I say nothing as I slide behind the wheel. The truth of the matter is I can’t defend what I did. Payne baited me, and I hit on it like a bass on a lure.
Tomasetti glares at me. “You know better than to—”
“You didn’t see those dead kids.” I crank the key. “You didn’t see those girls.”
He slides into the passenger seat and slams the door. “You let him provoke you.”
“That’s hypocritical as hell coming from you.”
“You played right into his hands. If he wants to push the issue, he can cause problems.”
“Let him push.” The tires squeal as I pull away from the curb. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I push back.”
Leaning back in the seat, Tomasetti groans, looks out the window.
From the rear seat, Glock clears his throat. “So what’s your take on Payne?”
“He’s worth looking at,” Tomasetti says. “The torture aspect fits him better than the others.”
I glance in the rearview mirror, catch Glock’s gaze. “Dig up everything you can find on him. See if he’s in CODIS. If not, get a warrant. I want a DNA sample from that son of a bitch.”
“You think he knew the girl?” Glock asks.
Tomasetti shakes his head. “I don’t think he’d have a relationship with an Amish female.”
“Yeah,” Glock agrees. “Too much hate.”
“He could have raped her,” I put in.
I feel John’s eyes burning into me, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see what I know shows on my face.
“Autopsy substantiate that?” Glock asks.
I shake my head. “Inconclusive.”
I park in front of the police station and get out without speaking. I’m still angry, but now that anger is focused on myself. I feel like an idiot for taking a shot at Payne. I’m embarrassed because I did it in front of two people I respect. Two cops whose opinions matter to me.
I’m midway to the front door when Tomasetti breaks the silence. “I’d like to see the crime scene.”
I know it’s petty in light of everything that’s happened, but I don’t want to go back there. I’m feeling too battered, too vulnerable. I want to blame it on my confrontation with Payne, but I know the feelings zinging inside me have more to do with a dead Amish girl than an ex-con full of hate.
“Come with me,” he says.
We stop on the sidewalk in front of the station. Glock’s gaze goes from Tomasetti to me, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to get some queries going on Payne. See about that warrant.”
“Thanks,” I mutter and watch him disappear inside.
I turn my attention back to Tomasetti. He stares evenly at me. I stare back, determined not to look away despite my discomfort.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m always okay.”
He looks away, studies the building behind me, then gives me a sage look. “It’s not like you to go after a suspect like that.”
“Nobody likes a bigot.”
He frowns. “Or maybe I’m not the only one this case is hitting too close to home for.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about Mary Plank in general, or the rape she and her sister may have endured before their deaths. The one thing I do know is that he’s right; the case is hitting me in a place that’s bruised and raw—and with a vehemence I’m not prepared for.
After a moment, I rub at the ache between my eyes and sigh. “We’re not catching any breaks.”
“We will.” He pauses. “Do you have time to come with me to the crime scene?”
“There’s one more person I need to talk to first,” I reply. “It’s on the way.”
“I’ll drive.”
The Carriage Stop is a quaint gift shop located just off the traffic circle. I’m not big on shopping. In fact, I’ve only been in the store once and that was to buy a gift for Glock’s wife, Lashonda, when she had her baby a few months back. The shop is a Painters Mill icon of sorts with a large selection of Amish quilts, birdhouses, mailboxes, flavored coffees and candles. It’s owned by town councilwoman Janine Fourman and managed by her sister, Evelyn Steinkruger. My aversion to shopping aside, that affiliation alone is enough to keep me out.
“Mary Plank worked here part-time,” I say as Tomasetti parks in front of the shop.
“I didn’t know the Amish could take on outside jobs or associate with the English.”
“It varies depending on the church district and how loosely the
The bell on the door jingles merrily as we enter. The scents of candle wax, eucalyptus, coffee and a potpourri of essential oils—sweet basil, rosemary and sandalwood—titillate my olfactory nerves. To my left, old-fashioned wood shelves filled with every imaginable type of folk art line the entire wall. I see rustic wooden plaques upon which colorful hex symbols are painted. These are allegedly taken from old Amish barns. I smile at that because the Amish have never used hex signs to decorate their barns. Of course the tourists don’t know that, and shop owners like Janine Fourman don’t necessarily give a damn about cultural accuracy.
Ahead, several dozen Amish quilts bursting with color are draped over smooth wooden racks. To my right, an ancient spiral staircase sweeps upward to the second level where I see a small collection of books and dozens of handmade candles. In the center of the room, a snazzily dressed woman with coiffed gray hair stands behind an antique cash register.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder.” She looks at me over the tops of tiny square bifocals. “May I help you?”
My boots thud against the wood plank floor as we cross to her. I flash my badge. “Evelyn, this is John Tomasetti with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus.”
“You’re here about that poor Plank girl.” She shakes her head. “What an awful thing to happen.”
“I understand Mary worked here part-time.”
“Three days a week from ten to three. Such a pretty thing, and from such a nice family. I was shocked to my bones when I heard what happened to them.”
“How well did you know Mary?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. She worked here about five months, but she was very quiet and kept to herself.”
“How did you come to hire her?”
“Mary and her mother brought in quilts every so often. You know, to sell. They did lovely work. I mentioned once that I needed help with stocking the shelves. A few days later Mary’s mother brought her back and she filled out an application.” She lowers her voice. “I guess they needed to get permission from their pastor or something.”
“What can you tell us about Mary?” Tomasetti asks.
“She was a good little worker. Pretty as a picture. Quiet, though. Always seemed to be watching you with those big eyes of hers.”
“Had you noticed any unusual behavior on her part recently?”
“Not really. She did a lot of daydreaming. I’d walk by when she was supposed to be working and catch her staring off into space.” She gives a small smile, as if we share a secret. “I actually had to reprimand her a few times, just to keep her on the ball. I hired her because the Amish have such a good work ethic. You know those religious types, they don’t complain.” She laughs. “But for an Amish girl, bless her heart, Mary was as lazy as a summer day.”
That’s when I realize Janine and her sister share more than blood. They also share a nasty streak that runs straight down the middle of their backs.
“Had you noticed anyone hanging around the shop?” Tomasetti asks. “Any customers talking to Mary? Males paying too much attention to her?”
“Well, all the males gave her a look when they came in. She really was a very pretty girl even though she didn’t wear a shred of makeup and wore the same frumpy dress almost every day. But she never paid them any heed.”
“Did you ever see her talking to anyone?” Tomasetti asks.
