as it’s hot.” I head for the coffee station, snag the largest mug I can find.
Grabbing message slips, she rises and crosses to me. “Thought you’d want to see this ASAP. Tom Skanks down at the bakery came in at about four this morning. I guess he starts his doughnuts about that time. Anyway, he said he heard about the Slabaughs and remembered some guy hassling the wife a few days back.”
Coffee forgotten, I take the message from her hand and read “Will be at the bakery until eight.” I glance down at my watch. It’s just after 7:00 A.M. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
“I’ll hold down the fort.”
The Butterhorn Bakery is two blocks from the police station, so I brave the snow and walk. Originally from Boston, Tom Skanks and his wife, Maureen, opened the shop about ten years ago. It’s housed in the storefront of an old brick building that was a funeral home back in the 1970s. Occasionally, Glock or Skid will pick up a couple dozen glazed doughnuts and bring them back to the station. The Skanks have got the best coffee in town and make the tastiest apple fritters I’ve ever had. I always find myself trying not to think about the old crematorium in the basement.
The aromas of cinnamon and yeast reach me from halfway down the block. Warmth envelops me when I open the door and walk inside, and I know Tom has had the big oven at the rear of the store going since the wee hours of the morning. The customer area is dimly lit, since he’s not yet open for business. I look through the service window behind the counter and see Tom in the kitchen area, hovering over a commercial-size deep fryer.
Rounding the counter, I head toward the back and go through the swinging doors. Tom starts when he spots me, sets his hand to his chest. “You trying to give me a heart attack, or what?”
He’s a short man with brown hair and a belly that tells me he spends a good deal of his day sampling the fruits of his labor. He wears a white apron over a navy golf shirt and dark slacks. A smear of flour streaks his right cheek.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” I motion toward the door. “You might consider keeping it locked when you’re not open.”
Shaking his head, he goes to the stainless-steel sink and washes his hands. “I’d argue with you, citing the low crime rate here in Painters Mill, Chief Burkholder. But after hearing about what happened to them Amish folks, I don’t think I’d have a leg to stand on.”
“That’s why I’m here, Tom. I understand you saw some kind of confrontation between Rachael Slabaugh and someone here in town.”
“Didn’t think of it until I heard they might’ve been murdered.” Drying his hands on his apron, he crosses to an industrial-size coffeemaker and pours two cups. “Happened right outside the front door. I saw everything through the window.”
“What happened?”
“That Amish woman…”
“Rachael Slabaugh?”
“Yeah. Her. She was a pretty little thing. I saw her in town all the time, either with the kids or her husband. But she was by herself that day.” He shoves one of the cups at me and motions toward the window. “She tied her horse up to that hitching post, probably to go into the tourist shop next door. Anyway, some guy in one of them little Toyota pickup trucks parked behind her buggy and blocked her in.”
“Did you recognize him?”
He jerks his head. “Damn straight. It was that Jerome Rankin character. One of the biggest assholes I ever met.”
I’ve never met Rankin, but I’m well aware of his reputation. My officers have been called to his residence on at least one occasion for a domestic dispute. From what I understand, he’s got a temper and a mean streak. “So what happened?”
“Well, the Amish lady was trying to leave, asked him nicely to move his truck. But he refused to let her out of the space. Maureen—that’s my wife—was in here waiting on customers, so I stepped outside.” He puffs out his chest a little. “I was a decent boxer back in the day.” He pats his belly. “Of course, I ain’t no more. But I’ll tell you, the things he was saying to that Amish lady made me want to knock his block off.”
I pull out my notebook. “What did he say?”
“Just horrible things.” He glances over his shoulder, then lowers his voice. “You know, like he wanted to stick it in her. Wanted her to suck his dick, stuff like that. Indecent, I tell you.”
“Did he touch her?”
“No. Grabbed the buggy reins once, though.”
“How did it end?”
“I went out there and threatened to call the cops.” He shrugs. “Rankin told me to fuck off, then left. The Amish lady was so shook-up, she left without thanking me.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer, heading toward Jerome Rankin’s last known residence. Beside me, Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore nurses a Styrofoam cup filled with hazelnut coffee. He works the graveyard shift, which is from midnight to 8:00 A.M., and was the only officer available this early, so I asked him to ride along.
We pulled Rankin’s sheet before leaving and checked for priors and warrants. There’s nothing outstanding, but the guy’s got a colorful history. As we head toward his residence, Skid reads the highlights. “Arrested for domestic violence three years ago. No conviction. There was a stalking incident involving the same woman. No conviction. Got a DUI last year. Get this: He was arrested for sexual assault, but the charges were dropped. Been a busy fuckin’ guy.”
“Who took the call for the domestic?”
“I did. It was one of my first arrests here in Painters Mill when I came down from Ann Arbor.” Skid motions toward the approaching intersection. “Turn right here.” He takes a gulp of coffee. “Let me tell you, Rankin’s one crazy son of a bitch, and I ain’t the only one who thinks so.”
I make the turn onto the township road. “How so?”
“It’s weird, Chief. It’s like when you look at him, he’s not all there. Crazy eyes. You know, like there’s something missing.”
“Any history of mental problems?”
He flicks the paper. “Nothing shows up here, but this is pretty cursory.”
Rankin lives in a small frame house nestled in the woods a few miles from Miller’s Pond. When I was a kid, the old place was vacant; some of the English kids in town used to say it was haunted. A few years ago, it caught fire and sustained a good bit of damage. It stood vacant for another year, open to the elements and forest animals, before the owner decided to replace the roof, put in a new furnace and hot-water heater, and rented the place to Rankin. I figure by now he’s realized Rankin is a lot more destructive than the animals and elements combined.
“Looks like he’s home,” Skid says.
I pull into the narrow gravel driveway and park behind an old Toyota pickup truck. “He work anywhere?” I ask.
“I used to see him every so often down at the gas station off the traffic circle. Ain’t seen him there for a while, though.”
I find myself thinking of the missing money from the mason jar in the Slabaugh basement. “I wonder where he gets his cash.”
“Hard telling with this guy.”
I get out of the Explorer. The sun is fully up now. It’s getting warmer, and I can hear the melting snow dripping off the trees. “Head around back,” I say quietly. “Just in case he decides to take a morning jog.”
Grinning, Skid heads around to the back of the house.
I step onto the porch. Wood creaks beneath my boots as I cross to the front door. I’m keenly aware of my service revolver pressing reassuringly against my hip. Using my baton, I knock. “Jerome Rankin?” I say loudly. “This is the police. Open the door.”
Silence falls all around. From the woods behind me, a crow caws. It’s so quiet, I can hear the wind whispering through the trees. I’m about to knock again, when the door swings open. Rankin appears, looking rumpled and cross. He’s wearing low-slung blue jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, which reveals a bony-looking white chest with a big keloid scar that runs from belly button to nipple. He snarls something unintelligible but
