Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“Not the hospital?”

“Joe had no use for English doctors.” She says the words as if they explain everything. “Joe and his wife knew she wasn’t from around here—the clothes and such, you know. Still, she was Amish, so they took care of her.”

“Did he call the police?”

“He didn’t have much use for the English police, either. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard the woman was slow in the head. Didn’t know where she was from. Joe and his wife took her in to their home. Clothed her. Fed her. Did their best to teach her the Swartzentruber ways.”

“Didn’t they worry that she had a family somewhere?” I ask. “Someone who was worried about her?”

“I wouldn’t know the answer to that.”

“What became of her?”

“She left the Amish a few months after they took her in. Stole some money from Joe. It was a bad thing.”

“Is she still around? Would it be possible for me to talk to her?”

“She passed a couple of months ago.”

The words hit me like a cold, buffeting wind. All I can think is that I’ve come all this way for nothing. “So she stayed in the area all these years?” I ask.

“Last I heard, she lived over in Nanty Glo, south of here. There’s a trailer home park off of Blacklick Creek.”

“What name did she go by?” I ask.

“They called her Becky. Used the last name of Weaver.” Her expression darkens. “I’m no friend to the gossipmongers or busybodies. But there was talk about that woman.”

“What kind of talk?”

“That she wasn’t as nice as she wanted everyone to think, and she remembered a lot more than she let on.” The old woman looks at her grandson. “Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.” Where there’s smoke, there is fire. “That’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.”

CHAPTER 25

One of the things that separates a good cop from a great cop is the ability to sift through the bullshit you’re fed in the course of your job and get to the usable information sprinkled throughout. I’ve always had a pretty good handle on that particular skill set, some of which is old-fashioned common sense. As I turn onto the highway, I’m forced to admit I’m not sure what to make of the story Zook’s grandmother relayed about Wanetta Hochstetler. Is it possible she lived out her days here and never made her way back to Painters Mill?

Nanty Glo is a sleepy little town about half the size of Painters Mill. From the looks of things, the bad economy has hit this town particularly hard. A smattering of vacant storefronts peppers the downtown area. Large homes that had once been grand look tired and downtrodden. The town almost has a postapocalyptic feel. Within minutes, I’ve passed through downtown and I’m in a rural area that’s hilly and thick with trees. I’m looking for a gas station to ask for directions to the trailer park when I spot the sign for Blacklick Creek Road. Braking hard, I make the turn.

A quarter mile down, I see the sign for the Glad Acres mobile home park. I turn in and I’m met with a gravel lane that’s blocked with a chain and a sign that probably once warned off interlopers with NO TRESPASSING, but the letters have long since faded. I stop the Explorer and get out. I barely notice the lightly falling rain or the cackle of a rookery in the treetops, and I approach the chain. I can tell by the slope of the land that there’s a creek at the base of the hill.

There are some places that, due to time or circumstance, have earned their state of deterioration. Glad Acres has no such claim. It had never been pretty. The park comprises a single street with four ancient mobile homes lined up like crushed railroad cars in pastel colors streaked with rust. Several have broken windows; at least one is missing a door. At first I think the entire park has been abandoned. Then I notice the bumper of a car parked on the far side of the last trailer.

Stepping over the chain, I start toward the trailer. It’s not yet 6 P.M., but the overcast sky and fog make it seem like dusk. Light glows at the window. As I pass by the vacant trailers, I see fingers of fog rising from the ground, and I sense I’m being watched. I reach the last trailer and take the wooden steps to the door and knock.

The door opens almost immediately. I find myself looking at an older woman in a housedress and camo jacket. “That ‘No Trespassing’ sign is there for a reason,” she says in a cigarette-rough voice.

For an instant, I’m tempted to point out that the sign is illegible, but I don’t think that will help my cause, so I smile and show her my badge. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m the police chief in Painters Mill, Ohio. I’m looking for someone. Would you mind answering a few quick questions for me?”

“Since you’re a cop, I reckon I don’t have a choice.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Going on thirty years now.” She motions toward a rusted-out swing set lying on its side on the slope that leads to the creek below. “Used to be nicer. People had kids. Jobs.”

“What happened?”

“Coal mine closed. Folks got laid off. Moved away.”

“You rent this place? Or own it?”

She frowns at me and shakes her head. “I own the whole park. Goddamn property taxes keep me broke, but that’s the government for you.”

“I was told there was an Amish woman by the name of Becky Weaver who used to live here. Do you know her?”

“I knew Becky. Lived here for twenty or so years. She died a couple of months ago.”

“Do you know how she died?”

