“Okay,” I say slowly. “You have my attention.”
He moves closer, his eyes meeting mine. “You mentioned earlier you had considered the possibility that these hate crimes are related to the Slabaugh case. Do you still think that’s a possibility?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “They feel different.”
The statement doesn’t need any explanation, not for Tomasetti. And he doesn’t dispute it. “I agree. But maybe we shouldn’t close the door on the possibility.”
The frustration I’d been feeling earlier transforms into something edgy and uncomfortable. “What’s your angle?”
“What if the Slabaugh murders weren’t intentional?” He shrugs. “What if it started out as a hate crime? The situation somehow got out of control. Things went too far.”
My mind takes the turn into territory I don’t want to venture and runs with it. “Maybe whoever pushed them into the pit didn’t know about the dangerous gases. Maybe they didn’t realize the outcome would be fatal.”
He nods. “Rachael Slabaugh tried to get the two men out of the pit and was overcome by the methane gas.”
“Collateral damage.” I consider the implications of that. “I don’t know, Tomasetti. If the deaths weren’t intentional, it seems logical that the person or group responsible would stop now that the police are all over it.”
“Unless they
“That puts all of this into a whole new category.”
“A really ugly one.”
“Not to mention dangerous.” I glance over at the trampled snow where a young Amish man nearly froze to death, and I shiver. Everything Tomasetti said runs through my head like a ticker tape streaming bad news. “Why not just kill him outright, since they’ve already crossed that line?”
“A few more hours and he might not have made it.”
I nod without enthusiasm. “I’m not convinced it’s a viable theory, but I’ll keep an open mind.”
“Something to think about,” he says.
Watching the ambulance pull away, I find myself wondering if he’s right, if they’ll strike again, and what they’ll do next time.
CHAPTER 10
An outdoor scene that’s been trampled and is spread over a large area is extremely difficult to process. Tomasetti called his office and requested a CSU, but none of us are too optimistic they’ll glean anything useful. Sheriff Rasmussen arrived a short while after the ambulance left. We’re basically standing around doing nothing, so I call Glock and send him and Pickles out to canvass the area farms, in the hope that one of the neighbors saw
It’s nearly noon when my cell phone chirps. Pickles says, “Chief, Glock and I are out here at Dickey Allen’s place. We were asking him about the buggy incident, and we got to talking about the Slabaughs. He told us Solly Slabaugh used to hire a guy by the name of Ricky Coulter to do odd jobs around the farm. I ain’t run him through LEADS yet, but if I recall, he’s had some problems with the law.”
That’s the way cases usually go. You get a break from some unlikely source when you’re least expecting it. It’s kind of like falling in love, without all the insanity. “I’ll go talk to him.” I pull out my keys, make eye contact with Tomasetti, and motion toward my vehicle. “Any of the neighbors see anything?” I ask Pickles.
“Not a damn thing.”
“Keep at it.”
I ring off, clip my phone onto my belt. I’m walking fast, energized by the possibility of a break in the case. Tomasetti falls in beside me. “You get something?”
“The name of a guy who did some work for Slabaugh.”
“Sounds promising.”
“A break would be nice.”
We reach the Explorer. “What about your vehicle?” I ask.
“I’ll pick it up after we talk to Coulter.”
“Fair enough.” We climb inside and I pull onto Township Road.
“Wouldn’t be the first time some lowlife killed the guy who signed his paycheck,” Tomasetti says.
“Who says crime doesn’t pay?”
I call Lois for Coulter’s most current address as I head toward the highway. She punches his name into LEADS and discovers he did time at the Mansfield Correctional Institution for burglarizing his place of employment, a tire shop, where he stole some tools and two hundred dollars in petty cash.
“Raiding the till to triple murder is one hell of a leap,” Tomasetti comments.
“Yeah, but not implausible.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Maybe Coulter planned to rob Slabaugh. Maybe he wasn’t expecting the brother to be there. Abel was visiting, remember? Anyway, let’s say Coulter showed up. The three men had a confrontation. Things got physical. Coulter pushed them into the pit, then panicked and ran.”
Tomasetti takes over. “Rachael Slabaugh shows up. Tries to save her husband, but the methane gets to her and she falls into the pit.”
“What about the missing cash in the mason jar?” I ask.
“Maybe he hit the house on the way out, once everyone was in the barn.”
“Pretty cold-blooded.”
“Yeah.”
We look at each other, our minds churning. It’s a good supposition. But is it right?
Coulter lives in a small frame house a block from the railroad tracks and grain elevator. The dank, salty smell of the nearby slaughterhouse wafts into the Explorer as I pull up to the curb. An old Ford Thunderbird with wide tires, aluminum wheels, and oxidized black paint sits in the driveway, a tribute to the muscle cars of the 1970s.
“He work?” Tomasetti asks.
“Third shift at the oil-filter factory in Millersburg.”
We disembark and take the cracked sidewalk to the porch. The front yard is mostly dirt and trampled gray snow. A child’s tricycle and several toy cars litter the sparse grass. It looks like a toy graveyard.
Standing slightly to one side, I use my keys to knock on the storm door.
A moment later, a plump woman holding a newborn baby opens the door. She wears faded jeans and a Cincinnati Reds sweatshirt. Pale blue eyes dart from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “Can I help you?” she asks.
I show her my badge. “Is Ricky Coulter here?”
“He’s in bed.” She looks over her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“We just want to talk to him,” I say. “Can you get him for us?”
“He’s only been asleep a couple of hours.”
“This won’t take long.” Tomasetti smiles easily. “Go wake him for us.”
I can tell she doesn’t want to comply, but she’s smart enough to realize she doesn’t have a choice. “Okay.” Hefting the baby, she steps back. “Come on in.”
We step into a small living room. The walls are white and nicked up, evidence of a family that’s long outgrown its dwelling. A few feet away, a toddler wearing a diaper and a stained bib sits on well-worn carpet and pounds a pan with a wooden spoon. In the kitchen, a white dog with a cast on its leg lies on the cracked linoleum, watching us, its tail fanning the air. The television is tuned to a soap opera.
“Can I help you?”
I look up and see a thirty-something man shuffle out of the hall. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a white
