Pray for Silence (33 page)

I move on to the tougher stuff. “What did you see that night when you looked in the window?”

For the first time, Billy looks scared. He shakes his head from side to side, like a dog shaking water from its coat after a bath.

“Did you see Mary?” I ask.

“No.”

“Who did you see?”

“The
Englischers.
”

“What were they doing?”

The boy’s brows knit. His mouth scrunches, a child faced with an unpleasant food. “Bad things.”

“What did they do, Billy?”

“They made Mary’s
mamm
cry.”

I tamp down impatience. “How did they make her
mamm
cry? What did they do?”

“The Strawberry Man put Mr. Plank to sleep.”

“Put him to sleep?”

“The way
datt
puts the hogs to sleep for sausage.”

I look at William, but I know where this is going. With the exception of dairy cattle, the Amish butcher their livestock for meat.

The Amish man presses his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, then heaves a sigh.

“What do you do to the hogs, Mr. Zook?” Glock asks.

Zook shifts his attention to Glock. He looks shell-shocked. “I shoot them before I butcher them. It is more humane that way.”

I return my attention to Billy. “What did you do after you saw them put Mr. Plank to sleep?”

“I don’t like that part,” the boy says. “So I ran home.”

Something clicks in my mind, and I find myself thinking of the night I chased the yet unidentified intruder into the cornfield. “Did you go back the next day to check on Mary?”

The boy looks down at the floor, jerks his head. “She wasn’t there.”

“Who did you see?”

He draws a circle on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Are you gonna get mad?”

“No. I promise.”

“I saw you.”

“Poor kid saw it all.” Glock and I are in my Explorer, heading back to the station.

“He’s the one I chased into the cornfield that night.” I sigh. “At least now we know there were two killers.”

“Kid must’ve been scared to death,” he says.

“I might feel better about this if I knew the second guy wasn’t running around loose.”

“We’ll get him, Chief.”

I wish I felt as optimistic. “The Strawberry Man is obviously Long.”

“All we have on the second guy is brown hair. Not a lot to go on.”

My disappointment is keen. I was hoping for a definitive ID on the accomplice. I rap my hand against the wheel as I pull into my usual spot at the station. “Damnit.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Call in a favor.”

Tomasetti isn’t very optimistic, either. “Did the kid ID Long?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want a sketch artist out there in the hope that he’ll be able to give us a decent description of the second guy?”

“He’s all we have. I think it’s worth the time and effort.” I’m sitting at my desk, looking out the window, trying not to feel discouraged. “Do you have someone you can send? Someone good with kids or experienced with the mentally retarded?”

“Do you want the bad news or the good news?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, you can leave out the bad altogether.”

“I wish that was an option.” He sighs. “The suits caught wind of my involvement with this case.”

“Just when you think things can’t get any worse.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking you for help.”

“I offered.”

“How bad is it?”

“The deputy superintendent is shitting bricks. He wants me in his office first thing in the morning.”

“Doesn’t sound good. You going to be okay?”

“I’m always okay.”

“Tomasetti . . .”

He sighs heavily. “Look, Kate, I hate to say it, but my being involved in this could fuck it up for you.”

I consider the repercussions of that a moment. “I’ll go through official channels.”

“Take too long. Look, I still have a friend or two left. Let me make some calls. When do you want the sketch artist?”

“Yesterday would be good.” I look at the wall clock. It’s nearly noon. “What about this afternoon?”

“Have to be late,” he says. “Let me see who I’ve got.”

“I owe you one, John.”

He disconnects without saying good-bye. I know it’s stupid to let that bother me, but it does. I feel guilty for asking for his help. “Thanks,” I whisper.

I burn half the day waiting for the sketch artist to arrive from Columbus. I get through two more of the disks we found at Long’s residence. The content disturbs me so deeply, I can’t continue; in the end they reveal nothing new anyway. By the time the sketch artist, Deborah Kim, walks into my office just after four
P.M.
, I’m feeling snarlish and impatient.

