Page 95 of The Burning

“Kate.”

I swivel to see Tomasetti stride through the door. His expression is one of commiseration and also remorse for the way we left things earlier. I’m not quite ready to talk to him. But I need him, I realize, in a way that has nothing to do with my job or the case.

“Did they arrest him?” I ask.

Frowning, he sinks into the visitor chair across from me. “They’re at his farm now.”

I groan, set my elbows on the desk. “I hate this.”

“Me, too.”

“Did you know?”

“They didn’t tell me shit.” He snaps the words, and then I see him regain control. “I wouldn’t have allowed that shitshow.”

He’s talking about Rasmussen and Chambers sitting in on the briefing while they were waiting for the warrant without giving me some kind of warning.

“So how did it go down?” I ask.

“Evidently, Chambers wrote the affidavit this morning and took it to a judge up in Millersburg.”

“The son of a bitch.”

“I was going to go with fucking bastard, but son of a bitch’ll do.”

I try to smile, but it feels phony on my face. “What do they have on Jacob?” I ask. “I mean, aside from what happened with my nephew? I don’t see how that’s enough for an arrest warrant.”

“An anonymous tip came in this morning. Someone claiming they saw Jacob in his buggy on Dogleg Road shortly before the murder.”

“He wasn’t there,” I say. “He would have told me.” Even as I say the words, I know there’s more bad news coming.

“Jacob purchased two dozen pallets a week before the murder.”

I stare at him, surprised, trying not to show it. “You know that’s not such an unusual purchase on a farm. A lot of farmers use pallets to store hay or—”

“He bought six gallons of diesel fuel the morning of the murder.”

“That’s another typical farm item, especially for the Amish.”

“Well, his timing sucks,” he returns. “Combine those purchases with the tip and what happened between Swanz and your brother—and your nephew—and it’s damning. Chambers has motive, means, and opportunity.”

I smack my palm down on the tabletop. Because I’m angry. Frustrated. And scared because I can’t deny the sliver of doubt I feel. I know better than most that when it comes to the power of love and the instinct to protect our children, all of us are vulnerable to our human frailties and that includes rage.

“What about an alibi?” I ask.

“Says he was with his wife.”

“Jacob is not a killer,” I tell him.

“I know.”

The reassurance brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them away, go back to the window, grapple for control.

Hearing the crinkle of paper, I turn back to him, see him pull several folded sheets from an inside pocket. “I got a couple of interesting hits on my ViCAP query.”

I’d nearly forgotten. My heart does a quick leap as I take the papers. “How interesting?”

“There are four cases,” he says. “Homicides. Three involving the Amish. One Mennonite.”