A Gathering of Secrets Page 8

  At twenty-four and a recent grad from the local community college with a degree in criminology, Mona is enamored with every facet of law enforcement. I decided a while back that when my most senior officer, Roland “Pickles” Shumaker, retires, I’m going to promote her.

  Both sets of eyes land on me as I cross to the dispatch station. “Nice of you to stay late, Mona,” I say easily.

  She smiles a little guiltily. “Sorry, Chief. I was just helping Lois while she translates Skid’s chicken scratch.”

  “Uh-huh.” I pluck messages from my slot. “Since you’re here, do you have an hour or so to spend on a special project for me?”

  “Are you kidding?” She stands, catches herself, and jumps back into a more professional persona. “I mean, of course. What do you need?”

  “I want you to dig up everything you can find on Emma Miller. Seventeen years old. Amish. Lived in Charm with her parents. Now deceased.”

  Her face lights up. “I’m all over it.”

  I can’t help it; I grin.

  * * *

  I’ve just sat down at my desk with a dubious-looking cup of something I hope is coffee when my phone erupts. The display tells me it’s Doc Coblentz.

  “Hi, Doc,” I begin, hoping for some preliminary information on Daniel Gingerich.

  “I’m about to begin the autopsy on Daniel Gingerich. Sheriff Rasmussen is on his way. I thought you might want to be here as well.”

  There are two schools of thought when it comes to cops attending autopsies of a victim whose manner of death is likely a homicide. Some cops prefer to rely strictly on the autopsy report. I’ve found those reports as daunting to read as they are to decipher; they contain a virtual encyclopedia of medical and forensic jargon. For me, it’s more helpful to see the body in a medical setting, with proper lighting, and a coroner present to answer questions. This is particularly true when there is foul play involved. The few times I’ve had to rely solely on the autopsy report, I ended up spending an undue amount of time on the phone with the coroner, asking for clarification or opinion or explanation.

  Some of the old-timers harbor the unspoken belief that attending the autopsy is also a sort of homage or final respect the cop pays to the victim. That mind-set ventures a little too close to personal for me, though I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit I’m guilty of it, too.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Grabbing my keys, I head toward the door.

  I call Tomasetti on my way to Pomerene Hospital. “The coroner is about to begin the autopsy on Daniel Gingerich,” I tell him.

  “That was fast.”

  “We have less customers down here in Holmes County.”

  “They could use him up in Cuyahoga County.”

  “Can’t have him, Tomasetti.”

  He sighs. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  * * *

  Pomerene Hospital is a fifty-five-bed facility north of Millersburg off of Wooster Road. I nab a parking spot outside the Emergency entrance portico, cross the short span of asphalt, and push through the double glass doors.

  I’m thinking about Daniel Gingerich as I take the elevator to the basement. From all appearances, and judging from what everyone has told me about him thus far, he’d been a typical young Amish man with a bright future ahead. He’d been loved by his parents. His girlfriend. According to his former best friend, he hadn’t been perfect, but then who is? The death of Emma Miller remains a question. But I’ve learned nothing to indicate Daniel had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. So why did someone see fit to lock him in that tack room and set the barn on fire, knowing he would suffer a horrific death?

  The elevator doors whoosh open and I step into a quiet, tiled hall. I walk past the yellow and black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads: MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. I go through a set of swinging doors and, at the end of the hall, enter the reception area. I discern the vaguest hint of odors I’ve grown to detest. The smells of death and chemicals despite a separate state-of-the-art HVAC system.

  “Hey, Kate. Any sign of rain out there yet?” Carmen Anderson has been the receptionist at the morgue for several years now. She’s bright, pleasant, and professional, with a quirky sense of humor. It’s probably not a good thing that we’re on a first-name basis.

  “Not yet,” I tell her.

  “That’s the thing about working in a basement,” she tells me. “I go all day without knowing if it’s sunny or raining. A nuclear bomb could go off and Doc and I wouldn’t notice.”

