The Dead Will Tell (25 page)

Nanty Glo is a sleepy little town about half the size of Painters Mill. From the looks of things, the bad economy has hit this town particularly hard. A smattering of vacant storefronts peppers the downtown area. Large homes that had once been grand look tired and downtrodden. The town almost has a postapocalyptic feel. Within minutes, I’ve passed through downtown and I’m in a rural area that’s hilly and thick with trees. I’m looking for a gas station to ask for directions to the trailer park when I spot the sign for Blacklick Creek Road. Braking hard, I make the turn.

A quarter mile down, I see the sign for the Glad Acres mobile home park. I turn in and I’m met with a gravel lane that’s blocked with a chain and a sign that probably once warned off interlopers with
NO TRESPASSING
, but the letters have long since faded. I stop the Explorer and get out. I barely notice the lightly falling rain or the cackle of a rookery in the treetops, and I approach the chain. I can tell by the slope of the land that there’s a creek at the base of the hill.

There are some places that, due to time or circumstance, have earned their state of deterioration. Glad Acres has no such claim. It had never been pretty. The park comprises a single street with four ancient mobile homes lined up like crushed railroad cars in pastel colors streaked with rust. Several have broken windows; at least one is missing a door. At first I think the entire park has been abandoned. Then I notice the bumper of a car parked on the far side of the last trailer.

Stepping over the chain, I start toward the trailer. It’s not yet
6 P.M.,
but the overcast sky and fog make it seem like dusk. Light glows at the window. As I pass by the vacant trailers, I see fingers of fog rising from the ground, and I sense I’m being watched. I reach the last trailer and take the wooden steps to the door and knock.

The door opens almost immediately. I find myself looking at an older woman in a housedress and camo jacket. “That ‘No Trespassing’ sign is there for a reason,” she says in a cigarette-rough voice.

For an instant, I’m tempted to point out that the sign is illegible, but I don’t think that will help my cause, so I smile and show her my badge. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m the police chief in Painters Mill, Ohio. I’m looking for someone. Would you mind answering a few quick questions for me?”

“Since you’re a cop, I reckon I don’t have a choice.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Going on thirty years now.” She motions toward a rusted-out swing set lying on its side on the slope that leads to the creek below. “Used to be nicer. People had kids. Jobs.”

“What happened?”

“Coal mine closed. Folks got laid off. Moved away.”

“You rent this place? Or own it?”

She frowns at me and shakes her head. “I own the whole park. Goddamn property taxes keep me broke, but that’s the government for you.”

“I was told there was an Amish woman by the name of Becky Weaver who used to live here. Do you know her?”

“I knew Becky. Lived here for twenty or so years. She died a couple of months ago.”

“Do you know how she died?”

“Heart attack or stroke or something. She was a strange bird, that one.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, she wasn’t sure if she was Amish or English. Wore them Amish dresses and bonnet thingie, but let me tell you, there wasn’t nothing godly about her. Kept to herself mostly, but she had her share of men come over, and they weren’t there to fix the plumbing.” She speaks with a great deal of animation, and I realize she enjoys her gossip. “I always thought it was wrong of her to be that way with that girl around, but—”

“What girl?” I cut in.

“Her daughter. Ruth.”

“She had a daughter?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Who was the father?”

“Never asked and she never said. She wadn’t much for small talk.”

“How old is her daughter?”

“Early thirties now, I’d say. Lived here until a few years ago, but she visited every so often. Ain’t seen her since her mama passed, though.”

The information pings inside my head, a rubber ball with no place to land. “Do you know where the daughter lives now?”

“No idea.”

“Did either of them have jobs?”

“Not like regular jobs. They cleaned houses and such, but it was kind of hit-or-miss.”

“Did they clean for anyone in particular?”

“I wouldn’t know. We weren’t exactly friendly.”

“Were you her landlord?”

“Yes, ma’am, I was.”

“Do you have a file? Maybe an application she filled out? An address or phone number for the daughter? Anything like that?”

