The Dead Will Tell (6 page)

The need to call him is powerful, but some inner voice advises me to wait. A call from me now would be seen by him as evidence of my lack of trust, an admission of my fear that he’s going to fall off some emotional cliff. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t fully trust him.

I arrive at the police station at 7
A.M
. to find my third-shift dispatcher, Mona Kurtz, sitting cross-legged on the floor near her desk, several files spread out in front of her. She’s wearing her headset and tapping her foot against the floor to Florence and the Machine’s “Dog Days Are Over.” She looks up when I enter and grins sheepishly. “Hey, Chief.”

“Morning.” I pull a stack of message slips from my slot.

“You’re in early this morning.”

“Murder makes for a busy day.” I glance through my messages. “Anything else come back on Dale Michaels?”

“Guy didn’t even have a speeding ticket.” Rising, she reaches for a manila folder next to the switchboard and passes it to me. “I started a file, but there’s not much there.”

“What about the Hochstetler file?”

“Jodie couldn’t find it. She thinks it’s locked up in your office.”

Tucking the file under my arm, I stop at the coffee station to fill my cup and then head to my office. I’m doing my utmost not to think about Tomasetti, but even with an unsolved homicide on my hands, I’m not doing a very good job of it.

At my desk, I open the file and find Glock’s report along with a couple of dozen photos of the scene. I read the report twice and then take a few minutes to look at each photo. Of the body. The scene. And the mysterious Amish peg doll, including a shot of the name inscribed on the base.
HOCHSTETLER
. And I know this is one of those cases that won’t give up its secrets easily.

I go to the file cabinet, kneel, and tug open the bottom drawer. At the rear, where several cold case files are collecting dust, I find the Hochstetler file and take it back to my desk. It’s a thick folder containing dozens of reports from several law enforcement agencies. The Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. The Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. And, of course, the Painters Mill PD. Ronald Mackey had been chief back in 1979. Homicide investigative procedures have improved since, but he did a good job with documentation and included several dozen Polaroid photos of the victims—what was left of them—and the scene.

I read the reports first. Forty-two-year-old Willis Hochstetler owned Hochstetler Amish Furniture, which he ran out of the home he shared with his wife, Wanetta, and five children. In the early morning hours of March 8, one or more individuals went into the home, probably looking for cash. In the course of the robbery, Willis Hochstetler sustained a fatal gunshot wound. At some point thereafter, the house caught fire—possibly from a lantern. Four of the children perished in the fire. According to the sole survivor, fourteen-year-old William, there were at least three men in the house, possibly more. They were armed with handguns and covered their faces so he was unable to identify them. When they left, they took his mother, thirty-four-year-old Wanetta, with them. The Amish woman was never seen or heard from again.

According to the coroner’s report, the four children died of smoke inhalation. It was also determined that Willis Hochstetler died of the gunshot wound, which he sustained before the fire. I pick up the photos. They’re faded, but I can see enough to know there wasn’t much left of the house—or the victims. In the back of the file, Chief Mackey made a notation that William Hochstetler was taken in by an Amish couple and later adopted by Jonas and Martha Yoder, taking their name.

Now, William and his wife, Hannah, own Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm. I’ve stopped by there a dozen times since I moved back to Painters Mill, to buy apples or cider or apple butter, all of which are delectable. It’s a good way for me, as chief, to keep a finger on the happenings within the Amish community.

I close the Hochstetler file, and pull out the photos of the Amish peg doll. Why was the figurine left inside the mouth of the victim? Is there some connection between the two cases?

I call out to Mona. “Did you get anything back on Michaels’s neighbors?”

“Did I ever.” She enters my office with another file in hand and passes it to me. “I guess you never know who you’re living next door to.”

“Until you run him through LEADS, anyway.” I open the file and look down at the printout. Sure enough, Kerry Seymour had amassed an extensive record as a younger man. An assault charge in 1985. Burglary conviction two years later. Drunk and disorderly. Two DUIs. He did eight months in Mansfield for a felony assault in 1999.

“Busy man in his youth,” I say dryly.

She motions to the folder. “I put contact info and Glock’s old incident report in there, too.”

“Thanks.” I look at the report. True to Belinda Harrington’s assertion, Dale Michaels had filed a complaint, claiming Seymour’s dogs were loose and digging in his trash. Seymour was issued a citation and that had been the end of it. Or was it?

