“Hard to imagine someone hating the Amish.”
“It happens. Unfortunately, a lot of it goes unreported.”
“What kind of stuff are you talking about?”
I shrug. “Some people don’t like the buggies because they’re slow and hold up traffic. Or they think the Amish are stupid. They equate pacifism with cowardice.” I shake my head. “I’ve seen buggies run off the road. People have thrown rocks at the horses to spook them. I’ve even heard of some teenagers throwing fireworks at the horses. A few don’t like the religion.”
“Or they just hate for the sake of hating.”
He’s staring at me again. That shouldn’t bother me. I’ve been in this man’s bed. He’s held me. Kissed me. Made love to me. Yet here I am, uncomfortable and squirming beneath his gaze. Turning slightly in my chair, I look out the window, not sure what to say next or how to feel.
“How have you been, Kate?”
“Fine. Working a lot.” My answer is a little too quick. I’m nervous about his being here, and he knows it. I turn back to him. It’s been two months since I last saw him, but it seems like a lifetime. “How about you?”
“Saving the world.” He smiles. “Living the good life.”
I nod, not believing a word of it. “How long can you stay?”
“Till we close the case.”
I want to ask him if he’s up to the task, but I know the question will only piss him off. I admire and respect Tomasetti. Too damn much if I want to be honest about it. But he’s been through hell in the last two and a half years. He’s a troubled man with shadows so deep I haven’t been able to penetrate them. He might say otherwise, but I’m not convinced he’s up to working this case.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say after a moment.
“I bet you tell all the agency guys that.”
I smile.
A rapid knock sounds, then the door swings open. Glock steps in. His eyes widen when he sees Tomasetti. His gaze darts to mine. “Sorry, Chief, I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
“It’s okay,” I say, relieved for the interruption. “What do you have?”
Nodding at Tomasetti, he approaches, passes a sheet of paper to me. “Get a load of this.”
I scan the paper. It’s a ten-year-old police report from Arcanum, Ohio, a small town near the Indiana state line. Four men, all between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, were arrested for severely beating an Amish man and cutting off his ear. The ear was never found, and therefore could not be reattached. One of the men, James Hackett Payne, later confessed to having eaten it. Each of the men was later convicted and sentenced to five to eight years in prison. My pulse kicks when I see that Payne, now twenty-nine, is living in Painters Mill.
“He did extra time on the hate crime designation,” Glock says.
“I’ll bet that improved his outlook on life.” I pass the paper to John.
He scans the report and frowns. “It’s a stretch going from felony assault to mass murder.”
“Eight years in prison is a long time for anger to fester into rage,” I say.
“What the hell kind of person eats a guy’s fuckin’ ear?” Glock asks no one in particular.
“Twisted son of a bitch,” Tomasetti mutters.
“I don’t get the hate thing,” Glock says.
I shrug. “Some people see the Amish as easy targets.” Both men’s gazes swing to me. “They refer to the Amish as
Glock shakes his head. “I can’t believe it happens enough for someone to coin a term for it.”
I glance at him, knowing that as an African-American cop, he’s experienced a few hate-related incidents himself.
“You got an address on this guy?” Tomasetti asks impatiently.
Glock grins. “You bet.”
I rise. “Let’s go talk to him.”
“Going to wear my fuckin’ earmuffs,” Glock says.
CHAPTER 14
James Hackett Payne lives on the south side of Painters Mill in a three-story brick home that looks old enough to be historical. Surrounded by ancient maple and sycamore trees, the house sits on a large lot set back from a tree-lined street. A dilapidated privacy fence tangled with honeysuckle runs the perimeter of the backyard. I park curbside and we disembark.
“He live alone?” Tomasetti asks.
“To the best of my knowledge,” Glock replies. “Inherited the house when his dad died last year.”
“What’s he do for a living?” I ask.
“He’s on some kind of disability,” Glock answers.
“Mental or physical?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“Terrific,” Tomasetti mutters.
I start down the sidewalk toward the house. The place had once been grand, but years of neglect have turned it into a big, ugly eyesore. The front yard is a collage of tall grass matted with orange and red leaves. From where I stand, I see a detached garage at the rear. I take the concrete steps to the wraparound front porch and cross to the door. I press the doorbell, then open the storm door and knock.
“Creepy fuckin’ place,” Glock comments.
“Creepy fuckin’ guy,” Tomasetti adds.
A minute passes, but no one answers. “You guys hit the neighbors,” I say. “I’m going to check the back.”
Tomasetti and Glock exchange looks.
“For God’s sake,” I snap, “I’m just going to check the garage to see if there’s a car inside.”
Nodding, Glock cuts across the yard to the neighboring house. Tomasetti gives me a look I can’t quite read, but heads in the opposite direction.
Leaves rustle at my feet as I cut through the grass toward the back of the house. I try to see in the window as I pass a small side porch, but the curtains are drawn. The place has the feel of a vacant house. No car parked out front. The leaves aren’t raked. Yard is a mess. The curtains are drawn. I walk through the neighbor’s yard along the privacy fence, which is too high for me to see over the top. Reaching the alley, I go left toward the garage.
The overhead door is closed, so I walk past it to the gate, push it open. The gate opens to the backyard. The first thing I notice is the knee-high grass and the cracked sidewalk that leads to the house. A broken clay pot lies on its side just off the porch. From where I stand, I can see a broken window that’s been repaired with duct tape and a garbage bag.
“James Payne?” My adrenaline zings as I start toward the door on the east side of the garage. “This is the police. I need to talk to you.”
The window is blacked out with some kind of paint. Someone went to extremes for privacy. That makes me nervous. From where I stand, I discern music coming from inside, a haunting tune from some nineties grunge band. I hit my mike. “There’s someone in the garage out back. Come on around.”
“On the way,” comes Glock’s voice.
Knowing Tomasetti and Glock are less than a minute away, I cross to the door and knock hard enough to hurt my knuckles. “Police! Open up!”
No one answers.
Annoyed, I try the knob. To my surprise, the door isn’t locked so I push it open. The music becomes deafening. I feel the bass rumble all the way to my stomach. I don’t know what to expect from Payne. But considering the violent nature of his past crime, I set my hand on my .38.
The smells of paint and burning candles assail me when I step inside. James Hackett Payne stands fifteen feet away with his back to me. It takes my shocked brain a second to realize he’s naked, mainly because nearly every inch of his well-muscled body is covered with intricate tattoos.