“Heart attack or stroke or something. She was a strange bird, that one.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, she wasn’t sure if she was Amish or English. Wore them Amish dresses and bonnet thingie, but let me tell you, there wasn’t nothing godly about her. Kept to herself mostly, but she had her share of men come over, and they weren’t there to fix the plumbing.” She speaks with a great deal of animation, and I realize she enjoys her gossip. “I always thought it was wrong of her to be that way with that girl around, but—”

“What girl?” I cut in.

“Her daughter. Ruth.”

“She had a daughter?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Who was the father?”

“Never asked and she never said. She wadn’t much for small talk.”

“How old is her daughter?”

“Early thirties now, I’d say. Lived here until a few years ago, but she visited every so often. Ain’t seen her since her mama passed, though.”

The information pings inside my head, a rubber ball with no place to land. “Do you know where the daughter lives now?”

“No idea.”

“Did either of them have jobs?”

“Not like regular jobs. They cleaned houses and such, but it was kind of hit-or-miss.”

“Did they clean for anyone in particular?”

“I wouldn’t know. We weren’t exactly friendly.”

“Were you her landlord?”

“Yes, ma’am, I was.”

“Do you have a file? Maybe an application she filled out? An address or phone number for the daughter? Anything like that?”

“They wasn’t real forthcoming with information. And I don’t keep them kind of records, anyways. Alls I know is Becky paid on time every month, and usually in cash.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about either woman? Or anything that might help me find Ruth?”

The woman shrugs. “Not really. Only talked to Ruth a handful of times over the years and she was about as strange as her mama. Looked like her a little bit, too.”

Nodding, my mind whirling with this new bit of information, I eye the three abandoned mobile homes. “Which trailer was theirs?”

The woman points. “Blue and white one in the middle there. Not sure how the window got broke. Damn teenagers, probably.”

“Do you mind if I take a look inside?”

“Knock your socks off. It ain’t locked, and I sure don’t think she left any valuables behind. Just close the door when you’re done. Don’t need no raccoons tearing things up.”

“Thank you.” I turn away and start down the stairs, but think of one more question. “What last name did Ruth go by?” I ask.

“Weaver. Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The interior of the trailer reeks of rotting food and backed-up sewage with the underlying redolence of moldy carpet. I’m standing just inside the door in a small living room. The kitchen is to my right. To my left is a hall that presumably leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. Leaving the door open for ventilation, I walk into the kitchen. The window is broken. The curtains are rain-wilted and discolored. On the floor, a single mushroom sprouts from threadbare carpet. To my left, a 1970s yellow refrigerator has been tipped onto its face. From where I’m standing, I see what had once been a package of cold cuts and a half gallon of ice cream dried to a sticky goo on the floor. The counters are covered with rat droppings and several mismatched plastic containers. A filthy dish strainer sits in the sink.

Slipping on my gloves, I start with the drawers, quickly going through each one. I find take-out menus. Plastic utensils. What had once been a loaf of bread, but is now an unrecognizable blue-green blob inside the wrapper. In the final drawer, I find an old phone book. Tucked inside, I discover an article from the Painters Mill Weekly Advocate newspaper about the murder of Willis Hochstetler, the disappearance of his wife, Wanetta, and the deaths of their four children. Because they were Amish, there are no photos of the family, just the burned-out shell of the house and a chilling headline: MURDER IN AMISH COUNTRY. It’s another connection, so I fold the article and put it in my pocket.

I’m not sure what I hope to find. At this point, any information would be helpful. Social security numbers. Aliases used. The addresses of employers or friends. Utility bills. A phone bill. But after a quick search of the two bedrooms, I realize neither woman left anything behind. All I have is the newspaper article and the name of a woman who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

*   *   *

When a case breaks, the last place you want to be is on the road, two hundred miles away from home base. Unfortunately, that’s the position I find myself in as I hightail it toward Painters Mill. Once I hit the highway, I call Glock.

“Wanetta Hochstetler was alive up until a few months ago,” I begin without preamble. “She’s been living in Pennsylvania under the assumed name of Becky Weaver.”

“Holy shit. The kidnapped wife?”

I relay to him everything I’ve learned in the last hours. “Evidently, she was injured and may have suffered some kind of head injury or psychological trauma that affected her memory.”

“But if she’s dead, how does—?”

“She had a daughter. Ruth Weaver. Do me a favor and run both names through NCIC and LEADS, will you?”

“Got it.”

“These two women lived off the grid. We don’t have any information on Ruth Weaver, no address or phone number, known associates, not even a description. Poke around and see if you can find something. Mona’s pretty good on the Internet. Get her to help.”

“You think this Ruth Weaver is here in Painters Mill?”

