Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

“Ed was in the barn,” he tells me, watching the flames. “Our mare was about to foal, so he took a blanket and slept out there. He thought it would be tonight.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes the sweat and soot from his forehead. “Ed got the horses out. He went back in for the milk cows, but I didn’t see him come back out. No one can find him.”

I hit my lapel mike and order all available men to the scene for a search of the area surrounding the barn. When I look at the old man, I realize we both fear it’s too late for his son-in-law. “Any idea how the fire started?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Ed is very careful with the lanterns.”

“Did you see anything?”

He gives me a look that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand up. “I keep my bedroom window open. Something woke me. When I looked out the window, I saw the flames. Katie, I saw two people running from the barn.”

False hope skitters wildly through me. “Edward?”

He grimaces. “At first, I thought so. I called out.” His hand trembles when he raises the kerchief to his face. “One of them turned and looked at me, but they kept on running. They were Englischers. ”

He says the word with a hefty note of distaste. “Did you recognize them?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did you see their faces? Their clothes? Can you give me a description?” The questions tumble out of me too quickly.

The old man takes it in stride, shakes his head again. “It was too dark. They were running too fast. All I could think about was Ed.…” He lowers his head.

Behind me, I’m aware of Sarah crying openly now. “Where’s Edward?” she sobs. “Someone find him.”

She knows, I think, and suddenly I’m furious. Another family shattered on my watch: eight children left fatherless, a young Amish widow forced to raise them alone. I can’t prove it yet, but after hearing what the old man had to say, I’m convinced this was no accident. The hate crimes have officially crossed over into murder.

I look at him and something twists inside me. He looks broken and old. Too hollowed out inside to even shed a tear. I watch him walk away to join the others in the water chain. Deeply troubled, I drift back to Tomasetti and Sarah. The woman holds her swollen abdomen with one hand, wipes the tears from her face with the other. I don’t know for a fact yet that this is arson. I don’t even know for certain that Ed Hartzler is dead. But I’ve been a cop long enough to know that’s probably the way this is going to play out.

I get on the radio and tell Glock and Skid about the two men the elder Hartzler saw leaving the scene. “Keep an eye out for tracks. If you find anything, preserve it.”

“Roger that.”

I spend ten minutes on the phone with the sheriff’s office and the fire marshal. When I run out of productive things to do, I look at Tomasetti.

He crosses to me, his expression unreadable. “There’s a CSU on the way.”

“I’ll have the area cordoned off.” I grind out the words, only a fraction of my attention on Tomasetti. I’m furious and in no condition to speak to a man I just slept with. The emotions inside me are too ugly, and I don’t want to mix them up with the intimacies we shared just hours before. “If they find Ed Hartzler dead…” Too angry to finish, I let the words trail.

“Working yourself into a lather isn’t going to help.”

“Telling me how not to feel isn’t going to help, either.”

“I just want you to keep your head.”

“I’m not like you, Tomasetti. I can’t just turn off my emotions when they’re inconvenient.”

“Is that what I do?”

Knowing I’m being unreasonable, and needing some space, I walk away. I make it only a few feet before he stops me. I spin to face him. “I’m too pissed to talk about this right now,” I tell him.

His hand drops away from my shoulder, reminding me that less than an hour ago I was sleeping naked beside him. “We don’t even know if we’re dealing with arson yet, Kate.”

“Bullshit. I know what this is, and so do you.”

Sighing, he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks toward the barn. I watch the fire, willing my temper to cool. Yellow flames lick at the night sky, sending out a strange orange glow. The fire has died down some, but the roof has caved in. The structure is a total loss. From where I stand, I can hear the hiss of steam from the water. I smell the stink of burning wood and manure and something darker I don’t want to think about.

“I’m not going to let them get away with this,” I say.

Tomasetti nods. “Was the old man able to give you a description?”

“No.” I want to hit something. There’s nothing handy, so I kick the ground with the toe of my boot. “Damn it.”

The sky chooses that moment to open up and a cold black rain pours down. Tomasetti and I look up, cursing not because of the water pouring down our collars, but because we know the rain will destroy much of whatever evidence the arsonists left behind.

It’s just after noon, and I’m sitting in my office sucking down coffee, wishing I had a clean change of clothes because the ones I’m wearing reek of smoke. I’m wishing even more fervently that I’d gotten a decent night’s sleep. Tomasetti, Sheriff Rasmussen, and I spent seven wet and cold hours at the Hartzler farm. The CSU and fire marshal were on-site when I left. The firefighters had begun the task of combing through the rubble. I’m praying Ed Hartzler shows up, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they find his body—what’s left of it anyway.

Earlier, I put a call in to the Connersville, Indiana, Police Department to check out Mose’s story about his parents’ accident. The officer I spoke with hadn’t lived there very long, but he said he’d check the records and call me back. Next, I contacted the Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office to see what I could find out about Abel Slabaugh. I spoke to a young deputy sheriff by the name of Howard, who basically didn’t know shit about Abel Slabaugh or any of the Amish. He was, however, familiar with the bishop, a man he knew only as Smucker. He didn’t know if Smucker had a phone, but offered to drive out to the bishop’s farm to put me in touch. I’m not holding my breath.

I’d barely hung up the phone when I received a call from Ricky Coulter’s attorney, threatening to sue the township if his client wasn’t released within the hour. I assured him we would either charge Coulter or cut him loose, but neither of those things would be happening within the hour.

And so I’m sitting here, smelling of smoke, exhausted, waiting for official word on Edward Hartzler. Outside my window, the rain has transformed to snow. The wind has picked up and the flakes stick to the glass like glitter to glue, obscuring my view. Through the open door of my office, I hear Lois at the switchboard, arguing with some journalist wanting information on the Slabaugh case. My money’s on Lois.

The Slabaugh family has been dead for over forty-eight hours now. The case is growing cold, and I’m no closer to knowing who did it now than I was when I walked into that barn and found them dead in the manure pit.

My phone jangles, startling me. Expecting some pushy young reporter—or the fire marshal’s office—I glance down at the display. I see Tomasetti’s name and snatch it up, hoping for good news. “Yeah.”

“You sound like how I feel.”

“It’s comforting to know someone else is as miserable as I am.”

“Glad I could help.” He pauses. “Ed Hartzler is dead, Kate. One of the firefighters found his body twenty minutes ago.”

I close my eyes, surprised by the hard twist of dread in my gut. “Damn it.”