In Plain View

They told us this in school. People can take pictures from far away and stuff, but never of their faces.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Ainsley shrugged. Inconsistency didn’t bother him much.

“Amish living isn’t on the curriculum where I grew up,” I told him. “Give me the Cliff Notes version.”

“Ordnung is their law. Each community has their own. Some are really strict, some not so bad. The one near here is known for being pretty progressive- they’ve got those phone booths Mr. Lowe mentioned, and kerosene fridges. Some even have electricity for the dairy barns, I think. Not in the houses though.”

“I thought they couldn’t use electricity at all.”

“There was some accident, years ago. Somebody died in a fire. Things changed after that, to make the barns safer. There was a big story about it in the newspaper when I was in high school.”

“Nothing like death to effect a little change,” I mumbled. “I’d like to read that article. Let’s pull everything we can on the local Amish. Which of those characters back at the station works the library?”

“Mick.”

“‘Quit-Slamming-the Fucking-Doors’ Mick?”

“That’s him.”

The charming ones always end up alone in the stacks. Coincidence?

“Right, I’ll talk to Mick. You google the periodicals. I want copies of anything on the local Amish community. Check local weeklies, magazines and the Clarion as well. Which reminds me…” I checked my watch to confirm. “Time to call Melton.”

“We’re here.” Ainsley pointed out the window. “This is the only address that’s an apartment building. I thought we should try it first.”

“Good idea.” I checked my list again. “How did you know? There’s no apartment number noted.”

“I’ve lived in this county my whole life, remember?”

The address took us to an ugly prefab apartment building at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was two-stories high, not a single open window and surrounded by a scruffy vacant lot. At the back of the building, you could just make out a set of railroad tracks that cut toward the city. We parked in the front lot alongside a convention of rusty muscle cars.

The bumper stickers on the car we’d parked behind said, “You’ll Get My Gun When You Pry It Out of My Cold, Dead Hand” and “I Can Be One of Those Bad Things That Happen to Bad People.”

Definitely the kind of place that could accommodate a suicidal depressive.

“Let’s check it out,” I said. I didn’t sound thrilled.

“Camera?” he asked. He didn’t either.

“Find out if it’s the right address first.”

“Good idea.”

There was a sidelight window beside the steel security door entrance with the sign Attack Dog on Premises prominently posted. We stood out front for a while buzzing the bell; nobody came.

A young guy in a cloth coat and a Grateful Dead T-shirt came flying out and Ainsley grabbed the door. The kid never looked back. I walked in. Ainsley followed.

The buzzer label and a pile of junk mail helped me figure out which apartment was Tom’s. Ground floor. Right in the middle. Worst spot in the place. Rent must have been nothing. I rang the bell. Twice.

“If the guy’s dead, he’s not going to be answering the door anytime soon,” whispers Ainsley Wiseguy Prescott.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want any nasty shocks when I peep in the windows.”

“There are no windows,” Ainsley said, inspecting the dim, grungy hallway.

“Not in here anyway.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

Ainsley stared back, computing that thought.

“See if anyone else is home.” I pointed to the other doors on my way out. “Ask if they knew Tom. Tell them we’ll put ’em on TV if they talk to us.”

Knowing which apartment was the mysterious Mr. Jost’s, I was able to tromp around the outside of the building and find his window. There was nothing to see through the small frosted-glass rectangle that I was guessing looked into the bathroom, but there was a sliding patio door. Luckily, the curtains weren’t quite closed. I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed them to the glass to cut the glare. It was strangely quiet out there and the act of peeping in on someone else fired up the prickle of my guilt-o-meter.

Feet came crunching through the grass.

I jumped back from the window, heart pounding. This place made me more nervous than it should have.

“Strike out,” Ainsley called in his version of a stage whisper. “The super is only around in the evenings, according to the neighbor. What are you doing?”

“Looking.”

“Looking for what?”

“Don’t know until I see it.”

Ainsley came alongside me to look.

Tom Jost kept a simple studio apartment, furnished in late-century garage sale-one folding chair, one Formica table, one lumpy recliner. The place was damn tidy. His small single bed was made up with brown blankets and military care. White walls. No posters. No art. The only personal item I could see was a photo of a couple in a paper frame, the kind you pay five bucks for after you get off a ride at the fair. I’d seen several of Jenny and her mother around the house.

“Go get my camera case from the van, would you?”

“Would that be legal?”

“Not for pictures, Mr. Worrywart. I want the telephoto.”

It worked better than I expected. With my camera against the door and a polarizing filter, I could read the faces in Tom’s photo. It took a second before I recognized her. Fairy-tale Rachel looked quite a bit different wearing modern dress with her hair down.

“Got him. This is our Tom, all right.”

“Are you done yet?” Ainsley was doing the college boy’s version of furtive: hands sunk deep in his pockets, head bobbing, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon as he glanced back and forth. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait. Yes!”

“What?” Ainsley tried to peek around my shoulder.

Tom had hung a bag of dry cleaning from the top of a door. Focusing on the suit, I caught a glimpse of the patches on what seemed to be a uniform. “Our boy was a public servant.”

“Police?”

“Nope. Firefighter.”

“So those guys at the tree yesterday…”

“Knew him.” Some instinct told me to scan the surroundings again. That crawly feeling someone was watching tiptoed up my spine. “Farmer Lowe hinted as much. Good news for us, College.”

“What?”

A shadow passed in front of the super’s apartment window. I gave Ainsley a happy, distracting shot to the biceps, urging him to walk toward the van. “It means he’s got a decent head-shot on record somewhere.”

“Right! But how do we get it?”

We climbed in the van and I used my elbow to casually trigger the automatic locks. “I’ll bet my new best friend at the Clarion might be able to help. Mr. Melton Shotter.”

Ainsley’s face bloomed with relief as he started the engine. “Can you call from the van? There’s a DQ right around the corner and I’m dying for lunch.”

“I watched you eat three bagels in the staff meeting.”

“They were minis,” he said indignantly.

“Fine. You eat; I’ll call.” Oh, to live the metabolism of a college kid again. I watched the building as we pulled out. Even though I couldn’t see them, I was sure someone was watching. “Get us out of here.”

“With pleasure.”