“They wasn’t real forthcoming with information. And I don’t keep them kind of records, anyways. Alls I know is Becky paid on time every month, and usually in cash.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about either woman? Or anything that might help me find Ruth?”

The woman shrugs. “Not really. Only talked to Ruth a handful of times over the years and she was about as strange as her mama. Looked like her a little bit, too.”

Nodding, my mind whirling with this new bit of information, I eye the three abandoned mobile homes. “Which trailer was theirs?”

The woman points. “Blue and white one in the middle there. Not sure how the window got broke. Damn teenagers, probably.”

“Do you mind if I take a look inside?”

“Knock your socks off. It ain’t locked, and I sure don’t think she left any valuables behind. Just close the door when you’re done. Don’t need no raccoons tearing things up.”

“Thank you.” I turn away and start down the stairs, but think of one more question. “What last name did Ruth go by?” I ask.

“Weaver. Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The interior of the trailer reeks of rotting food and backed-up sewage with the underlying redolence of moldy carpet. I’m standing just inside the door in a small living room. The kitchen is to my right. To my left is a hall that presumably leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. Leaving the door open for ventilation, I walk into the kitchen. The window is broken. The curtains are rain-wilted and discolored. On the floor, a single mushroom sprouts from threadbare carpet. To my left, a 1970s yellow refrigerator has been tipped onto its face. From where I’m standing, I see what had once been a package of cold cuts and a half gallon of ice cream dried to a sticky goo on the floor. The counters are covered with rat droppings and several mismatched plastic containers. A filthy dish strainer sits in the sink.

Slipping on my gloves, I start with the drawers, quickly going through each one. I find take-out menus. Plastic utensils. What had once been a loaf of bread, but is now an unrecognizable blue-green blob inside the wrapper. In the final drawer, I find an old phone book. Tucked inside, I discover an article from the Painters Mill
Weekly Advocate
newspaper about the murder of Willis Hochstetler, the disappearance of his wife, Wanetta, and the deaths of their four children. Because they were Amish, there are no photos of the family, just the burned-out shell of the house and a chilling headline:
MURDER IN AMISH COUNTRY.
It’s another connection, so I fold the article and put it in my pocket.

I’m not sure what I hope to find. At this point, any information would be helpful. Social security numbers. Aliases used. The addresses of employers or friends. Utility bills. A phone bill. But after a quick search of the two bedrooms, I realize neither woman left anything behind. All I have is the newspaper article and the name of a woman who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

*   *   *

When a case breaks, the last place you want to be is on the road, two hundred miles away from home base. Unfortunately, that’s the position I find myself in as I hightail it toward Painters Mill. Once I hit the highway, I call Glock.

“Wanetta Hochstetler was alive up until a few months ago,” I begin without preamble. “She’s been living in Pennsylvania under the assumed name of Becky Weaver.”

“Holy shit. The kidnapped
wife
?”

I relay to him everything I’ve learned in the last hours. “Evidently, she was injured and may have suffered some kind of head injury or psychological trauma that affected her memory.”

“But if she’s dead, how does—?”

“She had a daughter. Ruth Weaver. Do me a favor and run both names through NCIC and LEADS, will you?”

“Got it.”

“These two women lived off the grid. We don’t have any information on Ruth Weaver, no address or phone number, known associates, not even a description. Poke around and see if you can find something. Mona’s pretty good on the Internet. Get her to help.”

“You think this Ruth Weaver is here in Painters Mill?”

“I think she’s there, and I think she’s making good on an old debt for her mother.”

“Shit.” He pauses and I can feel our minds zinging back and forth as we try to process the information. “Where you at?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh?”

“I’m on my way. How did it go with Hoch Yoder?”

“I pulled him in. At the time Jules Rutledge was murdered, he was helping one of his neighbors move cattle and hogs due to flooding. I cut him loose.”

