Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 22

She's in her midfifties, with dyed black hair, s.h.i.+fty brown eyes, and a body as short and round as a milk-fed heifer. We've b.u.t.ted heads a dozen times in the years I've been chief. Still, I give her points for making it this far in a town that still has a boy's-club mentality. I suspect she's got her sights set on the mayor's office, an ambition that would be detrimental to not only me, but my department.

"She's got a point, Kate," Auggie says. "A hit-and-run seems like a roundabout way to go about it. And what would the motive be?"

I bullet-point everything we've uncovered so far, beginning with the lack of debris at the scene and the bogus invoice, and ending with the attempted break-in, the foot chase, and ensuing struggle last night.

Councilman Stubblefield grimaces. "Is that how you got the tattoo there on your face?"

I nod, let him take a good, long look at it. "I believe the suspect I chased is the same person who killed Paul Borntrager and those kids. I believe Mattie Borntrager was his target. If I hadn't been there last night, he might have killed her and her young son." I pause to let that sink in and look from member to member. "I think he'll try again." I make eye contact with Auggie. "I need eyes on that house twenty-fourseven, Auggie. That means a budget for overtime."

The mayor's expression twists as if he's in the grip of a stomach cramp that's going to end badly. "Kate, I know you're stretched thin-"

"I've been stretched thin for three years," I cut in.

"Painters Mill isn't exactly New York City." Bruce Jackson pipes up for the first time.

I don't look at him, don't let my annoyance alter my expression.

Auggie spreads his hands, a generous king who's run out of bread for his starving peasants. "You're already over budget."

"The budget allotted the police department wasn't adequate to begin with," I point out.

"You signed off on it," Janine interjects.

I ignore her, knowing that if I speak I'll overstep the boundaries of civility, which won't help. "My officers can't even take a vacation day without my having to call someone in to cover. This woman and her son, and the community as a whole, deserve better than that. They deserve protection."

I can't tell if they're moved by my argument or if this is just another business-as-usual meeting. They are, after all, politicians. Best case scenario, they'll sanction additional budget for overtime. Worse case, they'll send me off with a pat on the hand and a warning to get my labor cost under control.

I look at Auggie, but he glances down at the notepad in front of him, pretends to jot something. I let my eyes rest on each member of the council. d.i.c.k Blankens.h.i.+p. Ron Zelinski. Bruce Jackson. Norm Johnston. Janine Fourman. They are citizens, like me, doing their best with the resources they have. At least that's what I tell myself as I wrap it up.

"We appreciate what you're up against here, Chief Burkholder," Zelinski says earnestly.

"But if the funds aren't there, they're not there," Norm Johnston puts in.

"We simply don't have the money," Janine adds.

"Hold on." Auggie steps in, taking control, aware that this is his show and he's the star. "Kate, let me get with the bean counters, see if there's anything they can do, okay? I'll get back to you in a couple of days."

Everyone at the table nods, looking pleased with themselves, and for an instant I struggle not to laugh, because they look very much like bobbleheads.

On the short drive from the council meeting to the police station, I can't help but think of all the pet projects to which monies were allocated as a result of political back-scratching, and I kick myself for not pointing them out. But I know it wouldn't have mattered; it definitely wouldn't have helped my cause. The last time I took on the council, I was accused of not being a team player. The fact of the matter is, they were right; I'm not a team player. If I can do something better on my own, without having to rely on someone else-especially if there's a life at stake-f.u.c.k the team. If I want to keep Mattie and David safe, I'm going to have to do it myself.

I'm still angry when I walk into the station. Mona looks up from her place at the switchboard. Her mouth falls open when she notices my black eye. "Whoa."

"Whatever you do," I mutter as I head toward the coffee station, "don't tell me I look like s.h.i.+t."

"Actually, Chief, I was just thinking you look kind of good roughed up. I mean, in a bada.s.s kind of way."

I can't help it; I laugh. "I love you, Mona."

Lois emerges from the hall with a box of office supplies in her arms. She nearly drops a ream of copy paper when she notices my face. "Janine Fourman didn't do that, did she?"

I'm in the process of pouring coffee and laugh so hard I slosh some over the side of my cup. "She would not survive the attempt."