“I think she’s there, and I think she’s making good on an old debt for her mother.”

“Shit.” He pauses and I can feel our minds zinging back and forth as we try to process the information. “Where you at?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh?”

“I’m on my way. How did it go with Hoch Yoder?”

“I pulled him in. At the time Jules Rutledge was murdered, he was helping one of his neighbors move cattle and hogs due to flooding. I cut him loose.”

CHAPTER 26

Four hours and 160 miles later, I’m back in Painters Mill in the interview room with Glock and Blue Branson. Glock and I spoke several times during my drive, and he relayed the news that neither Becky Weaver nor her daughter, Ruth, were in the NCIC or the Ohio-based LEADS databases. Evidently, the two women kept their noses clean. As a result—and the fact that they were Amish—we have nothing.

Carrying the Hochstetler file, I seat myself across the table from Blue, who’s slouched in his chair, staring down at his hands. Glock holds his position at the door, assuming an unobtrusive presence. I set the file on the table and press the Record button on the tape recorder, recite the date and the names of everyone present. I read the Miranda rights to Blue from a printed card and then slide the card across the table to him.

“Do you understand your rights?” I begin.

“I understand.”

Using the same tactic I used with Norm Johnston, I open the file, making sure he can see the label and photos, and rifle through a few pages. “I spent the afternoon in Cambria County, Pennsylvania.”

“I don’t know where that is,” he says in a monotone voice.

“It’s near where you and your friends threw Wanetta Hochstetler down that well and left her for dead. Ring a bell?”

Blue Branson has as good a poker face as anyone I’ve ever met. But he can’t conceal his shock. He stares at me, unblinking, his mouth partially open, wondering how I could possibly know.

“She survived,” I tell him.

He drops his gaze to the tabletop, his eyes darting, landing on nothing, like a trapped animal about to take some fatal leap to avoid being ripped to shreds by a much larger predator.

“I know you were at the Hochstetler farm the night Willis Hochstetler was killed. I know you and your friends kidnapped Wanetta Hochstetler. I know you took her across the state line into Pennsylvania.”

Blue looks up, his gaze digging into mine. I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t ask for his lawyer again, because that would bring the interview—and any progress on the case—to a screeching halt.

“She tell you that?” he asks after a moment.

I’m under no obligation to inform him that Wanetta Hochstetler died two months ago. I don’t reveal that bit of information, because I know keeping him in the dark will work to my advantage. “I know what you did, Blue. I know what all of you did. You’re going to be charged, and the only thing that can help you now is cooperation. Do you understand?”

Blue studies the tabletop. Beneath his goatee, I see the muscles in his jaws working. After a full two minutes of silence, he raises his eyes to mine. “Is that woman the one who killed them?”

“That woman?” I say. “You mean Wanetta Hochstetler, don’t you?” I’m humanizing her, hoping to guilt him into cooperating. “She was a young Amish mother with five children and a husband. A religious woman who loved God. She loved her children. She loved her life. You took all of that away from her.”

He looks away, but not before I see a flash of anguish in his eyes. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of the memory, of any culpability. “She’d be old by now. Sixty or seventy. How could she kill three people? Men twice her size?”

I don’t answer his question. For the span of several minutes, no one speaks. I let the silence ride, hoping it will rattle him. But I know Blue Branson is not easily shaken. I know he’s not going to volunteer information without coercion.

“This case is going to go federal,” I tell him. “You kidnapped a woman and crossed a state line. The FBI will probably assume jurisdiction. Children were killed in the commission of a felony. That could turn this into a death penalty case. Once those things happen, it’s out of my control.” I wait a beat. “Tell me what happened that night, and I’ll go to bat for you. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your cooperation is taken into consideration by the court.” I stop speaking and hold his gaze. “I can’t help you unless you help me.”

“What will happen to Crossroads?” he asks, referring to his church. “My work … it’s important. Not to me, Chief Burkholder, but to the people I help.”

“I can’t answer that.”

We fall silent. The room is so quiet I can hear the tick of the clock on the wall. The muffled ringing of the phone in the reception area down the hall. Several minutes pass, but I’m not inclined to rush this. The longer we’re here, the better my chances of walking away with something I can use.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so low and rough, I have to lean closer to hear. “I was there that night.”

“At the Hochstetler home?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was there?”

“Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “Jules.”

“Was Norm Johnston there?”

He gives me a dark look, and I realize he knows Johnston was the person who’d come forward. “He was supposed to meet us, but didn’t show.”

“Did he know what was going down?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell him, but I reckon he figured it out.”

I nod. “Tell me what happened, so we can put this behind us and decide what we’re going to do next.”