  She’s wearing a floral skirt with a crisp white blouse and a pair of block-heeled sandals that look comfortable despite the height of the heel. I wonder if she has to wash her clothes every day to remove that hint of decay that permeates the air here in the basement.

  “Not to rub it in or anything,” I tell her, “but it’s sixty-five degrees and sunny.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’m out there to enjoy it.” Rolling her eyes, she motions toward the doors that will send me into the heart of the morgue. “He’s expecting you.”

  I go through the swinging doors that take me to the medical side of the facility. The autopsy room is ahead, at the end of the hall. Right, there’s an alcove where the biohazard supplies are stored. Doc Coblentz’s windowed office is to my left. The door and blinds are open and I see that Sheriff Rasmussen and Tomasetti have already arrived.

  “Hi, Doc.” I step into the doorway of his office and extend my hand.

  Doc Coblentz is clad in blue scrubs covered with a transparent green gown that resembles a low-budget raincoat. A surgeon’s cap covers his head. A mask dangles at his neck. He’s a portly man and when he’s suited up like this he sort of resembles a glazed doughnut.

  We shake and I turn my attention to the other two men. “Mike.” I extend my hand first to the sheriff and then to Tomasetti. “Agent Tomasetti.”

  Tomasetti gives me his stone face, but I don’t miss the slight twitch of his mouth. “Chief Burkholder.”

  Sheriff Rasmussen knows we’re involved, though I don’t believe he’s aware that we’re living together. Such a relationship would be frowned upon not only by the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation but my own department as well. I’m pretty sure we’ll be officially discovered at some point. When that happens, chances are Tomasetti will be reassigned and working with him will come to an end.

  Doc Coblentz is focused on the much grimmer cerebrations at hand. “There’s not much left of this poor kid, Kate.” Sighing, he motions toward the door. “Let’s suit up and we’ll get started.”

  The coroner leads us to the alcove off the main hall. There’s a bench against the wall and a dozen or so shelves jammed with individually packaged gowns, masks, hair caps, latex gloves, and shoe covers. The three of us set to work tearing open packages and slipping into protective gear, and then Doc Coblentz ushers us toward the autopsy room.

  The space is large and brightly lit, with gleaming gray subway tiles from floor to ceiling. The temperature is maintained at a chilly sixty-two degrees. The odors of formalin and other equally unpleasant aromas hover in the air. I see stainless-steel counters cluttered with plastic buckets, trays filled with tools of the trade, and two deep sinks with tall, arcing faucets. A scale that’s far too similar to the kind you might find at the grocery for weighing produce hangs benignly above the counter to my left.

  Stark fluorescent lighting rains down on a single stainless-steel gurney. I force my eyes to the vaguely human shape laid out atop it. The flesh is charred and black; the skin has cracked in places, exposing the red muscle beneath. The victim is in the typical pugilistic pose, with the arms and legs sharply angled. This occurs when intense heat triggers contractions of the tendons. The arms are bent. The hands have burned away, exposing the red and black jut of the ulna and radial bones. The legs are spread and bent at the knee. The feet are still intact. Doc Coblentz is right; there’s not much left of Daniel Gingerich. Nothing recognizable, anyway.

  “Poor son of a bitch.”
Mike Rasmussen removes a tube of Blistex from his pants pocket and smears a generous dollop under his nose. He offers it to Tomasetti, but he shakes his head. My stomach is already quivering uneasily at the smell of burned meat that’s gone slightly bad, so I take the proffered tube and do the same.

  “Daniel Gingerich. Eighteen years old.” After double-checking the identifying toe tag, the coroner pulls up his face mask and lowers the protective glasses from atop his head. “As you can see, this victim is in the typical pugilistic attitude, a result of heat-related joint contractures. Total-body radiographs have been taken and the victim has been extensively photographed for all requisite documentation.

  “One of the initial points of interest I noticed in the course of an X-ray of the skull is a fracture of the temporal bones here.” Using a laser, he indicates the temple area of the skull.

