Page 110 of Rage

“Or think at all for that matter,” Rasmussen mutters.

The last thing I want to do is malign the victim of a homicide, especially when his family is grieving, and there’s no one left to defend him. But while Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler were victims themselves, they were not innocent and the truth will make for a harsh judge.

“I don’t believe any of us will ever figure out all of the ins and outs—or the rights and wrongs—of this case,” I say. “All I can tell you is that according to Wingate, Samuel Yutzy was recruiting young Amish women for him. Most of these women were teenagers.”

I feel the weight of my own troubled teen years and try not to think too hard about parallels. “Knowing what I do about the Amish, I suspect these women were naïve. They were probably on rumspringa and experiencing their first taste of freedom, rebelling against the rules, making a lot of bad choices.”

Tomasetti nods. “Was Shetler recruiting, too?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

“How exactly did Yutzy recruit them?” Rasmussen asks.

“Drawing from everything I’ve been told and what I’ve been able to piece together,” I reply, “I believe Yutzy approached these women at parties or, in this case, a local ‘Amish rager.’ He talked to them, got to know them, and if they fit the profile—a woman in need of money or security or a place to stay—he offered them a job, telling them they could make a lot of money in a short period of time.”

“The Cheetah Lounge?” Rasmussen asks.

“I believe there was a sort of job hierarchy involved,” I say. “Depending on the personality of the woman and how the initial interview went, she either went to work at the brewery as a server or The Cheetah Lounge as a server or dancer. They were evaluated during their employment and a few of the women were eventually introduced to Wingate and invited to work at The Club at Paint Creek.”

“You mean for sex?” Rasmussen says. “With members?”

“Their employment might’ve begun with being a server or even a caddie. Later…” I shrug. “The more outgoing girls likely engaged in sex with members.”

Tomasetti grimaces. “I talked to the trafficking counselor earlier. While she was getting the women fed and checked in to the hotel, one of them told her about a so-called ‘poker room’ located in the basement of the country club. There was a pool table. A bar. Expensive art. An adjoining private suite with a shower and bedroom.” His jaw flexes. “The room wasn’t used for poker.”

The ugliness of that goes through me like a knife. “This is not a small operation,” I say.

Tomasetti sends me a pointed look. “Deputy director of the task force agrees.”

“How big are we talking?” This from Rasmussen.

He shrugs. “We’re talking yachts. Hotels. Private residences.”

“You have your work cut out for you,” I say.

He nods, and the smile that follows is a few degrees above freezing.

The sheriff leans back in his chair and crosses his ankle over his knee. “So, if Yutzy was recruiting women, he would have been pretty valuable. How did he end up dead?”

I recall my conversation with Wilma Borntrager and feel an unexpected quiver of grief in my chest. “After Borntrager was recruited, she and Yutzy became romantically involved. When things turned serious between them, I suspect Yutzy realized what he was doing to these women and he had a change of heart.”

Rasmussen grimaces. “So, while his judgment was in the toilet, his conscience was still intact.”

“When he tried to walk away,” Tomasetti says, “they killed him.”

I nod. “Wingate was afraid Yutzy would either go to the police or talk to the wrong person. He was a loose end, so they sent hired guns to the nursery to murder him.”

“Seems like Wingate would have known a body would draw a lot of unwanted attention,” Rasmussen says.

“The killer or killers were supposed to do away with the body in Lake Erie. But they got lazy and buried it, not realizing the local coyote population would unearth it.”

“What about Shetler?” the sheriff asks.

“And Borntrager?” Tomasetti adds.

“Wingate knew Shetler was loyal to Yutzy, so they wanted him gone, too,” I say. “Once that happened, Wilma Borntrager freaked out and went on the run, thinking she could escape to Florida. They caught her, of course, and because she knew too much, they did away with her, too.”

“Jesus.” Rasmussen scrubs a hand over his mouth. “All of that and not one of these young people said a word. None of these sons of bitches were on our radar.”