Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

I address him first. “You up to speed on this?”

“Skid filled me in.” He whistles. “Unbelievable.”

I speak to all of them now. “On the chance the killer is an outsider, someone passing through town, I contacted the State Highway Patrol.”

“You think that’s the case?” Glock asks. “Or do you think he’s local?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh, frustrated by the lack of leads. “We have to assume he’s local for now.”

Four heads bob nearly in unison.

I turn my attention to Glock. “CSU find anything?”

Glock scoots his chair closer. “Tomasetti sent two technicians. They were still working the scene when I left. Found a slew of latents. Some could be from the family. Blood evidence was done. Got a partial off the bloody print on the door.” He looks down at his notes. “They found two slugs so far, including the one in the basement that went through the floor. Looks like the fucker who did it picked up his brass.”

“Of course he did,” I say dryly. “They able to get footwear impressions?”

“They were working on that. Tech thinks they’ll get some decent impressions.”

“Any latents on the instruments found in the barn?” I ask.

“Smears.” Glock frowns. “No prints.”

“That sucks,” Skid says.

“Hair?” I ask, hopeful. “Fibers?”

“Both. They vacuumed the house and the tack room in the barn. Bagged everything and sent it via courier. Won’t know anything until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Keep on the footwear thing. If we can figure out what kind of shoe and match it to someone in town . . .”

“You bet.”

“Have the bodies been transported?” I ask.

“Paramedics were loading up when I left the scene. Doc Coblentz borrowed a resident from Cuyahoga County to assist with the autopsies. They’re going to work through the night.”

“That will speed things up.” In the back of my mind, I wonder if Tomasetti will drive down. I wonder if I should have filed an official petition for assistance. “Were the techs able to give you a caliber from the slugs?”

“Not definitively,” Glock says. “But it was a small caliber. Probably a twenty-two. Could be a thirty-two or nine millimeter. They’re sending the Beretta to the lab for testing.”

I address Glock. “They get a serial number?”

“Filed off,” he says.

“That’s interesting,” says Skid.

“Yeah.” I scan the faces of my team. “What else do we have in terms of evidence?”

“The instruments in the barn,” T.J. begins.

“The speaker wire,” Skid adds.

“Until the lab gets back to us,” I tell Skid, “why don’t you call around, see who sells speaker wire here in town?”

He nods.

“Anyone find any money?” I ask. “Valuables? Was anything grossly out of place or broken?”

The men shake their heads. “Aside from the bodies, there didn’t seem to be a damn thing outta place,” Pickles says. “Nothing looked as if it had been tossed.”

I tell them about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Bonnie was evidently concerned about her daughter, but no one knows why.”

“Might be a good idea to talk to her friends,” Glock says.

“Can you follow up on that?” Get me a list? I ask. “I’m going to talk to the owner of the shop where she worked.” I look at my team. “We need a motive.”

“Murder for the sake of murder,” Glock says. “It looks like whoever did it went in there to kill.”

“And torture,” Pickles adds. “Seems like that was a big part of it.”

I nod. “I agree.”

“What about robbery?” Skid looks around the room. “Maybe the murders were an afterthought. They went in for money or valuables, saw those two girls . . .” He shrugs. “Acted out some kind of twisted fantasy.”

It’s a stretch, but I’ve had too much experience with the utter senselessness of murder to dismiss it out of hand.

T.J. speaks up for the first time. “Do the Amish use banks?”

“Some do. Some don’t.” The perfect assignment for him comes to me. “See if the Planks had an account at Painters Mill Credit Union or First Third Bank and Trust. If the bean counters balk, get a warrant from Judge Seibenthaler.”

“Will do.”

I look at Pickles; I’m thinking about drugs now, a silent scourge that affects many small towns, no matter how postcard perfect the façade. Back in the 1980s, he worked undercover and singlehandedly busted one of the biggest meth labs in the state. Despite his age, he’s always ready for action, the more the merrier, and if he gets to pull his sidearm, it’s an bonus. “You still on top of our friendly neighborhood meth guys?”

“Some.” Leaning back in his chair, he unwraps a toothpick and sticks it between his lips. “You think this is drug related?”

“Something ugly like this happens, and drugs come to mind.” All eyes swing to me. “It’s a desperate, money-driven business.”

“Amish might be easy pickin’s.” Pickles chews on the toothpick. “Being pacifists and all.”

He’s right; generally speaking, the Amish renounce any kind of violence. “If some crackhead found out the Planks kept money at the house, they might think they could make off with some easy cash.”

Glock pipes up. “How would anyone know the Planks kept cash on hand?”

All eyes turn to me, and I know they’re wondering how the social crevasse that exists between the Amish and English might have been traversed. “Maybe one of the Planks mentioned keeping cash at the house while they were in town. Maybe the wrong person overheard and decided to rob them.”

Skid looks doubtful. “You mean like ‘My grandma keeps ten thousand dollars cash in her broom closet’?”

I shrug, knowing it’s a stretch. But you never know when a stretch might become the real deal.

“Maybe it started out as a burglary,” Glock says.

“Only the family was home and all of a sudden it’s a robbery,” T.J. adds. “Maybe they didn’t want witnesses.”

“That doesn’t explain the torture aspect.” I look from man to man. “If our perp went in for money or valuables, that level of violence just doesn’t fit.”

Glock weighs in with, “Or maybe the perp figured on robbery and didn’t give a damn who got hurt. They do a home invasion, decide not to leave any witnesses. Maybe this killer is some kind of psychopath, high on God only knows what, and it turned into a fuckin’ melee.”

Pickles pulls the toothpick out of his mouth and uses it to make his point. “If the killer went into that house at night, surely he knew the family was home.”

The direction our collective minds have gone makes me think of hate. Hatred of the Amish is unfathomable to most, but I know it is a cancer that is all too active. I wonder if hate could be part of this. Or all of it. “What about a hate crime?” I venture.

“Definite possibility,” Glock says.

I meet his gaze. “Check into hate crimes against the Amish in Ohio, Pennsylvania and Indiana in the last two years. I want names and addresses. That gets into federal territory, so the feds will have records.”

“I’m on it.”

I turn my attention to Pickles. “Who are the biggest dealers in the area?”

Pickles knows the answer off the top of his head. “Jack Hawley got popped two years ago with a key of coke. Did eighteen months at Terre Haute. Word is he’s hanging with his old friends.”

“These guys never learn,” Glock mutters.

I jot the name on my pad. “Who else?”

“We know that goddamn Harry Oakes is selling meth. Got a network the size of New fuckin’ York. But he’s one paranoid son of a bitch. I can’t see him doing this kind of thing.”

“Who else?”