  “Skull fracture?” Looking a little too excited by the news, Rasmussen glances at Tomasetti, then back at the coroner. “Blunt-force trauma?”

  Doc shakes his head. “Postmortem heat-related artifact.”

  Rasmussen raises his brows. “Come again?”

  “An antemortem fracture—one that occurs when the individual is still alive—will most often terminate at the suture lines. This fracture crossed a suture line and also displays ragged edges. Both of those events indicate the fracture occurred postmortem.”

  “So the heat fractured his skull,” the sheriff says.

  The doctor looks at Rasmussen over the tops of his glasses. “If you’d like to see the film I’m happy to show you.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” the sheriff says dryly.

  “Were there any other injuries?” I ask. “Any signs he was in a struggle or fight? Anything like that?”

  “There’s no gunshot wound, sharp-force trauma, or blunt-force trauma indicated.” He gives me his full attention. “Preliminarily speaking—and toxicology aside—in my opinion, this fire death was not the concealment of a homicide.”

  “He was alive when he was locked in the tack room?” I ask.

  “There’s soot deposition on tracheal mucosa and the dorsum of the tongue,” the doctor replies, “which means he was breathing and alive at the time of the fire.”

  “Conscious?” Rasmussen asks.

  “There’s no way to know that for certain.” The doctor sighs. “But there’s no doubt this young man died a horrific death.”

  “Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.

  “I’ve more work to do here, of course. But preliminarily speaking, the decedent died of thermal injuries as well as smoke inhalation. Chances are, he fell unconscious due to the smoke and then he burned to death.”

  “Manner of death?” I ask the big-daddy question, the one all of us want and need to know.

  “I’m still waiting for results on some of the tests I’ve run. More than likely I’m going to rule this one a homicide.”

  “Toxicology?” I ask.

  “I sent six vials to the lab this morning,” Doc Coblentz replies. “Going to be a week or so before results are in. Once they are, I’ll make my official ruling.”

  When the final questions are asked, Tomasetti, Rasmussen, and I file from the room. We’re in the alcove, peeling away our protective layers of clothing and stuffing them into the biohazard receptacle. Tomasetti is watching me with a little too much interest, making me nervous because Rasmussen is just a few feet away.

  “I guess the question now is who did Daniel Gingerich piss off?” Tomasetti says as he sheds his shoe covers.

  “Who the hell does something like that to an Amish kid?” Rasmussen mutters.

  Tomasetti is still staring at me. “Any thoughts on that, Chief?”

  I tell them about the falling-out between Daniel and his former best friend, Milo Hershberger.

  “You think Hershberger did it?” Tomasetti asks.

  “I’m still digging,” I respond vaguely.

  “You talk to the girlfriend?” Rasmussen asks.

  I nod. “I’m basically talking to everyone who knew or came in contact with Daniel. From all indications everyone thought pretty highly of him.”

  “Except the sick fucker who locked him in the tack room and set the barn on fire,” Rasmussen mutters.

  CHAPTER 8

  Daniel Gingerich not only worked on the farm full-time with his father, but also held down a job at the local farm store. Quality Implement and Farm Supply is located just across the railroad tracks on the industrial side of Painters Mill. I still smell the formalin clinging to my clothes as I park next to a handicap spot and head inside.

  I enter through the double glass doors and am immediately greeted by a petite woman with brown hair and a red Quality Implement smock. She’s standing at the customer service desk, jotting something on a form. I’ve been in this store plenty of times over the years, for everything from work boots to tires to potting soil, and I recognize her immediately.

  “Morning, Dora,” I say.

  “You here about Danny?” she asks.

  I nod, glance up toward the manager’s office up on the second-level mezzanine. “Is Al around?”

  “He’s there.” She lowers her voice. “His phone’s been ringing off the hook since … it happened. A lot of our employees and customers are donating money for the Gingerich family. I mean, no one organized it or anything. Money just started pouring in.”

  “You knew him?” I ask.