*   *   *

I blow most of an hour returning e-mails and phone calls. At 8
A.M
., I’m back in my Explorer and heading toward the home of Dale Michaels’s neighbors. Kerry Seymour and his wife live on a small tract of land just south of the Michaels property. I pull into the asphalt driveway and park next to a maroon Ford F-150. The house is a redbrick ranch that looks professionally landscaped or else someone has a green thumb. Ahead is a good-sized metal building with an overhead door. A chain-link dog kennel with a concrete run is located on the south side of the building, but there are no dogs in sight.

Drizzle floats down from a cast-iron sky as I leave my vehicle and take the sidewalk to the house. I open the storm door and use the brass knocker, which is, not surprisingly, in the shape of a dog’s head. The door opens a few inches and I find myself looking at a middle-aged woman wearing a pink robe over flannel pajamas. Lower, two Labrador noses sniff at me through the opening.

“Mrs. Seymour?” I ask, showing her my badge and identifying myself. “Is Kerry Seymour home, ma’am?”

“He’s here.” She looks past me as if expecting to see the SWAT team preparing to swoop in. “He do something wrong?”

“Not that I know of,” I say. “But I’d like to ask both of you some questions.”

The door opens the rest of the way. Mary Ellen Seymour is holding a coffee mug in one hand, a magazine tucked beneath her arm. At her feet, the two dogs stare at me, panting.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Your neighbor, Mr. Michaels, was killed last night.”

“Killed? Oh my God. How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Mary Ellen?” A man wearing striped pajamas and a ratty-looking robe enters the foyer. He’s tall and thin, with a narrow face framed by a horseshoe mustache. He comes up behind his wife, sets his hand possessively on her shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

The woman doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Kerry, Mr. Michaels next door is dead! Can you believe it?”

“Dale? Dead?” Brows knitting, he rubs his hand across his chin. “Damn.”

I purposely didn’t reveal
how
Michaels was killed. It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t ask.

“His daughter found him last night,” I tell them, watching them carefully for any outward signs of previous knowledge or nervousness. “I’d like to ask you some questions,” I tell them. “May I come inside?”

“Oh. Sure.” Glancing down at the dogs, the woman sets down the magazine and points. “Greta! Dagmar! Go!”

Canine toenails click against the tile floor of the entryway as the animals trot off. When the dogs are gone, the woman motions me in. I step into a small entryway jammed with a console table that’s too big for the space. To my left is a living room crowded with plaid furniture, a gurgling aquarium full of iridescent orange fish, and walls painted 1980s blue.

The couple doesn’t invite me to sit, so I go to my first question. “Did either of you notice anything unusual over at Mr. Michaels’s place in the last few days?” I ask. “Did you hear or see anything? Any visitors or strange vehicles in the area?”

“We can’t really see his house from ours.” Kerry Seymour points through the storm door at the row of blue spruce trees that obscures the view of the Michaels house. “I planted them four years ago. For privacy.”

He adds the final word in a way that tells me the trees have more to do with complete separation than simple privacy, and it makes me wonder just how serious the issues between them had been. “I understand there have been some problems between you and Mr. Michaels,” I say.

“We’ve had a few skirmishes over the years.”

“What kind of skirmishes?”

“Our dogs got out a couple of times. He called the law on me.”

“They’re good dogs,” Mary Ellen adds quickly.

“I know about the citation,” I tell them. “Any other problems? Arguments?”

“I called the County on him once for burning trash during a burn ban.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache. “That guy never liked me.”

“Any particular reason?” I ask.

He stares at me, and I notice red blotches at the base of his throat.

“I know about your record,” I tell him.

As if unable to bear the tension, Mary Ellen pipes up. “Mr. Michaels threw some trash on our side of the fence once. Pop cans. Kerry went over and asked him about it and he denied it. Said our dogs had gotten into his trash and the wind blew it over.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask.

“Two weeks ago,” she says.

Kerry glowers at his wife and she swallows hard. I raise my brows and wait.

“I had a few words with him a couple of weeks ago,” he admits.

“About what?”

“In addition to his bogus trash complaint, he said our dogs were barking and keeping him awake at night.”

