Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

I’ve met Sheriff Rasmussen several times since he was appointed. A former sheriff’s deputy from Canton, he’s low-key and no-nonsense, two personality traits I greatly admire, especially when it comes to small-town politics. City and county law-enforcement agencies work together closely here in Painters Mill. The sheriff’s office has a small budget and pretty much runs on a skeleton crew. We pick up the slack, taking county as well as city calls. I’m wondering what prompted two phone calls in one day as I shrug out of my coat and head toward my office.

I get Rasmussen’s voice mail and leave my cell number. Without hanging up, I dial Tomasetti. I get voice mail there, too, so I leave a message. Sighing, I vaguely wonder if they’re talking to each other. After checking e-mail, I snag my coat and head toward Pickles’ cubicle. I catch him coming out, a cup of coffee in hand. “Anything on Slabaugh?” I can tell by his expression that he found something.

“Two years ago, Adam Slabaugh was arrested on a domestic.”

“Well, that’s interesting. Conviction?”

“Charges were dropped.”

“Who was the complainant?”

Pickles offers a “cat that swallowed the canary” grin. “Solomon Slabaugh.”

“Nice work,” I say, but my mind is racing. “Want to go talk to him?”

“I’m game.”

Pickles ducks back into his cubicle, sets his cup on the desk, and grabs his parka. We’re on our way to the door when Lois stands up and raises her hand like a traffic cop. “Whoa!”

Pickles and I simultaneously stop and turn.

Giving us the hand signal to wait, she finishes her call and disconnects. “Chief, I just took a call from Ricky Shingle. He was out on Sampson Road and saw a buggy on fire and a runaway horse.”

The first scenario that comes to mind is a spilled kerosene heater or lantern. “Anyone hurt?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Where on Sampson Road?”

“At the Painters Creek bridge.”

“Call the fire department. Get an ambulance out there, too. We’re on our way.” I look at Pickles. “I think Adam Slabaugh can wait.”

“Me, too, Chief. Me, too.”

Dusk has fallen by the time we turn onto Sampson Road. It’s a little-used dirt track that runs parallel to Painters Creek, crossing over the stream twice and then snaking north through a heavily wooded area that’s prone to flooding in the spring.

Only one Amish family lives out this way, so I head directly to the Kaufman farm. I’ve met Mark and Liza Kaufman a handful of times over the years. They’re a quiet couple with three teenage children. They’re of the Old Order, devout, and they tend to avoid contact with the English as much as possible.

I don’t have to go far to find what I’m looking for. At the mouth of the gravel lane, the charred remains of a four-wheel buggy on its side are smoldering in the bar ditch like a pile of firewood. A plume of gray-black smoke billows into the cold air. A few yards away, several Amish people stare at my vehicle as if I’m there to cart them off to jail.

“This ought to be interesting,” Pickles remarks.

“That’s one word for it.” Hitting the emergency lights, I park the Explorer on the shoulder and we get out.

“How in the hell would a buggy catch on fire?” Pickles grumbles as we start toward the group.

“Maybe a lantern or heater tipped over.” But I don’t think that’s what happened. Most Amish know all too well the dangers of fire and are cautious when handling flame or any kind of accelerant.

Winter-dead trees curl over the gravel lane like curved, arthritic fingers. In the distance, I hear the sirens of the fire department. I walk around a dozen or more hoof marks that are sunk deeply into the muddy ground—the kind of mark a terrified horse might make while trying to escape danger. I find myself hoping no one was seriously injured.

“Mr. Kaufman?” I call out when I’m a few yards from the group. “Is everyone okay?”

Mark Kaufman is a stern-looking man with shrewd, intelligent eyes and an angular face, which gives him a gaunt countenance. His steel-wool beard reaches nearly to his belt. He wears a black coat, a straw hat, and black work trousers. He stares at me with unconcealed displeasure as I approach.

“Is anyone hurt?” I ask, rephrasing my question.

When Kaufman doesn’t answer, I look past him and make eye contact with his wife. Liza Kaufman looks to be ten or fifteen years younger than her husband. Clad in black winter clothes, she’s a petite woman with anxious eyes and quick, nervous hands. She looks away, and I sigh.

I turn my attention back to Mark. “I got a call that there was an accident.”

“We do not need the English police,” he states.

“I need to know if anyone was hurt,” I repeat.

“No.” He bows his head. “We are fine.”

“Chief, I’ve got blood here.”

I turn at the sound of Pickles’s voice and see him kneeling in the grass next to the gravel lane. I cross to him and look down at the area he’s indicated. Sure enough, a dinner plate-size puddle of blood shimmers bright red against the yellow winter grass.

“Horse, maybe?” he asks.

I’m no expert on horses, but I spent a quite a bit of time around them as a girl. I know if the animal was scared, it was probably moving too fast to leave a puddle of blood that size. I look at Kaufman. “If someone got hurt here, they should get themselves checked out. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

“We do not need anything from you,” Kaufman says. “We are fine.”

Shaking my head, I cross to the buggy—what’s left of it. It was originally black, with four wheels and a covered top. Not cheap by any stretch of the imagination. I can see where the harness leather snapped. The right shaft is broken as well, and I imagine the panicked horse, running full out, must have fallen at some point, struggled to its feet, and then broken free.

“Looks like a total loss.” Pickles whistles. “I wonder if the horse got hurt.”

“Probably ran up to the barn. That’s what they do when they’re scared.”

Pickles picks up a good-size stick, begins poking around in the pile of smoldering wood and ash.

The crunch of tires on gravel drags my attention away from the wreckage. I turn to see a young man get out of a newish Ford Ranger pickup truck. He’s thin, with long hair, buckteeth, and toothpick legs. “Everyone okay?” he asks me.

“Are you the one who called 911?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am.” He crosses to me and looks down at what’s left of the smoldering buggy. “Damnedest thing I ever saw in my life.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“Alls I seen was this crazy horse running down the road. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that buggy. I swear to Jesus, flames was shooting twenty feet in the air. There was a couple of Amish folks in the buggy. They was yelling their heads off, and I knew straight away they was in trouble.”

“Did you see it catch fire?”

He shakes his head. “It was already on fire and going pretty good when I saw it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ricky Shingle. I live a couple miles down the road. I was on my way to work.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“I don’t know if they was part of it, but a couple of young guys in a pickup truck just about ran me off the road.”

My cop’s radar goes on alert. “What direction were they going?”

“Same as the buggy, and they was movin’ fast. They was left of center and, I swear to Jesus, I’d be wearing their teeth in my forehead if I hadn’t driven into the ditch. Crazy shits. Probably high on whatever it is them youngins get high on these days.”

“Chief!”