Lois reaches the desk and sets the supplies next to the switchboard. "Judging from the look on your face, I'm a.s.suming the council meeting didn't go well."

"That would be an understatement."

Pa.s.sing the headset to her counterpart, Mona meets me at the coffee station. I try not to notice that she's looking at me with a little bit of awe in her eyes. "There's ice in the fridge in the back, Chief, do you want me to make you an ice pack?"

"If you don't mind, that's probably not a bad idea." Armed with coffee, I head toward my office.

My computer has gone through the lengthy process of booting up, and I've just opened my e-mail software when I hear a tap on the door. I look up to see Mona standing outside my doorway, ice pack in hand.

I motion her in. "Thanks."

Waving off my grat.i.tude, she hands me the pack and takes the chair opposite my desk.

Gingerly, I set the pack against my cheek. "Your s.h.i.+ft ended an hour and a half ago," I point out.

"I stayed late to work on tip-line stuff." She shrugs. "I guess I lost track of time."

"You know I can't pay you overtime."

"I know it's not for lack of trying, Chief." Blus.h.i.+ng, she looks away. "We know you go to bat for us."

My chest swells with unexpected force. "Thanks for saying that. I needed to hear it."

Shrugging off my thanks, she shoves two sheets of paper at me. "I put the tip-line stuff into a spreadsheet. Twenty-two calls so far. I thought you might want a peek."

I take the papers and find myself looking at a table with column headings for the date and time, the name and contact information of the caller, and the particulars of the tip. I'm impressed by the level of organization and attention to detail, and I feel a little guilty because she's good at what she does and I haven't done much to recognize it. I'm reminded of her interest in becoming a police officer and I realize should the budget ever materialize, I'll consider her as a candidate.

"Most of the callers didn't leave contact info?" I ask.

"They wanted to remain anonymous."

"d.a.m.n Amish," I mutter.

She snickers.

"I'm surprised we didn't get any alien calls."

"We did," she tells me. "I didn't put them on the list."

I flip the page and my eyes are drawn to the final call, which came in late yesterday. An Amish woman, who refused to give her name, claims one of her children saw Mattie Borntrager on the road in front of her farm late at night, arguing with an unknown male.

"Do you have anything else on this anonymous Amish woman?" I ask.

Mona shakes her head. "She wouldn't leave her name."

"Huh." But the simple fact that the caller saw or heard the argument is telling. If the incident took place late at night on the road in front of Mattie's farm-a dead-end road no less-the caller would have had to be walking or driving by, or else she lives nearby. Considering the late-night hour, I'm betting on the latter.

"This is good work, Mona. Thank you."

She beams. "You want me to follow up on any of these?"

I don't believe any of the other calls are viable, but I say, "Why don't you give Mr. Oren a call and get an alibi?"

"Sure."

"Then why don't you go home and get some sleep?"

She grins. "I'll do it, Chief. Let me know if you need anything else."

I return her smile. "I'll let you know when the number crunchers get the h.e.l.l out of the way."

CHAPTER 19.

I've just pulled into the gravel lane of Mattie's neighbors to speak with Martha Schlabach and, hopefully, get the details on the alleged argument between Mattie and an unidentified male, when my cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down, recognize the number as the Amish pay phone on the edge of town, and I pick up on the third ring.

"Katie?"

Something in my sister's voice makes the muscles at the back of my neck go taut. "What is it?" I ask.

"Two policemen just left," she tells me. "They were asking all sorts of questions about Daniel Lapp."

My foot hits the brake even before I realize I'm going to stop. All the while my sister's words echo in my ears.

They were asking all sorts of questions about Daniel Lapp.

"Which policemen?" I ask. "When?"

"Twenty minutes ago. I hitched the buggy and drove right to the phone to call you. Katie, I told them what you told me to say, but I was nervous. I don't think they believed me. They kept looking at me as if they thought I was lying."

You were, I think. "Which policemen were there? Did you get their names?"

"The sheriff from Coshocton County. Redmon was his name, I think. There was a deputy, too. I don't remember his name."

The information flies through my mind like shrapnel tearing through skin and muscle and bone. I force myself to calm down and think. "What did they say exactly?"

"They asked me about that day. You know, the day ... it happened. I told them I was in town. I didn't actually see Daniel. But I thought I remembered my brother saying something about him coming over to help bale hay."

