Page 19 of Fallen

Beerman’s Books is two blocks down from the police station. It’s a small, narrow space that smells of patchouli and bergamot, books and dust, and coffee from the station next to the “reading nook,” which is basically an antique chair, lamp, and side table where bookish types can kick back and read before buying.

The bell on the door jingles cheerfully when I enter. Barbara looks up from her place at the counter, an ancient-looking tome open in front of her. “Hi, Chief Burkholder. What can I do for you?”

I cross to the counter, aware of the resident cat skulking between the shelves. “I’m looking for the book written by Rachael Schwartz,” I tell her.

“Ah. You and everyone else. I heard about the murder. Do you guys know who did it yet?”

“We’re working on it.”

She nods. “Well, we have her book.” She pushes herself to her feet and rounds the counter. “The tourists love it so much we have a tough time keeping it in stock.”

“Have you read it?” I ask.

“The day it was released. Talk about tell-all. Rachael Schwartz didn’t pull any punches.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Apparently, she wasn’t fond of her brethren.”

“Did she name names?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “There’s an author note in the beginning of the book saying the names were changed to ‘protect’ the identities of people depicted. The Amish aren’t the most litigious people, but the publisher was worried about potential lawsuits nonetheless, I suppose.” She leads me to an aisle and starts down it. “That said, Painters Mill is a small town. A few days after the book was released an Amish guy came in and bought all six books. Said he was going to burn them.” She clucks. “I told him I would order more, but he didn’t seem to care.”

Midway down the aisle, she bends and pulls out a good-size trade paperback. “Here we go.” Straightening, she looks at the spine. “AMISH NIGHTMARE: How I Escaped the Clutches of Righteousness.”

“I’ll take two copies,” I tell her.

“Double the fun.” She grins. “I’ll ring you up.”

The things I’ve learned about Rachael Schwartz in the last hours nag at me on the drive back to the Willowdell Motel. By all indications, she lived her life with a no-holds-barred abandon. She wasn’t afraid to push boundaries or get too close to the edge. She wasn’t afraid to step on toes. In fact, she seemed to thrive on controversy even though it caused her some degree of unhappiness. She was social, with a multitude of relationships, not all of which were auspicious. I think about the level of violence of the attack and I wonder who hated her enough to beat her with such savagery. Conventional wisdom tells me it was someone she knew. Did he follow her here from Cleveland? Or did she meet her killer here in Painters Mill?

It’s late afternoon when I pull into the parking lot of the motel. As usual when I’m dealing with a serious case, I feel the ever-present tick of the clock, reminding me how crucial these first hours are in terms of solving of the crime. Five hours have passed since the discovery of Schwartz’s body, and the parking lot is still abuzz with law enforcement vehicles. The BCI crime scene unit truck is parked outside room 9, the rear door standing open. A technician clad in white Tyvek carries a cardboard box from the room and loads it onto the truck. I spot Tomasetti standing next to his Tahoe talking on his cell and I head that way.

He drops the phone into his jacket pocket as I approach. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I tell him.

“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me,” he replies.

There are too many people around for a too-personal greeting, so we settle for a quick touching of hands. “Anything new?” I ask.

“CSU is about to wrap it up. They got some prints we’ll expedite through AFIS. A lot of blood evidence. If we’re lucky, some of it will belong to the perpetrator and we’ll get some DNA.”

“Weapon?”

“We searched the room. Dumpster in the back lot. Treed area in the rear. It’s not here.”

“Did you find a cell phone?”

“Behind the night table. Probably got knocked off during the struggle. I couriered it to the lab in London,” he tells me, referring to the BCI lab near Columbus. “We’ll go through it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I don’t know anything about her life in Cleveland,” I say. “Anything on known associates?”

“Detectives are on scene at her residence now.” He glances down at his cell phone, where he’s jotted notes. “She lives in a townhome in the Edgewater district. Lake view. Heated floors. Swanky.”

“Finances?”

“Still looking.”

We fall silent, the information churning. “She live alone?” I ask.