Page 12 of The Burning

Usually, it’s protocol to have a fellow officer present at a notification. You never know how someone is going to react. Some departments even keep a chaplain on call. In this case, however, since the family is Amish, I opt to do it alone.

“I’d rather have you at the scene,” I tell him.

“I won’t take it personally.” He makes the statement lightly, but we’re still thinking about the notification. “Call if you need me.”

“I will,” I say. “I’ll meet you at the scene as soon as I finish up.”

CHAPTER 4

It’s after seven A.M. when I pull into the gravel lane of the home Swanz shared with his wife, Bertha. The house is a timeworn two-story frame that sits a scant fifty yards from the railroad tracks that run through Painters Mill proper two miles down the road. The tired-looking siding is pickled gray from the elements, the window screens dark with age. I catch a flicker of yellow light in a downstairs window as I idle around to the rear of the house and park.

A beaten-down flagstone walkway takes me to the front porch. I go up the steps and knock. I hear the chatter of children inside, and then heavy footsteps sound on a wood floor. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a pale-faced Amish woman in a blue dress and gauzy white kapp, a black cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. I’ve met her at some point. In fact, I’m pretty sure she works at LaDonna’s Diner in town and has served me more than my share of coffee.

She blinks, surprised to see the chief of police at her door this early in the morning. “Can I help you?”

I have my badge at the ready. “Mrs. Swanz?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you so early. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Her eyes go wide as if she’s expecting me to rush in and attack her. “What do you mean?”

“Milan Swanz was killed earlier, ma’am. I’m very sorry.”

For an instant, she doesn’t react. Simply stares at me as if she doesn’t quite believe me and is thinking about arguing. “Milan?” she whispers. “Killed?”

“I’m afraid so,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She looks past me as if expecting another person with more authority to be standing behind me to dispute my claim. “How on earth did it happen?”

“I don’t have all the details yet. We’re still investigating. But we believe he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” She presses her hand against her chest in the first show of sentiment. “Ach du lieva.” Oh my goodness. “I can’t believe it.”

“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to come in and talk to you.”

“Oh. Well. Of course.” Squaring her shoulders, she opens the door wider and ushers me into a dimly lit living room. “Kids are getting ready for school. I’d rather them not hear this just now. We can talk in the kitchen. I’ve got coffee on the stove.”

She leads me through the living room, past a gas floor lamp and a sofa draped with an olive-green afghan. The sound of a whisper draws my attention. I glance up to see four children at the top of the staircase, hands holding the rails like bars, faces trained on me. They look as if they’re preteens, already dressed for school. I don’t know if they heard the exchange between me and their mother. If so, they’re remarkably stoic.

“Would you like coffee?” the Amish woman asks.

“I could use some.”

The kitchen smells of bacon, last night’s meat loaf, and burned toast. There’s a window above the sink, snow pellets tinking against the glass. Pale blue cabinets. Big gas cookstove hissing in the corner. And Formica counters the color of butter.

I watch as she collects two mugs from the cabinet and pours coffee from an old-fashioned percolator that’s blackened from soot and dented from years of use.

“I’ve seen you at the diner in town,” I say.

“Been working there almost a year now.” Turning to me, she hands me a cup and motions for me to sit. “So what happened to Milan?”

As chief of police in a small town, I’ve delivered more than my share of bad news. I’ve seen reactions ranging from stone-cold shock to complete physical and emotional collapse. Oddly, Bertha Swanz doesn’t appear to be unduly upset. While it’s true that the Amish tend to be a little more stoic than their English counterparts, I don’t see grief on her face. There are no tears. Or shock. Tucking the observation away for later, I take the cup and sink into a chair.

“I don’t know the official cause of death yet.” I don’t want to get into too much detail this early in the game. For one thing, I don’t know enough about what happened. Secondly, everyone is suspect, including her.

“Mrs. Swanz.” I remove my notepad and pen from my breast pocket. “When’s the last time you saw your husband?”