Page 4 of Rage

“Chief.”

Rupert “Glock” Maddox was the first officer I hired when I became chief. He’s a former marine, coolheaded, and a law enforcement pro in every way. He’s a father of four, a crack shot, a brown belt, and one of the nicest guys I know. Last I heard, he and his wife were considering a fifth child; somehow, he still finds time to coach Little League at the elementary school every Tuesday evening.

Skid and I greet him with handshakes. “What do you have?” I ask.

“According to Mr. Weaver, the kids were playing down by the creek and found a severed hand. Possibly a foot, too.” Glock motions toward the barely visible trailhead from which he emerged. “They ran home, which is the farm a little way down the road. Told their dad. He hitched up and drove over to the Amish phone shanty, called 911, then came back out here to meet us.”

Children discovering body parts in the woods is extremely unlikely in a town like Painters Mill. Usually, when a report like that comes in, it turns out to be a case of misidentification. A doll or discarded glove or boot, a practical joke, an honest mistake, or a ghost story run amok.

As if reading my skepticism, Glock grimaces. “The oldest boy led me down to the creek. Sure enough, there’s a damn severed hand down there in those trees.”

“Shit,” Skid mutters. “I guess that eliminates the heatstroke theory.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

Glock nods. “A foot. In a boot.”

“Any idea who they belong to?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Once I realized what we were dealing with, I got everyone out of there quick.”

I glance at the Amish family standing next to the buggy. “You get statements?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I’ve only been here fifteen minutes or so.”

I bend my head to speak into my lapel mike. “Lois, get County out here,” I say, referring to the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office. “Find out where the coroner is. Tell him to expedite.” I look at Skid. “Get this road blocked off to traffic. No one comes in or out unless they’re LEO.” Law enforcement officer. “Stay cognizant of evidence.”

He gives me a mock salute. “You got it.”

I look at Glock. “Hang tight for a sec.”

“Yep.”

I go to my Explorer and hit the fob for the rear door. Having been born Amish right here in Painters Mill, I’m mindful of the cultural divide between the Amish and English communities, especially when it comes to the police. As chief, I do everything in my power to bridge that divide, earn their trust—and respect. I dig into the small cooler I keep handy when it’s hot, pull out four bottles of water, and approach the family.

“Guder mariye,” I say. Good morning. I pass out the water bottles. I can tell by the kids’ body language that they’re shaken from their find and nervous about talking to me.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask.

The Amish man nods. “We’re fine,” he says. “Sure gave us a start, though.”

I show him my badge. “What are your names?”

“Ivan Weaver,” the man tells me.

I look at him a little more closely. “I’ve seen you at the grain elevator.”

“Ja. I work there.” Beginning to relax, he sets a hand on the older son’s shoulder. “This is Eli.” He motions to the girl and younger boy. “Mandi and Joe.”

I nod at the kids. “My officer and I are going to take a look at what you found,” I tell them. “I’d like you to stay here so we can get your statements. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” says the man.

We’re standing in the sun and the day is warming up fast, so I motion to a shady area several yards away. “If you’d like, you can park over there in the shade. Let your horse cool off a little. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The Amish man nods, then says to the older boy, “Rawsa da dach-waegli.” Move the buggy.

I walk back to Glock. Two hundred yards away, I see Skid placing traffic cones on the road to keep any curious motorists from pulling in for a look.