“They sleep inside with us,” Mary Ellen says quickly.

I ignore her. “Did any of these confrontations ever get physical?”

His wife laughs. “Of course not.”

I don’t take my eyes off Kerry.

He tosses me an I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this smile that isn’t friendly. I’ve met plenty of cop-haters in my time. People who, for whatever reason, detest anyone in law enforcement, and Kerry Seymour fits the mold to a T. “You got something to say, just say it,” he says.

“I’d appreciate it if you just answered my question.”

“I never laid a hand on the guy.”

I nod. “When’s the last time either of you saw Mr. Michaels?”

“Last week,” Mary Ellen blurts. “Wednesday morning. I was on my way into town to see the eye doctor in Painters Mill—Dr. Driver—and Dale was getting his mail at the end of his lane.”

I turn my attention to her husband. “And you?”

“I don’t recall. Couple of weeks, probably.”

“Can both of you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”

“Kerry was at work.” Mary Ellen fingers her coffee cup nervously. “He works for the railroad. Eight to four thirty.”

“Do you work, ma’am?”

“I’m the gardener, maid, and cook.”

“What about the last couple of evenings?” I ask.

“We were here. Both nights.”

“Can anyone else vouch for that?” I ask.

“Well, no,” she admits. “But he was here.”

The dogs have inched their way over to us. Feeling a cold, wet nose against my hand, I reach down and stroke the head of the nearest Labrador, which is sitting at my feet. “Pretty dogs.”

“Thank you.” She beams, and I’m instantly forgiven for asking such impolite questions.

Her husband isn’t quite so magnanimous. “So am I a suspect?”

“I’m still in the information-gathering stage of the case, Mr. Seymour.” I pet the other dog to give the couple a moment to consider everything that’s been said, everything they’ve learned about their now-deceased neighbor. “Is there anything else you can add that might help us figure out who might’ve done this?”

Kerry sighs. “Look, I barely spoke to the man. Didn’t know him.”

“Did either of you ever see or hear him arguing with anyone?” I ask. “Or do you know of any arguments or disputes?”

Mary Ellen shakes her head. “As far as I know, the only people he yelled at was us. Cussed me out once because Greta pooped in his yard. Shook me up something awful.”

CHAPTER 5

Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm is located on a pretty tract of land that includes a thirty-acre orchard where hundreds of McIntosh apple trees flourish. When I was a girl, my
datt
brought my siblings and me here, where we were given bushel baskets and spent entire afternoons picking apples for pies, apple butter, and of course, cider. It was hot, buggy work but we always found a way to make it fun. Not only did I get to eat my fill—which I usually regretted later—but it was a prime opportunity for unsupervised playtime. Jacob and I would duck into the rows of trees and play hide-and-seek. He’d climb the tallest trees and then laugh when I couldn’t reach him. He was older and stronger, but I was a determined child and once took him out with a well-placed rock. Jacob never ratted on me for that; I think he was secretly proud of me, and Datt was never the wiser.

Four years ago, after moving back to Painters Mill and spending several weekends scouring the local tourist shops for the perfect Amish quilt, I was told that Hannah Yoder was one of the best quilters in the county. I stopped by their fruit stand and spotted a lovely gray geometric with the requisite seven stitches per inch and black detailing. I ended up paying too much, but I walked away with the knowledge that it was money well spent.

I’ve always been aware that William was the lone survivor of a violent crime. I knew his father and four siblings had been killed, that his mother had disappeared, and the perpetrators were never apprehended. I didn’t, however, know the details until I read the file. Those details haunt me as I turn into the gravel lane bordered on either side by razor-straight rows of McIntosh apple trees.

A colorful sign welcomes me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm, where the
BEST CIDER IN OHIO
is one dollar a glass. I park adjacent the large produce stand. The small frame building is nestled between two maple trees that offer welcome shade in summer. Through the open window that runs the length of the structure’s facade, I see shelves filled with jars of apple butter, applesauce, and spiced apples. A dozen or more jugs of cider take up an entire lower shelf. Beyond, more shelves are dedicated to embroidered doilies, canvas tote bags, and bird feeders designed to look like Amish buggies. At the rear, handmade quilts hang on wooden arms set into the wall, the bold colors and geometric designs beckoning one to stop and browse.