Page 80 of Shamed

“I’m ten-seven-six,” I say, letting him know I’m en route. “Drive the block. I’ll meet you.”

“Roger that.”

I pick up my radio. “I’ve got a ten-forty-three-A,” I say, giving the ten code for shots fired. I recite the address. “Ten-seven-six. Expedite.”

It takes me three minutes to reach the Helmuth farm. I barrel up the lane fast, slide to a halt a few yards from the back door, and I hit the ground running. Ivan stands on the porch, a lantern thrust in front of him.

“Get inside,” I tell him as I take the steps two at a time to the porch.

He leads me through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Lantern light reveals terror on their faces. I spot the hole in the refrigerator door before Ivan can point it out.

While a stray shot is always dangerous, in Painters Mill most often it’s from a hunter. In light of recent events, I don’t believe that’s the case this time.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.

“Less than five minutes. There’s a hole in the front window.” Miriam is already striding that way.

Ivan and I follow. The window covering is open about a foot. Sure enough, a bullet hole big enough for me to put my finger through stares back at me. The surrounding glass is cracked, but not broken, typical of a gunshot.

I check the angle, realize it could have come from someone sitting in a vehicle on the road in front of the house. Or more likely the woods across the road.

“Where were you when this happened?” I ask.

“Kitchen table,” Miriam replies.

“I was walking in from the barn,” Ivan says.

“Were the curtains open?”

“Yes,” Miriam tells me.

Which means the shooter likely saw her, but she couldn’t see him.

“Stay away from the windows.” I start toward the kitchen. “Do not go outside until I give you the go-ahead. Do not turn on any more lanterns. I’ll be back.”

I go out the back door, slide into the Explorer, and pick up my radio mic. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”

“Township Road 14. Went around the block. I got nothing.”

“Looks like someone shot through the front window. Drive around to the back of the property. You see anyone, make the stop. I got the front.”

“Roger that.”

I zip down the lane, too fast, eyes left and right, and head east on the county road. Amish country is dark as sin at night. No porch lights or streetlamps. Just acres of fields separated by greenbelts thick with trees and the occasional stream.

The woods across the road are an ocean of impenetrable blackness. I stop in front of the Helmuth farmhouse, which puts me a hundred yards away, and I get out. Around me, the night is dead quiet. No movement. No hiss of tires or rumble of an engine. The only sounds come from the sigh of the wind through the trees and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. All the while I’m keenly aware that there’s likely someone nearby with a rifle, intent on doing harm.

My replacement .38 presses reassuringly against my hip as I look toward the house and the window through which the bullet passed. I think about the angle to the kitchen. If the projectile went into the refrigerator, the shooter likely stood exactly where I’m standing now or else just beyond in the woods.

I turn, scan the darkened forest on the other side of the fence. The vague outline of the Schattenbaum farm down the road. I speak into my lapel mike. “County?”

“I’m ten-sixty,” comes a male voice—the sheriff’s deputy, meaning he’s in the vicinity.

“Can you ten-eight-five?” I say, asking him to look for an abandoned vehicle.

“Copy that.”

Tugging out my Maglite, I shine the beam on the gravel shoulder, looking for tire tracks, footprints, or spent casings, but there’s nothing there. I cross the road, check the other side, but the gravel is undisturbed. The shooter could have parked right here, turned off his headlights, and fired from inside his vehicle.