Another lengthy silence ensues, and then he says, “Johnston told me the Amish kid was bragging about his father keeping a lot of cash at the house.”

“Hoch Yoder?”

“Yeah.”

“Was Hoch in on it?”

“No. I’m just telling you that because that’s how the whole thing started. I told Dale, and we talked about hitting their farm. At first neither of us was serious. We were just a couple of stupid teenagers looking for a thrill, talking about some big score that wouldn’t ever happen. We were going to buy a kilo of cocaine with the money. McCullough knew a guy. He’d cut it for us, and then we’d sell it by the gram. A onetime deal, but we’d triple our money, and that would be the end of it. But Jerrold got pretty excited about the idea. Too excited. He wouldn’t stop talking about it. He fired everyone up, made it sound daring and cool, and we’d make a ton of easy money in the process. I mean, the family was Amish, right? They wouldn’t defend themselves—and no one would get hurt. No one would ever know, and we’d get off scot-free.”

“At some point, you got serious,” I prod, “and you worked out a plan?”

“Go in hard. At night. Intimidate them. Get the cash and then get out quick, and no one gets hurt.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything. We were nervous. Scared. We’d been drinking. Liquid courage, I guess. We were all pumped up on adrenaline. I was with Jules for a while back then. We’d … been fighting. I was … pissed off.…” His words trail. “God almighty. I can barely remember.”

“All of you were armed?”

“Except for Jules.”

“What happened? What went wrong?”

“We went in. Faces concealed. Got the parents out of bed. We were in the kitchen, getting the cash. We hadn’t counted on all of those little kids showing up. That was when the woman got … hysterical. We were all screaming at her to sit down. We started losing control of the situation.…” A single drop of sweat slides from his temple to a crease in his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “McCullough panicked and … shot him.”

“Willis Hochstetler?”

He nods.

“What happened next?”

“We freaked out. I’d never been so scared, and I mean really scared. All of a sudden, everything was real. I couldn’t believe McCullough had done it. I went after him, and we got into it. But it was done. The guy was dead.”

“What about the woman?”

Blue looks at the wall behind me, as if there’s a window there and he can see through the darkness and rain to the promise of freedom beyond. But there is no window. There’s no escape for him, and he knows he won’t be walking out of here a free man.

“We took her with us.”

“Why?”

He shakes his head, doesn’t answer.

“Whose idea was it?”

He turns his gaze to mine, and in that instant I see the depth of his shame. The breadth of his disgust and self-loathing. “Mine.”

I’m so taken aback, I lose my train of thought. With the others dead, he could have blamed them. Only he didn’t.

Time to face the music …

He continues, his voice flat and low, like a robot. “We put her in the trunk and just drove. Like I said, we were scared. We didn’t know what to do. Somehow we ended up in Pennsylvania. Found a dirt road out in the middle of nowhere. We were going to leave her there. But she got her hands untied and pulled off Dale’s mask. She saw his face.”

Abruptly, he leans forward, puts his face in his hands, and rubs his eyes. “She got away. Ran into a cornfield. McCullough went after her. By the time I got there, he was on top of her. We raped her.”

I stare at him, sickened. “What else?”

He looks at the wall again, at the window that isn’t there, and I know he’s wishing he were out there, far away, in that imaginary place. “We argued. Figured we could intimidate her into keeping her mouth shut.”

“She saw your faces?”

He nods. “We couldn’t let her go.” He makes a sound, a sigh that ends with a moan. “Dale strangled her right there on the ground.”

“Did you try to stop him?”

A long pause. “No.”

“You thought she was dead?”

He nods.

“What did you do next?”

“Put her back in the trunk. Drove her to an abandoned farm and threw her into the well.”

He paints a scene so vivid, so horrific, I can feel the acid churn in my stomach, the bile climbing up my throat. I can hear Wanetta Hochstetler crying out for her children. Sense her terror and panic. I can hear her tumbling down that terrible shaft. Her body striking the stone walls on the way down. The splash of the final impact. The shocking cold of the water. Had she been conscious? In pain? How long had she lain there before someone found her? Hours? Days?

I look at Blue, and a wave of revulsion moves through me. I’m well aware that there are boundaries a cop can never cross. I know that once he does, there’s no going back. I feel myself venturing close to that line now. I’m keenly aware of my .38 pressing against my hip. Of how easy it would be to turn off the recorder, pull my firearm, and put a bullet between his eyes. I have a full confession. There’s no doubt in my mind I could come up with a believable story that he attacked me. I’m not the first cop to entertain such a dark fantasy.

I go to my next question. “Which one of you threw the lantern into the basement?”