“Thanks for coming.” I try to muster a smile as I shake her hand. “I know it was short notice.”

“Most police work is.” She’s fiftyish with a smooth, silver bob, a competent air and a sleek black pantsuit that makes me feel dowdy. “Tomasetti said it was important.”

“I’ll fill you in on the way.”

On the drive to the Zook farm, I brief Deborah on the case and tell her about Billy. “He’s got some degree of mental retardation.”

She nods in a way that tells me she’s done this before. “The key to a successful sketch in cases like this is to make the process as nonthreatening as possible. Encourage him to talk. Will his parents be there?”

I nod.

“Excellent. If we get stuck on something, they should be able to help.”

By the time we get out at the Zook farm, it’s nearly five o’clock. The Amish generally eat dinner early, between four and five
P.M.
, and I’m relieved we’re not interrupting.

Alma invites us inside and ushers Deborah, myself, Billy and William to the kitchen table where we sit. Deborah removes a sketchpad, graphite and
charcoal pencils, paper stumps, a chamois, and several erasers from her briefcase and sets them on the table in front of her. Next comes the FBI Facial Identification Catalog. I’m vaguely familiar with the book from my days in homicide. It contains pages of mug shots as well as every conceivable facial feature.

Alma pours coffee for the adults and a tall glass of milk for Billy, who proceeds to squirm in his chair like a worm on hot pavement. Deborah spends several minutes making small talk with him, asking about his parents, his school work, baseball and finally landing on a subject that appeals to him: his favorite pig.

“Her name is Sarah.” Billy stops fidgeting. “She almost died when she was a piglet, so I bottle fed her.” Grinning from ear to ear, he spreads his hands about six inches apart. “She was only this big.”

“I’ll bet she was cute,” Deborah comments.

“
Datt
says she is the best pig we ever had.”

Deborah gives him a warm smile. “What color is she?”

“Red with brown spots all over.”

“You’re very good at describing things.”

He blushes, glances at his
Datt
. William Zook smiles at him as if to say,
Even though she’s an outsider, it’s all right to speak with her.

“Do you like to draw pictures, Billy?”

He nods. “I am good at drawing pigs and horses.”

“Do you like drawing faces?”

Uncertain, he looks at his father. “We are not supposed to make pictures of faces.”

Deborah shoots a questioning look at me.

“Most Amish believe photographs and other images are vain displays of pride.” I turn my attention to Billy. “But your
datt
spoke to Bishop Troyer and the bishop made an exception for this.”

William nods again at his son.

“Would you like to help me draw a face?” Deborah asks.

Restrictions and rules momentarily forgotten, he nods enthusiastically.
“Ja.”

“Good! I could use your help.” Casually, she opens the sketch pad and picks up a charcoal pencil. “I was wondering if you could help me draw a
picture of the man you saw through the window at the Plank farm the other night.”

A shadow passes over the boy’s expression. He looks uneasily at her pad. “The bad man?”

“Yes, the one with hair like Sam’s.”

He nods, but his uncertainty is palpable.

Deborah opens the FIC catalog. From where I stand, I can see the rows of mug shots. “I thought we could start with the easy stuff. Like the shape of his face. Was it round? Square? Oval-shaped?”

Billy looks confused. “I have never seen anyone with a square face.”

Chuckling, she slides the book across the table to Billy. He looks down at it where every conceivable face shape is outlined in black and white. Square. Oval. Round. The boy stares at it with the rapt fascination of a child.

“Which of these face shapes best fits the man you saw in the window?” Deborah asks.

“But he had hair and eyes!”

“We’ll add those later,” the sketch artist says patiently. “For now, let’s find the shape of his face. Can you pick one out for me?”

Billy stares down at the drawings, his expression intent. After a moment, he puts his finger on one of the pictures. His nails are bitten down to the quick and dirty. “Like that, but he had eyes. He had a nose and a mouth, too.”

“Okay. Let’s add the eyes next.”

