Harmless as Doves (13 page)

Once Cal had a chance to study the scene, Rachel said, “I had the Bradenton Beach police on the phone, Dad. All the excitement’s over, but that’s where Billy’s truck is. I mean, it’s still there, and it shouldn’t be.”

“Your tracker—transponder—says it’s still there?”

“Yes. The police station is two blocks away. I’ve been talking with a local cop, and he says they’ve got the truck roped off with crime scene tape, and they’re going through it right now.”

Cal asked, “Do we know where Billy is?”

“No, and the police don’t know, either.”

“And they’re wondering why his truck is still there?” Cal asked, tapping the screen.

“More than that, Dad. They’ve been on this scene since about eleven o’clock last night.”

“Why?”

“Someone reported an
incident.
”

“What is that, exactly?”

“An ‘incident’ is all they said.”

“But the truck is still there, Rachel.”

“Right, Dad. They’ve had the crime scene people out there all night.”

“Why? Is Billy hurt?”

“Don’t know, Dad, but there’s blood on the inside panel of the driver’s-side door. And the door was left hanging open, like there was a fight, and Billy ran off.”

Cal pushed back and stood up to pace the room. “What else do you know?”

Rachel turned her chair toward Cal. “Police are interviewing the witness who reported the incident. They had to track him down with phone records, because he wouldn’t give his name when he called 911.”

“So, somebody saw something. That’s good.”

“Yes, but I don’t know who that is, yet. And I don’t know what he’s telling the police down there.”

Stopping in the center of the room, Cal asked, “Does Darba Winters know anything about this?”

“I don’t know, but I called Evelyn Carson this morning, as soon as I got off the phone with Bradenton Beach.”

“Did she go out to Darba’s place?”

“I think so.”

“OK, do you have any other way to find out about Billy?”

“No. I’d have to hack the police computers.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course I could. Question is, would you really want me to do that?”

“Probably not.”

“Good call, Dad.”

“Do you still have a phone contact?”

“Sure, but anybody can call down there, Dad. There’s only a few cops in the unit at Bradenton Beach.”

“OK, what do we know so far? Let’s go through it.”

“The truck’s been there all night. Right where Billy parked it, yesterday.”

“But, we don’t really know that Billy is the one who parked it there,” Cal argued.

“OK, it’s right where Billy
usually
parks it.”

“What else?”

“Police are there, investigating.”

“What else?”

“Somebody was hurt. There’s blood. Not much, but there definitely is blood.”

Cal headed out of the room slowly. Thinking. Frowning.

“Where you going, Dad?”

Absently, Cal answered, “Out to see Evelyn Carson.”

“At Darba Winters’s place?”

Cal turned back. “Right.”

“You want me to stay on this?”

“You don’t have to go to work?”

“I can work from home today.”

“OK, then can you let me know what the police find?”

“Sure.”

“And what happens to that truck?”

“That’d be my responsibility, anyway. To keep track of the truck.”

“But the police, too, right? You’ll check with the police, about Billy?”

“Yes, but that’s my truck down there. So, I called Bruce Robertson, and he called Bradenton Beach to tell them I’d be following the case for Kline’s Cheese. And he asked for cooperation, keeping him informed, too.”

“Wait,” Cal said and thought. “Does Robertson know that Billy’s missing?”

“We don’t really know that Billy
is
actually missing,
Dad.”

“Right, but there’s blood in his truck.”

“Doesn’t mean that Billy is missing. Not yet, anyway. That could be anybody’s blood.”

“But, blood is not good.”

“No.”

“OK, then I’m still going out to Darba’s place.”

“You should go see Bruce, first.”

“Why?”

“He wants to talk to you about Crist Burkholder.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Aside from the fact that he killed someone?”

Cal grimaced. “
Apart from the fact that a pacifist Amish lad killed someone with his fists,
do you know what Robertson wants?”

“No, but he said Missy Taggert has finished her autopsy. And he wants to ask you a few questions.”

“OK. Robertson first, then Darba.”

“Right, Dad. But the sheriff was gonna have his first computer lesson here at six o’clock. And now, I’m thinking that I probably should wave him off.”

19

Thursday, October 8

1:00
P.M.