"Okay," I tell her. "That's good. What else?"

"Katie, they asked about you. I didn't know what to tell them. My words got all jumbled up. I told them you were in the house that day and the boys stayed in the field."

"Have they talked to Jacob?" I ask.

"I don't know. They didn't say and I didn't ask. I didn't want them to think I was concerned."

Or getting our stories straight ... "It's okay, Sarah. Don't worry. You did good."

But none of this is good. It means the police have identified Daniel Lapp's remains. It means they've questioned his brother, Benjamin, and they know Daniel was last seen at my parents' farm. They know I was there the day he disappeared. Even more disturbing is the fact that Redmon questioned my sister without giving me a heads up. He's not obligated, but it would have been a courtesy, since it involved a family member of a fellow law-enforcement official. The usual rationale for leaving a cop out of the loop is if said cop is suspected of wrongdoing.

I tell myself that's not the case in this instance. I'm being paranoid; there's no way the police could know what happened that day. That doesn't prevent the wash of panic that rises in my chest. My siblings are wild cards; neither has experience dealing with cops. They're probably not very good liars. I want to know if Redmon talked to Jacob. Did my brother stick to the story we discussed? Why didn't the sheriff's office inform me that they would be talking to my family? Will they be talking to me next?

Redmon is probably wondering why I didn't mention Lapp's disappearance upon discovery of those remains. In hindsight, I wish I had because my silence, and my lack of action, could be considered unusual behavior. But I'd been hoping the remains wouldn't be identified, and now it's too late.

I wish I could call Jacob. But like most Amish, my brother doesn't have a phone. I resolve to swing by his farm when I finish here. Realizing my hands are wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache, I force myself to relax them and proceed up the driveway toward the house.

I find Martha Schlabach and two children in the side yard, hanging clothes on a clothesline. I don't miss the quiver of surprise that runs through her body when she spots me walking toward them or the smugness of her expression when she notices my black eye. She probably thinks I deserve it.

Martha is a few years older than me, but we went to school together for a couple of years as kids. She's got a tanned face with patches of rosacea on both cheeks. I see a slightly receding hairline beneath her kapp and blond hair that's gone curly and gray at her temples.

Two wicker baskets filled with wet laundry sit on the ground at her feet. A bag of wooden clothespins have fallen over and spilled onto the gra.s.s. She's got a clothespin clamped between her teeth and peers at me over the trousers in her hands. She doesn't greet me, but then she'd never liked me. I never took it personally, because I knew it had more to do with my relations.h.i.+p with Mattie than me personally. When we were teenagers, Martha had her eye on Paul Borntrager, going so far as to tell some of her Amish girlfriends that she was going to marry him. I remember feeling sorry for her, because everyone knew Paul had eyes only for Mattie.

"Guder mariya," I begin, wis.h.i.+ng her a good morning.

My usage of Pennsylvania Dutch doesn't impress her. "It's almost afternoon now."

"Good day for laundry," I say.

"The breeze is nice."

I turn my attention to the two children. The boy is about three years old and blond with blunt cut bangs and a scab on his nose. He's too little to help, but he's trying, mimicking his mamm and handing her clothespins. The girl is about four and wears a light blue dress. Her feet are bare and dirty, and with a keen sense of nostalgia I remember a time when my own feet looked much the same way. I was lucky because my childhood was carefree. Up until my fourteenth year, it was unblemished, filled with wholesome living, of work and play, faith and family. The world has become a lot more complicated since then, and I can't help but wonder if that's true even here among the Amish.

"Looks like you've got some good helpers," I say.

"They do what they can." She bends to pick up another pair of trousers, snaps out the wrinkles, and hangs it on the line.

"I need to ask you some questions about the Borntragers," I say.

"I don't know much about them. Don't know how I can help."

"How long have you been neighbors?"

"Since Amos and I were married. Ten years now." She removes a pin from her mouth, uses it to fasten a blue work s.h.i.+rt to the line.

"Are they good neighbors?"

"Of course. They're Amish." She cuts me a direct look, the meaning of which doesn't elude me. You are not one of us. "Mattie helped me with the babies once or twice. Paul mucked stalls for us when Amos broke his leg last year. He was a good man."