Pray for Silence

“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.

CHAPTER 24

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,