He gives me a sharp look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hoch Yoder said one of you threw that lantern down the steps, which started the fire that killed those kids. The fire marshal’s investigation corroborates that.”

“We locked them in the basement, but no one threw a lantern.”

“Are you sure? Maybe one of the others did it and you didn’t notice?”

“No one threw a lantern into the basement. That’s all I got to say about that.”

There are more questions to be asked, more details to be recorded. But I need to get out of there. Away from him and the ugliness of the things he’s done. I turn off the recorder. Scooting my chair away from the table, I rise and start toward the door. But I stop and turn to him; there’s one more question that won’t leave me alone.

“You could have lied about it being your idea to take Wanetta with you. Why did you admit to that?”

“There are times when the punishment is less painful than the secret.” He pauses, stares hard at me, his eyes pleading with me to listen. “I know this isn’t going to end well for me. I know I’m going to jail for the rest of my life. But if you believe anything I’ve said, believe this: I’m not the person I was back then.”

“If you’re looking for absolution, you’re not going to get it from me,” I say coldly. “You’ll have to find another way to live with yourself.”

I turn my back on him and go through the door.

*   *   *

Glock follows me to my office. As I settle in behind my desk, he takes the chair adjacent.

“You look like you just lost your best friend,” he says.

“I lost something,” I tell him. “Another little piece of my faith in humanity, maybe.” I intended the words lightly, but that’s not the way they come out. “That son of a bitch has been preaching in this town for twenty years. Right under our noses. A rapist and murderer.”

“Not the first phony to grace the house of God. Not even the first murderer.”

“That’s the thing, Glock. He’s done so much for so many people. Why did he have to turn out to be a murdering son of a bitch?”

“Maybe he figured that by saving others, he could somehow save himself,” he says. “Do you think he’s lying about the kids? About tossing that lantern?”

“I don’t know. He just confessed to kidnapping and rape and attempted murder. Why stop there?”

He grimaces, gives me a moment to reel in my emotions, then hits me with a questioning look. “What do you know about this Ruth Weaver?”

“Not much. White female. Thirty-five years old.” I shake my head. “You guys come up with anything?”

“Nada. No records. No photo. Not even a driver’s license.”

“I think she’s our killer. I think she’s going after the people who brutalized her mother.”

“Powerful motive.”

“We need to put out a BOLO.”

“A lot of thirty-five-year-old white females out there.”

“Wait.” I recall my conversation with the lab technician from BCI. “There was a long hair found on Dale Michaels’s body. We don’t know if it’s from the killer or if he picked it up in the course of his day. It’s a blond hair that’s been dyed brown. Lab is working on ID’ing the donor now.”

“So now we have a thirty-five-year-old white female with brown hair.”

“It’s all we’ve got. Let’s put out a BOLO. If she’s driving without a license or proof of insurance, we might get lucky.”

“Could be using a stolen identity.”

I try not to groan. “Tell Mona and Jodie to stay on it. Tell them to search for the names Hochstetler and Weaver. First names Wanetta and Ruth. Cambria County, Pennsylvania. Nicktown. Nanty Glo. Tell them to look at everything. Blogs. Photos. Videos. News items. Whatever they can find. I’ll take anything at this point.”

“Got it.” Glock jots notes in the small pad he keeps in his uniform pocket. Without taking his eyes off the pad, he asks, “Chief, might not be a bad idea to try and smoke her out using Blue.”

“I thought of that, but there’s this pesky little detail called procedure. Could get sketchy with the lawyer, too.” I feel his eyes on mine, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know I’d already seriously considered it.

“Wouldn’t be the first time cops used a witness to nab a bad guy.”

I meet his gaze and we stare at each other across the spans of my desk, our minds working over the logistics as we were considering doing something we shouldn’t be considering. “It’s a bad idea. Lots of things could go wrong.”

“On the other hand,” he says slowly, “it might be our best hope of getting our hands on Weaver. We keep it simple. Drive him back to his place and stay with him, out of sight. Make sure he’s visible. See what happens.”

“Things could go bad pretty fast, Glock. Blue could make a run for it. Weaver could take a shot at him.”

“So we put a vest on him.”

“Maybe an ankle monitor…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I did not just say that.”

Glock grins. “Yes, you did. Sheriff’s Department has an ankle monitor, Chief. I can run over there and pick it up.”

My smile feels like wax on my face. “You’re not making it easy to say no.”

“This woman, this Ruth Weaver, is working fast,” he says. “We know Blue is a viable target. It could work.”

I give a nod, but the decision leaves a jittery sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Put Blue back in a cell and go get that ankle monitor.” I look at my watch. “Meet me back here in an hour. I’ve got to break the news to Hoch Yoder.”