Breaking Silence

beating son of a bitch. Unfortunately, none of those things make him guilty of murdering the Slabaughs.

“Don’t leave town,” I say.

Muttering obscenities, he yanks the door open, goes inside, and slams it in our faces.

“Now there goes a model citizen,” Skid comments.

I glance at him and lower my voice. “Did you really see a meth pipe in there?”

“I saw something.” He grins. “Might’ve been a pen.”

“I can see how a trained police officer could get those two items confused.” I punctuate the statement by rolling my eyes. “Let’s go find Lauren Walker.”

CHAPTER 9

Skid and I are in my Explorer a few blocks from the station. I’m thinking about swinging by the sheriff’s office to talk to Tomasetti, when my radio crackles. “Chief, we got a ten-sixteen out at the Slabaugh place,” says Lois.

We use the ten-code system in the department. A 10-16 is the code for a domestic dispute. I’ve been the chief of police for three years now, and I have yet to take a call for any kind of domestic problem at an Amish farm.

Skid and I exchange “What now?” looks, and I pick up my mike. “You got details on that, Lois?”

“CSU guy called it in. Said there was a bunch of Amish people out in the yard and there was some kind of argument. He said it looked like a fight was going to erupt.”

“I’m ten-seven-six.” Pulling into the parking lot of a Lutheran church, I turn around and hit the emergency lights.

“Well, that’s a first,” Skid says. “What about Lauren Walker?”

“She’ll have to wait a little while.”

A few minutes later, we arrive at the Slabaugh farm. Sure enough, a dozen or so Amish men and women are standing in a group between the barn and the house. Quickly, I park and Skid and I get out. As we approach, I identify Bishop Troyer’s grizzled form in the center of the group and then see Adam Slabaugh, who’s wearing his English work clothes. I notice Salome’s slight form in her blue dress and white kapp. Several Amish women stand at the perimeter of the group, hovering like nervous hens.

I reach them in time to see Mose Slabaugh charge his uncle. Head down, the teenager butts the larger man like a bull, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. I hear a whoosh of breath, and then the elder Slabaugh reels backward, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his butt. Snarling, Mose drops down on top of him. He draws back and lands a blow to his uncle’s cheekbone. Behind me, Skid mutters, “Shit,” and I lunge at the boy.

“Mose!” I bring my hands down on his shoulders, try to haul him back. “Cut it out!”

It’s like trying to wrestle a steak from a starving rottweiler. He twists hard. My hands slide off his shoulders. I see him draw back, hear the wet-meat slap of his fist connecting with his uncle’s face. Vaguely, it registers that Adam makes no effort to protect himself.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Right now! Get off him!”

“He killed my mamm and datt!” Mose screams. “He killed them!”

“Mose! You need to calm down.”

The next thing I know, Skid is beside me. Simultaneously, we lock our hands around the boy’s biceps and drag him back. Mose’s head swings around. Blind, furious eyes connect with mine. His teeth are drawn back and his contorted face is the color of raw hamburger.

Lightning fast, he draws back. I duck an instant before his knuckles careen off my left temple. It’s only a glancing blow, but it’s enough to whip my head around and make me see stars.

Skid thrusts himself between us, jostling me out of the way. I fall to the right and watch in dismay as Skid takes the boy down, flips him onto his stomach, and snaps the cuffs into place. “You just hit a police officer, partner,” he says.

“He killed my datt!” Mose screams.

“You just lay there a second and cool off.” Pressing the boy down, his breathing elevated, Skid turns to me. “You okay, Chief?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, but I can still feel the lingering effects of the blow, glancing or not.

“Katie, are you hurt?”

I glance over my shoulder, to see Bishop Troyer and his wife come to my side. “I’m fine,” I say. “Move aside.”

Shaking off the aftereffects of the blow, I step around them and focus on Adam Slabaugh. He’s standing a few feet away, brushing mud and dried grass from his clothes. Aware that my temper is lit, I point at him. “You. Come here.”

Looking like a guilty little boy facing corporal punishment, he drops his gaze and trudges over to me. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“He slugged you,” I snap. “Who else’s fault could it be?”

He stares at me, silent.

Realizing we’ve drawn an audience, I motion toward the Explorer. “Walk.”

I start off at a brisk pace, and he falls in beside me. “What happened?” I ask.

Slabaugh tosses me a sidelong look, shakes his head again. “I don’t know.”

I stop, another wave of anger cresting in my chest. He faces me and I shove my finger in his face. “I’m getting tired of people not answering my questions. If you don’t start talking right now, I’m going to haul you to jail and you can tell it to the judge in the morning.”

“I came to see the children.”

We reach the Explorer and stop. “Why?”

Slabaugh looks at me as if I’m dense. “They are my nephews and niece. I want them to come live with me.”

“That’s up to the court system, not you.”

“I’m their uncle.” Looking away, he shrugs. “I’m their only family. They are alone.”

Some of my anger begins to dissipate. “Tell me what happened between you and Mose.”

“The boy is angry. Understandably so.”

“Who threw the first punch?”

Slabaugh doesn’t answer, and I get the sense he doesn’t want to get his nephew into trouble. “Adam, come on,” I say, pressing him. “Tell me what happened.”

“The women would not allow me in the house, so I called out for the children to come outside and speak to me,” he tells me. “They did, and I asked them how they felt about coming to live with me. Mose made it clear he didn’t want that to happen. The younger boys were more open to the idea.” He shrugs. “I suppose I may have pushed too hard.” His expression hardens. “Solly poisoned them against me. He told them I am a bad man because I am not Amish.”

“Why did Mose hit you?”

He shakes his head. I wait him out. After a moment, Slabaugh shrugs. “He says he doesn’t want to live with me at the farm.” Another shrug. “He got angry. I tried to reason with him, tell him how I felt.…” Another shrug. “I didn’t intend to provoke him.”

“Did you touch him or threaten him in any way?”

“No, of course not. I would never strike a child.” He makes eye contact with me. “The anger is part of grief, Chief Burkholder. Mose will change his mind about me once he comes to terms with all this. Once they come to know me, I know I can give them good, happy lives.”

I remember the rage I saw on Mose’s face. I think of the blind punch he threw at me. Already I can feel the bruise burgeoning at my left temple. “Stay here,” I say, and start toward Mose and Skid. Some of the Amish women have gone back to the house. The ones who remain watch me with frigid stares. I feel their eyes upon me as I approach.