  “He was sort of a fixture around here. I saw him a few times a week. Nice kid.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a sweetheart. Helpful. Funny. Good with the customers. One of the cashiers had to be sent home yesterday because she couldn’t stop crying. We’ve even had some of our customers break down.”

  “Thanks, Dora.” I set my hand on her shoulder, give it a squeeze, and then head up to the office.

  Al Shields has been the manager here since I was a kid. When I was fifteen, he caught me swiping a candy bar. Instead of calling the cops or, God forbid, my parents, he walked me to the cash register, pulled a dollar out of his wallet, and paid for it. Somehow, that was worse. I never stole anything again.

  I’m midway to the steps that will take me to the office when I see Al jogging down them. “Hey, Chief.”

  I smile and for a split second I know both of us are remembering that long-ago day that helped put me on the right track.

  “Hell of a note about Danny Gingerich.” He reaches for my hand and gives it a vigorous shake. “We’re all kind of shell-shocked around here.” He narrows his eyes on mine. “I heard it was arson. Is that true?”

  I nod. “Do you have a few minutes? I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Sure.” He motions toward the office from which he’d just emerged. “Come on up.”

  I follow him up the stairs and take the plastic chair across from his desk. “Had Danny been acting normally in the days and weeks before the fire?”

  “I never noticed anything different. He was … the same. A solid worker. Always willing to lend a hand. Cheerful. Seemed to like his job here. I mean, he’d come in on the weekend if we needed him. Even on Sunday, after worship.”

  “Did Danny get along with his coworkers?”

  “He got along with everyone, Kate, and that’s no exaggeration. All of us … we really liked him. Sweet kid.”

  “What about customers? Any … arguments or disagreements?”

  “Customers loved him, too. That kid could sell snow tires in July. I just can’t figure someone doing that to such a fine young man.”

  I nod. “Anything odd or unusual happen in the days or weeks leading up to his death?”

  “It was business as usual.”

  Al is a terrific manager. But I’ve had enough jobs in my lifetime to know there are things that happen among employees that the manager isn’t always privy to. I also know that oftentimes an employee is more apt to talk if said manager isn’t around.

  “Where did Daniel work exactly?” I ask.

>   “TBA.” He motions toward the rear of the store.

  TBA is retailspeak for tire, battery, and auto. “Was he close to any of his coworkers?”

  “He used to hang out with Ralph Baker. I’d say they were buddies.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to Ralph?”

  “Sure. He’s there now. Just go on back.” He motions toward the stairs. “You do whatever you have to do, Kate. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  I find Ralph Baker talking to a customer about a set of radials. I hang out in the oil filter aisle for a few minutes. When the customer walks away, I approach Ralph. “Mr. Baker?”

  He’s a big guy. Six-three. Two hundred and fifty pounds. Mid-thirties with sandy blond hair, hazel eyes, and jaw in need of a shave. His eyes widen when he spots my uniform. “Ma’am?”

  I show him my badge. “I’d like to talk to you about Daniel Gingerich if you have a minute.”

  “Danny. Oh, man.” He blows out a whistle, looks down at the floor then back at me. “What a bad deal that was.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Sure did. We worked together here for almost two years. He was a heck of a guy. A good worker. Fun. Great with customers. Knows his tires, too.” He grins. “For an Amish kid.”

  “Did Daniel have any arguments or disputes with anyone that you know of?”

  “Aw, I can’t imagine Danny having a disagreement with anyone. He was real easygoing. Everyone liked him. He was the kind of guy didn’t take things too personal.”

  I go through the usual litany of questions and I get the same answers. “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help with the investigation?”

  His brows knit and he seems to consider it for a moment. “Not really. I mean, he worked until noon the day before it happened. I don’t even think I told him good-bye.” His eyes mist. “Jeez, I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw him.”

  * * *

  I’m in my office poring over the preliminary autopsy report Doc Coblentz emailed earlier, when movement at the door draws me from my dark reading. I glance up to see Mona cross the threshold. Usually, she’s a knocker, so she’s excited about something. Judging from the file in her hands it has to do with the Gingerich case.