Page 92 of The Burning

The door swings open. My pulse jumps. Not Chambers, but a breathless Mona. “Sorry. Cows out over on Hogpath Road. Mr. Cline gave me an earful.” She slides into the nearest chair.

I jump in headfirst. “Milan Swanz may have been Amish,” I say, “but he was a violent man. A troubled man. He abused his wife. His children. Broke his son’s arm, in fact. Behaved inappropriately with a minor child. Those are the things we know about him and I believe that kind of conduct is a pattern of behavior that may be related to and led up to his death.”

Glock sits up straighter, listening intently.

I continue. “He burned his neighbor’s cornfield, destroyed the deacon’s corn crop and garden. After Swanz had some problems with his boss, the cabinet shop burned to the ground. I also found out Swanz assaulted the Amish bishop and his wife. All of this is a pattern of behavior.”

Skid whistles. “Busy sumbitch.”

“One of the things we don’t do in the course of any investigation is blame the victim,” I tell them. “We do, however, look at the victim’s life. His lifestyle. The people he was close to. If he had any ongoing disputes. If anyone was angry enough to want him gone.”

“Sounds like there was plenty of motive to go around,” Glock says.

“To say the least. And that’s exactly where this behavior pattern comes into play.” I find a dry-erase marker and turn to the whiteboard behind me. “Persons of interest,” I say, speaking as I write. “His ex-wife, Bertha Swanz. He abused her. Sexually assaulted her. Seriously injured her young son.” I hit the highlights of my interview with her. “Lester Yoder. He and Bertha Swanz were involved in a relationship before the divorce was final. Both had reason to want Swanz out of the picture. Neither of them has an alibi for the night Swanz was murdered.”

The door opens. Tomasetti enters the room as if he owns the place. As cool as a tomcat slinking out the door at midnight. His gaze sweeps from me to my officers and back to me. Something akin to satisfaction flashes in his eyes as he takes the chair next to Mona. Chambers isn’t as subtle. Giving me a withering look, he takes his place against the wall and leans, like a truculent teenager forced to sit through a boring dinner. Auggie Brock enters last, his reluctance obvious to everyone.

“Glad you could make the briefing, gentlemen.” I turn back to the whiteboard and give them a quick recap of the points I’ve laid out so far. “Noah Stutzman and his father own the cabinet shop that burned. They lost everything in the fire. No insurance. They believe Swanz was responsible—particularly Noah—but Swanz was never formally charged.”

I go to the next name. “Jacob Burkholder.”

“Here we go,” Chambers mutters beneath his breath.

I ignore him, but I can feel my heart tapping hard against my breastbone. “Jacob Burkholder said Swanz acted inappropriately with his young son, who is eleven years old—”

“We interviewed Jacob Burkholder,” Chambers cuts in. “He didn’t mention any sort of inappropriate behavior by Swanz.”

“Sounds like she got more out of him than you did,” Pickles says.

Chambers frowns. “Let me get this straight, Chief Burkholder, you were placed on limited duty and yet you went to see your brother, who happens to be a person of interest—”

I cut him off. “He came to me,” I say. “I listened to what he had to say and I’m updating you now.” I look around the room. “Because I am related to Jacob, I think it would be more appropriate if all future dealings with him—interviews, phone calls, warrants, whatever—are handled by either the sheriff’s office or BCI. I hope you guys can work it out.”

Calmer now, feeling as if I’ve found my feet, I go back to the board and write: Mystery man at McNarie’s bar. I face my team. “According to three patrons who were at the bar the night Swanz was killed, the victim sat down and talked with a middle-aged man for some time. An unidentified man that may or may not have been Amish.”

“If he was local, seems like someone would have recognized him,” Glock says.

“No one recognized him,” I say.

“You get a physical description?” Pickles asks.

“A vague one.” I glance down at my notes. “Caucasian. Early middle age. Black clothing, including a hat. Possibly Amish or formerly Amish.”

Anabaptist, a little voice whispers in my ear, and I put the thought to memory.

“That covers half the males in Holmes County,” T.J. mutters.

“Maybe it was your brother,” Chambers mumbles.

I ignore him, keep moving forward, winging it. I know my material, but I’m not sure how all of it fits together. “During my interview with the Troyers, in the course of a conversation about the phenomenon of burning someone at the stake and how it relates to Anabaptist history, Freda Troyer mentioned an individual by the name of Isaiah Hofer.” I add the name to the list and recap my conversation with Hofer. “He’s Hutterite and operates a quarry in Dundee.”

“He got a sheet?” Skid asks.

“Clean.”

Chambers all but rolls his eyes.

“Could he be the mystery man who was at the bar the night Swanz was murdered?” Glock asks.