwich bag into which several photos are tucked.

  The first is a picture of Daniel and a pretty Amish girl. I wonder if it’s his girlfriend, Luane Raber. She’s wearing a blue dress, a kapp with the ties dangling over her shoulders, and a huge smile. They’re at some large body of water, blue with whitecaps in the distance, possibly Lake Erie. They look young and carefree and incredibly happy. The way young people ought to look.

  I go to the next photo. It’s a close-up of the girl. She’s got a pretty face. A shy, sweet smile. Still wearing her kapp. Her hand is outstretched, as if she’s trying to keep the photographer from snapping the shot. I suspect the photographer is Daniel. I see the same lake in the background. Blue water, a sandy beach, and a line of trees.

  The last photo is of Daniel. He’s shirtless with wet hair and flexing his muscles. Grinning from ear to ear, he’s pointing to a large brown spot on his torso, saying something. At first I think the spot is a leech he must have picked up while swimming, but upon closer inspection I realize it’s a birthmark or mole. He’s poking fun at himself, I realize. A typical teenager having a good time at the lake with his girlfriend. Staring at the photo, I feel a tug of something I shouldn’t.

  I pull a baggie from a compartment on my belt and slide the photos into it. Before leaving, I’ll ask the parents if I can borrow them with the promise to return them. Since the Amish shun photos, chances are they won’t want them. But with their son being gone …

  I systematically search the rest of the room; I’d hoped to find a cell phone or journal, but the
re’s nothing of interest. Certainly nothing that would explain his fate.

  Daniel Gingerich was a son, a brother, a grandson, a boyfriend. According to everyone I’ve talked to, he was well-liked and happy, a typical Amish boy anxious to start his life as an adult. Who wanted him dead and why? What kind of monster would lock an eighteen-year-old boy inside a room and then set the barn on fire?

  CHAPTER 6

  Some people say murder is a senseless act. I don’t agree. There’s no doubt murder is a brutal act. It’s a cruel act. An immoral act. It’s wrong in the eyes of the law. A sin in the eyes of God. Murder is an unthinkable deed in the mind of any decent human being. But murder is rarely senseless.

  As with any murder investigation, especially when there’s no hint of a suspect, it’s imperative to establish motive and develop a suspect as quickly as possible. Right now, information is the name of the game.

  After leaving the Gingerich farm I swing by the station and pick up my first-shift officer. Rupert “Glock” Maddox has been with the department for about five years now. He’s a former marine, a rock-solid cop with a steady personality and a boatload of common sense. He’s charming and funny and easy to be around. I consider him not only an asset to the department but a friend.

  “Where we headed?” he says as he slides into the passenger seat of my Explorer.

  I fill him in on the turn of events surrounding the death of Daniel Gingerich. “I thought we might pay Chris Martino a visit.”

  “Ah. My favorite felon. Colorful guy.” Then, he adds, “Martino’s a mean son of a bitch and dumb as a box of rocks.”

  “Bad combination.” I make the turn onto the county road that will take us to the Martino place.

  “You check for warrants?” Glock asks.

  “Yup.” I slow for the lane, a narrow strip that’s more weed than gravel, and turn in. “None currently.”

  “Maybe he’s decided to keep his nose clean.”

  “And take up yoga.”

  We exchange grins.

  The lane is a quarter mile long and wends right just as the old farmhouse looms into view. Martino rents the house from the owner, Owen Brice, who lives in Millersburg and stores his tractor and equipment in the barns and still farms the land.