CHAPTER 26

Four hours and 160 miles later, I’m back in Painters Mill in the interview room with Glock and Blue Branson. Glock and I spoke several times during my drive, and he relayed the news that neither Becky Weaver nor her daughter, Ruth, were in the NCIC or the Ohio-based LEADS databases. Evidently, the two women kept their noses clean. As a result—and the fact that they were Amish—we have nothing.

Carrying the Hochstetler file, I seat myself across the table from Blue, who’s slouched in his chair, staring down at his hands. Glock holds his position at the door, assuming an unobtrusive presence. I set the file on the table and press the Record button on the tape recorder, recite the date and the names of everyone present. I read the Miranda rights to Blue from a printed card and then slide the card across the table to him.

“Do you understand your rights?” I begin.

“I understand.”

Using the same tactic I used with Norm Johnston, I open the file, making sure he can see the label and photos, and rifle through a few pages. “I spent the afternoon in Cambria County, Pennsylvania.”

“I don’t know where that is,” he says in a monotone voice.

“It’s near where you and your friends threw Wanetta Hochstetler down that well and left her for dead. Ring a bell?”

Blue Branson has as good a poker face as anyone I’ve ever met. But he can’t conceal his shock. He stares at me, unblinking, his mouth partially open, wondering how I could possibly know.

“She survived,” I tell him.

He drops his gaze to the tabletop, his eyes darting, landing on nothing, like a trapped animal about to take some fatal leap to avoid being ripped to shreds by a much larger predator.

“I know you were at the Hochstetler farm the night Willis Hochstetler was killed. I know you and your friends kidnapped Wanetta Hochstetler. I know you took her across the state line into Pennsylvania.”

Blue looks up, his gaze digging into mine. I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t ask for his lawyer again, because that would bring the interview—and any progress on the case—to a screeching halt.

“She tell you that?” he asks after a moment.

I’m under no obligation to inform him that Wanetta Hochstetler died two months ago. I don’t reveal that bit of information, because I know keeping him in the dark will work to my advantage. “I know what you did, Blue. I know what all of you did. You’re going to be charged, and the only thing that can help you now is cooperation. Do you understand?”

Blue studies the tabletop. Beneath his goatee, I see the muscles in his jaws working. After a full two minutes of silence, he raises his eyes to mine. “Is that woman the one who killed them?”

“That
woman
?” I say. “You mean Wanetta Hochstetler, don’t you?” I’m humanizing her, hoping to guilt him into cooperating. “She was a young Amish mother with five children and a husband. A religious woman who loved God. She loved her children. She loved her life. You took all of that away from her.”

He looks away, but not before I see a flash of anguish in his eyes. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of the memory, of any culpability. “She’d be old by now. Sixty or seventy. How could she kill three people? Men twice her size?”

I don’t answer his question. For the span of several minutes, no one speaks. I let the silence ride, hoping it will rattle him. But I know Blue Branson is not easily shaken. I know he’s not going to volunteer information without coercion.

“This case is going to go federal,” I tell him. “You kidnapped a woman and crossed a state line. The FBI will probably assume jurisdiction. Children were killed in the commission of a felony. That could turn this into a death penalty case. Once those things happen, it’s out of my control.” I wait a beat. “Tell me what happened that night, and I’ll go to bat for you. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your cooperation is taken into consideration by the court.” I stop speaking and hold his gaze. “I can’t help you unless you help me.”

“What will happen to Crossroads?” he asks, referring to his church. “My work … it’s important. Not to me, Chief Burkholder, but to the people I help.”

“I can’t answer that.”

We fall silent. The room is so quiet I can hear the tick of the clock on the wall. The muffled ringing of the phone in the reception area down the hall. Several minutes pass, but I’m not inclined to rush this. The longer we’re here, the better my chances of walking away with something I can use.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so low and rough, I have to lean closer to hear. “I was there that night.”

“At the Hochstetler home?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was there?”

“Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “Jules.”

“Was Norm Johnston there?”

He gives me a dark look, and I realize he knows Johnston was the person who’d come forward. “He was supposed to meet us, but didn’t show.”

“Did he know what was going down?”