Page 89 of The Burning

“Did they argue?” I ask. “Or fight?”

“Didn’t say anything.” Her brows knit. “But there was something about those men, Chief Burkholder. The way Milan acted, he might’ve thought he didn’t have a choice.”

“Can you give me a physical description of the men?”

She considers a moment. “Well, they were wearing black jackets. Kind of Amish-like. You know. Plain. White shirts. Suspenders.”

“Height? Weight?”

“Taller than me. Average build.”

“What about eye color?” I ask. “Hair?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t remember. I was so upset that night.”

“Did the men speak at all?” I ask.

“They spoke to each other. Low voices, you know, so I didn’t hear most of what they said.”

“Deitsch or English?”

“English.”

“When’s the last time you saw Milan?” I ask.

She tightens her mouth. “Day or two before he died. Came over to pick up some tools, but he was nervous as a cat. All sweaty. Said he’d been working out to your brother’s place.”

“Did he say anything else?” I ask.

Across from me, Lester shifts, clears his throat, casts a longing look at the back door as if wishing he could get up and leave. He doesn’t.

Bertha nods. “Told me he’d had an argument with Jacob Burkholder over some pay. Called Jacob a cheat.” Her brows furrow. “He claimed Jacob had accused him of some things he didn’t do.”

“Did he say what?”

“I didn’t ask and he didn’t say. To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, I didn’t want to know.”

I think about the timing of the men’s appearance and the murder of Milan Swanz and I realize with a keen sense of discomfort that the timeline doesn’t jibe.

I look from Bertha to Lester and then back at her. “Did Milan know about the two of you?”

Pressing her hand to her bosom, Bertha chokes out a nervous laugh. “We never told anyone. We were … careful, you see. Didn’t say a word to anyone or let ourselves be seen in public until after the divorce.”

“Where were the two of you the night Milan was killed?” I ask.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Lester looks at Bertha. “I was home. Next door. Alone.”

I look at Bertha. “I was here with the kids. Like always.”

When you’re a cop and working on a case, particularly a homicide, urgency is your worst enemy—and your best friend. My personal philosophy goes something like this: Everything must be done yesterday and it had damn well better be done right or you will screw up your case and risk the guilty party getting away with murder. The stakes are high, the stress is astronomical, and there is zero room for fucking up.

I’m unpacking the mountain of information given to me by Bertha Swanz as I pull out of her driveway and head toward town. A good portion of what I learned qualifies as motive. Domestic violence. Rape. An illicit affair. Neither Lester nor Bertha have verifiable alibis. The most obvious question is: Did they want Milan Swanz gone so they could be together? So that Bertha and her children could escape the cycle of violence?

I think about her claim of two strange men showing up the night she was assaulted. Was she telling the truth? Or was she fabricating some mysterious villain in the hope I’ll direct my suspicions elsewhere?

Even as I entertain the notion, I recall her description of the men:

Dressed all in black.