left. Take the door with the Exit sign. Loading dock is across the lot. Can’t miss it.”
The warehouse is a large metal building with two overhead doors that look out over loading bays. Four brown step vans, the sides of which are affixed with the Tuscarawus Coffee Roasters logo, are parked at the bays. We cross the small asphalt lot, reach the loading area and take concrete steps to the warehouse. A few feet away, a man in a brown uniform sits at metal desk pecking at a computer. His name tag tells me he’s the man we’re looking for.
“Scott Barbereaux?” I hold out my badge.
He glances up from his work. His eyes widen when he spots my badge and uniform. Standing quickly, he puts up his hands as if to fend us off. “Look, if this is about that ticket in Wooster, I sent the money order in two weeks ago.”
He’s about six feet tall with broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. He wears the uniform a tad too tight, but it looks good on him—at least he thinks so. His face is tanned to a golden, healthy brown. Dark hair cut just above his shoulders has been artfully highlighted, giving an overall impression that he’s spent the last six months on some topless beach in the south of France. I can practically smell the Bain de Soleil.
“This isn’t about a ticket,” I say.
“Really?” He relaxes, smiles, amused. “If it’s not about the ticket then—” He falls silent, sobers as realization dawns. “Oh, shit. This is about the Amish girl at the store. Evelyn told me you cops were asking about me.”
“That Evelyn is pretty fast on the dial, isn’t she?” Tomasetti sidles around behind him and steals a look at the computer screen.
If this makes Barbereaux nervous, the man gives no indication. “That’s just bizarre. An
“We’re following up on a few things,” I say vaguely.
“I just saw the girl last week. Friday. She was stocking preserves or something. Sweet kid. Quiet. Seemed to be a hard worker. Believe me, Evelyn gets her money’s worth.”
“Did you know her?” I ask.
“Mandy?”
“Mary,” I correct. “Last name Plank.”
“Just to say hello. I saw her at the store just about every time I delivered. Mostly on Fridays. They went through a lot of coffee. Evelyn offers it free to tourists, you know. I guess that’s a good way to entice them, but . . .” As if realizing he’d drifted off topic he sighs. “I just can’t believe someone could do something so frickin’ bad to a helpless Amish family.”
“Did you ever see Mary with anyone?” I ask.
“Not that I recall.”
“Did you ever see her get into a vehicle?”
“I’m sorry. I never really noticed. My route’s got a lot of stops, so I’m always rushed. God, now I wish I’d paid more attention.” He runs his fingers through his hair, musses it to tousled perfection. “I mean, I’ve got nieces and nephews. I know you guys don’t want to hear this, but I swear to God if someone ever hurt them, I’d go Dirty Harry on them.”
“Did you ever speak to Mary?” Standing behind Barbereaux now, Tomasetti picks up a sheet of paper, skims it, sets it back down.
“I helped her lift some heavy stuff once. A case of jelly or jam or something. I think she was really shy.”
“Did you ever meet any of her family members?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I think I saw her mom once, but we didn’t speak or anything.”
Tomasetti makes his way around to the front of the desk. “Where were you Sunday night?”
“Shit. Me?” Barbereaux presses his hand to his chest. Mr. Innocent. “You don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?”
“We’re just collecting information,” I add. “You know, to rule people out.”
“Well, I was home all night. With my girlfriend, Glenda Patterson.” He spells the last name. “We watched a movie. You can call her.”
I jot down the name. “You two live together?”
“No, she’s got her own place in Maple Crest.”
Maple Crest is a new housing development that’s gobbled up a good bit of farmland on the east side of town. “Anything else you can tell us about Mary that might help us?” I press.
“Not that I can think of.”
“Did she ever seem upset?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “She was always head down, working. Like I said, Evelyn kept her pretty busy.”
“What kind of vehicle do you drive?” Tomasetti asks.
“Grand Am.
“What color?”
“Black.” Barbereaux’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
Tomasetti gives him a half smile. “We appreciate your time,” he says and starts toward the door.
Barbereaux makes eye contact with me. “I hope you catch the asshole who did this,” he says.
“We will,” I say and fall in beside Tomasetti.
We’re midway to the loading dock when I remember Evelyn Steinkruger’s comment about Mary smelling like cigarette smoke, and I turn back toward Barbereaux. “Do you smoke?” I ask.
“Naw.” He grins. “Those things’ll kill you.”
Back in the Tahoe, Tomasetti puts the vehicle in gear and pulls out of the parking lot.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think he looks like the fuckin’ UPS guy.”
That makes me laugh. My melancholic mood lifts just a little. It feels good, I realize, and I’m glad Tomasetti is here. “Where to?” I ask.
“Crime scene. I want to see the place before it gets dark.”
Ten minutes later, we arrive at the Plank farm. Tomasetti pulls up behind the buggy and shuts down the engine. “Pretty place,” he says. “Quiet.”
“Isolated, too.”
“Closest neighbor is what? About a mile away?”
I nod. “The Zooks. They didn’t hear anything.”
I get out and start toward the door. I’m in the process of unlocking it when Tomasetti steps onto the porch.
“CSU’s all done?” he asks.
“Finished up late last night.”
“Any idea who you chased into the cornfield?”
I shake my head. “Rain washed away any tire tread or footprints.”
“You think it was the killer?”
I consider that for a moment. “I don’t know. Why would he come back when my Explorer was parked in plain sight?”
“Unless you were his target.”
“I don’t think so. He was pretty quick to run. This guy was like a jackrabbit. It was as if he was shocked to see me.”
“Teenagers? The morbidly curious?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
We’re standing in the kitchen. Around us, the house is so hushed I can hear the wind whispering around the eaves. The occasional creak of one-hundred-year-old wood. It has the empty feel of a vacant house now. Traces of the people who had once lived here are fading, and it strikes me that I don’t want them to be forgotten.
“Bad scene.” Tomasetti glances toward the living room where three pools of blood are marked with markers, then looks up at me. “CSU get anything useful?”
I give him the rundown of everything we’ve gathered so far. “We’re waiting to hear from the lab on latents, footwear imprints, hair, fibers and DNA.”