CAL ATE lunch at the McDonald’s south of town and drove up to the courthouse square, turning into narrow Court Street behind the jail. A clergy pass would normally let him park anywhere he wanted at the jail, but Cal had never bothered to request one. As it was, every deputy in Holmes County knew his battered gray carpenter’s truck, and when he pulled to the curb, he knew with reasonable certainty that he’d never get a ticket, despite the several “Sheriff’s Vehicles Only” signs that were bolted to the brick walls. Aside from the sheriff and his deputies, Professor Michael Branden was the only other person in Holmes County who was afforded that same rare privilege to park behind the jail.

Inside, Cal walked down the old paneled hallway past the deputy’s ready room to Robertson’s office on the left, and before he pushed through the door, he gave a wave to Ellie Troyer-Niell, who was working one of the radio consoles at her desk at the end of the hall. She waved him a go-ahead, and Cal knocked and entered.

Robertson was standing at one of the west-facing windows of his office, back turned to the room, watching traffic roll by on Clay Street, just south of its busy intersection with Jackson. Once in the room, Cal could see the Civil War monument through the windows to the north, and against the wall to the right of Robertson’s door, he found Missy Taggert, standing beside the credenza, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

Missy’s curly brown hair was pinned up in back, and she was dressed in her medical examiner’s green scrubs and a
pair of soft white shoes. Cal nodded, Missy said, “Hi, Cal,” and they both took seats at the front edge of Robertson’s big cherry desk. When the sheriff turned from the window, he asked Cal, “You get my message?”

“Rachel said you have some questions.”

Robertson nodded and stepped behind his desk to drop his bulk into his swivel chair.

While the sheriff pulled himself up to his desk, Missy said, “I’ve finished my autopsy, Cal.”

Cal nodded and looked to Robertson. The sheriff hesitated and then brought forward his chief complaint.

“Cal,” he said, “this confession doesn’t square with the autopsy.”

Missy said, “Spiegle was beaten so severely, Cal, that five bones in his face were crushed.”

Robertson asked, “You ever know an Amish kid to
go off
on someone like that?”

“It’s hard for me to believe that any of them would do that,” Cal said.

“They’re farmhands, Cal. They’d be strong enough.”

“Strength is one thing,” Cal said. “But they’re pacifists. At least they’re supposed to be.”

“Then we’ve got one who isn’t,” Robertson said, and pushed back from his desk. “Tell him, Missy.”

Matter-of-factly, Missy said, “Spiegle’s face was battered and almost unrecognizable. But first, he fell and hit his head on the concrete pad inside that barn. It was the subsequent beating that killed him. He blew out an aneurysm, which he probably already had—they can be genetic in origin, so he may have had it all his life—and that resulted in a subdural hematoma. He would have died in minutes.”

“Crist told me that he hit him only once,” Cal said.

Robertson scoffed, “Then either he’s lying, or he doesn’t remember. Either way, it’s manslaughter.”

Missy nodded agreement over her coffee cup. “If Burkholder beat him up after he fell—like my autopsy shows—then he killed him. It’s really quite simple, Cal.”

“But isn’t it likely that any beating at all would have killed him?” Cal asked.

“Can’t say,” Missy said. “But this wasn’t just any beating, Cal. This was merciless.”

Cal thought about Crist Burkholder holding that much rage in a fistfight and wondered why Glenn Spiegle wouldn’t have defended himself. Maybe the first blow had incapacitated him. He wondered also why Crist Burkholder was so intent on confessing.

Robertson said, “The problem we have now is that Burkholder’s hands are not bruised. They aren’t even scratched. It doesn’t look like he beat up anyone.”

Cal looked to Missy and then back to the sheriff. “Are you saying that you think he’s innocent?”

“I do,” Missy said. “I think he hit him once, and ran off, like he says.”

Cal looked to Robertson. The sheriff nodded and said, “I don’t really want to charge him.”

Cal lifted his palms. “So, what’s the problem?”

“His confession,” Robertson said. “He’s not retracting his confession.”

“What does Linda Hart say?” Cal asked.

“She won’t let us talk to him anymore,” Robertson said.

“Does she know that you don’t believe his confession?” Cal asked.

Robertson held up a hand. “It’s only Missy who doesn’t believe it, Cal. I think he beat the man, and he just doesn’t remember it.”

“But his hands aren’t damaged,” Cal argued.

“So,” Robertson said, “he was wearing gloves.”

“So, where are they?” Cal asked.

Robertson rolled his eyes and stood up. “Come on, Cal. He disposed of them.”