The sketch progresses with excruciating slowness. Deborah is infinitely patient. Several times, Alma and William jump in to translate a term for Billy. The boy sometimes uses fruits and vegetables when he is referring to colors. “Like a peach” or “like corn right before harvest.” Hair is “like a dog.” Round is “ball.”

Four hours and three cups of coffee into the process, it strikes me that despite Deborah’s talent, the sketch is not going to happen. Billy is unsure about too many of the details and changes his mind more than a dozen times. Deborah spends much of her time reworking the sketch.

It’s after nine
P.M.
when Deborah packs up her tools. I thank the Zooks for their time and help, and give Billy a five-dollar bill. I’m disheartened as I climb into the Explorer.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get a viable sketch for you,” she says. “People see things in different ways. Billy isn’t visually oriented, but I think he did his best.”

“It was worth a shot.” But all I can think is that I’m back to square one. “You must be exhausted. Would you like me to put you up at the motel for the night?”

“Thank you, but I’ll drive back tonight.” She grins. “Husband is expecting me.”

I drop her at the station where her car is parked. Normally, I’d go inside and spend a few minutes chatting with Jodie. Tonight, my mood is so low, all I want to do is go home, dive into bed with my bottle of Absolut and pull the covers over my head. Of course, I can’t.

I don’t know if it’s the cop in me, my empathy for Mary Plank, or some inflated sense of justice because of what happened to me when I was fourteen. But I cannot—will not—accept the possibility of someone getting away with these crimes. The thought is like a dentist drilling an exposed nerve.

On the way home, I brood over my lackluster inventory of suspects. With Long’s posthumous confession, all I have left are James Payne, Aaron Plank and Scott Barbereaux. Of the three, I like Payne the best. He’s got the three pillars of police work: motive, means and opportunity. Not to mention a heart full of hate. That puts him at the top of the list.

I think about Aaron Plank, try to consider all the angles, but no matter how I look at the big picture, I don’t see him as a serious contender for murder, particularly with that level of violence.

My mind moves on to Barbereaux. He has an alibi, but that doesn’t necessarily eliminate him as a suspect, mainly because I haven’t yet verified it. Glancing at my watch, I realize that’s something I might be able to get done yet tonight. Instead of making a left onto my street, I hang a U-turn and head east.

If you live in Painters Mill and you can afford it, the Maple Crest housing development is the epitome of location, location, location. The homes are spacious with large lots and lushly landscaped yards. A lighted waterfall cascading from a stone wall with the words
Maple Crest
etched into the rock greets me when I turn onto the smooth asphalt street.

Glenda Patterson lives in a stucco-and-brick ranch with high, arching
windows and a giant maple tree that must have cost a small fortune to have planted. A sleek red Volvo sits in the driveway. The lights are on inside, so I pull in and park behind the car.

Patterson has her own interior design shop in Millersburg. She must be doing well, because a house like this one isn’t cheap. I knock and try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me this is yet another exercise in futility.

A moment later the porch light flicks on. I sense someone checking me out through the peephole, so I face forward and give her a moment to identify me. An instant later, the door swings open and I find myself facing a petite blonde with huge baby-blue eyes and a mouth a lot of women would give a year’s salary to possess.

“Glenda Patterson?”

Those baby blues widen, and she cranes her head to look behind me. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“A case I’m working on.” I smile, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sorry about the late hour.”

She relaxes marginally and gives me a nervous laugh. “I’m not used to seeing the police on my doorstep.”

“I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“It’s okay.” She steps aside. “Come in.”

The house is warm and smells of eucalyptus and lemon oil. The living room is tastefully decorated with a minimalist style and bold colors that run to the avant-garde. Teal walls contrast nicely with a sleek, black leather sofa. Two matching turquoise chairs sit adjacent to a stainless-steel-and-glass coffee table. Pillows with metallic stitching draw the silver theme back to the sofa. It’s an open concept home, and I can see the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops of a state-of-the-art kitchen from where I stand.

“Nice place,” I say.

“Thank you.” She beams at the compliment. “This was my first big design project.”