“OK,” Cal said. “But if he’s clever enough to hide a bloody pair of gloves, why does he insist on confessing?”

“I don’t know,” Robertson sighed out. “It probably doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Why?” Cal asked.

“Linda Hart has asked for a Miranda hearing this afternoon. She’s filed a motion to toss out Burkholder’s confession altogether.”

* * *

As he left the sheriff’s office, Cal turned in the doorway and asked Robertson, “Are you following the Billy Winters disappearance?”

Robertson laughed. “Cal, he probably just wandered off somewhere, drunk. He probably just finally fell off the wagon.”

“I don’t know,” Cal said. “They found blood inside his truck.”

Robertson shrugged his lack of interest. “All I did was call down to let them know whose truck it is. I haven’t really been paying attention.”

Missy stood up and said, “I’ve got to drive back up to the hospital,” and moved toward the door, apparently not much interested in Billy Winters, either.

Robertson saw her out to the front entrance and came back to his office to find Cal standing in front of the desk, pensive.

Cal turned for the door again and said, “Rachel is going to follow the Bradenton Beach police investigation. I think you should do that, too.”

Robertson acknowledged that with a tip of his head and stepped back behind his desk.

On his way through the door, Cal muttered, “I’m going out to check on Darba Winters. She’s worried about Billy.”

Robertson said to his back, “I’ll call Bradenton Beach, Cal, but Billy Winters is a drunk. Always will be.”

Cal turned back to say, “I’ve got to believe in someone today, Bruce.”

Scoffing, Robertson said, “Amish murderers, Cal. Who’d believe in that?”

20

Thursday, October 8

2:20
P.M.

WHEN CAL pulled up at Darba Winters’s place, Bishop Leon Shetler was sitting in his plain black buggy, parked on the lane in front. Cal swung his gray truck into Darba’s drive and walked back to stand beside the bishop’s rig. On the high seat of the buggy, the bishop looked down at Cal and said, “My Katie is inside,” shaking his head.

“Visiting?” Cal asked.

“You don’t know?” Shetler asked, surprised.

“Know what?”

“Darba tore her place apart about an hour ago,” the bishop said, pointing out scratches on his arms and a bruise under his eye. “I had to help the doctor settle her down.”

“What do you mean, she ‘tore her place apart’?” Cal said, as he turned to walk across the lawn toward the house.

Shetler climbed out of his buggy and followed, saying, “Katie and I were already here when the doctor arrived. We were visiting, and Darba was still pretty worried about Billy.”

Cal stopped. “Evie was supposed to tell her that they found Billy’s truck.”

“Dr. Carson told Darba that his truck hadn’t been moved since last night, and the police found blood. Then Darba got nuts. Throwing chairs, tipping over tables, breaking plates, smashing china, punching holes in the walls. Swinging fists, too,” Shetler added, rubbing the bruise on his cheek.

The men climbed the two short steps up onto the front stoop. When Cal started to pull the screened door open, Evelyn Carson met them at the door and said, “I can’t let you in.”

“You need help?” Cal asked.

“Don’t think so,” Carson said, “but Darba should be sleeping. I gave her a sedative, but she’s still up on her feet, crying about Billy. She says we’ve got to call him, and tell him not to ever come back here.”

From the back hallway, they heard Darba screaming, “You run, Billy! You run, boy!”

“What does that mean?” Cal asked.

“She acts like someone’s after him,” Carson said. “She’s been screaming like that since I told her that Billy is missing.”

21

Thursday, October 8

2:30
P.M.

ON THE second floor of the old jail, in the narrow bricked hallway several paces down from Crist Burkholder’s cell door, Linda Hart stood whispering with Vesta Miller. Dressed in her usual black suit, the angular lawyer was a head taller than Vesta, and she leaned in to speak earnestly.

“Just try to get him to trust me, Vesta,” Hart said. “He needs to let me handle the judge.”

“OK,” Vesta said, “but Crist can be stubborn. And I’m not sure what you want me to say to him.”

Vesta wore a full-length cotton dress of a soft lilac color. Her white bonnet covered the bun at the back of her head, and her white day apron hung in front, nearly as long as her dress, which covered her legs to the tops of her ankles. She twisted a lace hankie in her fingers, needing the normal—housework, cooking, anything but this. Anything but these brick walls. Anything but an English jail.