Page 19 of The Burning

I park in the gravel lot and we head inside. The workshop is housed in a newish steel building. The main entrance is a large overhead door that’s been closed against the cold and snow. Next to it, a sign above the smaller main door reads OFFICE/CUSTOMER SERVICE, so we go through.

We enter a small office with a plywood floor, cheaply paneled walls, and a wood desk straight out of the 1980s. A matronly-looking Amish woman wearing a navy cardigan over a wine-colored dress looks up at us from her place at the desk, gives my uniform a quick once-over. “Can I help you?”

I have my shield at the ready. “I’m the police chief in Painters Mill,” I tell her. “Is the owner or manager around?”

“Is there a problem?”

She seems more curious than concerned, so I don’t elaborate. “We just need a few minutes of their time.”

Never taking her eyes from us, she picks up an old yellow rotary-type phone, uses a pencil to dial a couple of numbers, and speaks into the mouthpiece. “Mr. Stutzman, please come to the office.”

Her voice echoes over a speaker system in another part of the building. Behind her, a large plate-glass window looks into a busy workshop where a dozen or so Amish men stand at workbenches or are bent over pneumatic saws. Though the door that opens to the shop is closed, I can hear the hiss and sigh of air tools.

I’m thinking about helping myself to a cup of coffee at the coffee station in the corner when the door swings open. I’ve never met Gideon Stutzman, but Tomasetti pulled up his information during the drive and I recognize him right away. He’s fifty-three years old. Married and resides here in Killbuck. Wearing a charcoal-colored barn coat over a blue work shirt and suspenders, he’s short of stature with a wiry build and a too-bright smile that’s probably reserved for customers.

As he closes the door behind him, I see him take in my uniform and his smile falls. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Mr. Stutzman, we’d like to ask you some questions if you have a few minutes.”

His eyes flick to Tomasetti, who is holding out his ID, and then he jabs a thumb toward the workshop. “One of my guys do something wrong?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I got a few minutes.” The Amish man nods at the woman. “We’ll be in my office.”

As he leads us through the door and into the workshop, the noise level increases to just below deafening. The tat-tat-tat of a nail gun. The whirr of a saw. The hiss of air tools. The smells of fresh-cut lumber and the oily tang of wood stain hang in the air.

We pass by battered wooden shelves, an array of ancient-looking tools—handsaws, hatchets, and scythes—neatly arranged by type and size. “If your son is available,” I say amicably, “I think it would be helpful if he joined us.”

Nodding, Stutzman puts two fingers to his mouth and emits a loud whistle. “Noah!”

Across the room, a bear-size Amish man straightens, takes our measure, and shoots us a thumbs-up.

Stutzman stops at an industrial-type door with a glass panel embedded with security wire. A punch-card time clock is mounted on the wall, reminding me once again that the business is Amish owned.

Stutzman ushers us inside. “A little quieter in here.” He motions us into chairs adjacent to his desk. “You guys look kind of serious. I’m thinking you’re not here to buy cabinets.” He settles into the chair at a beat-up metal desk.

“I understand Milan Swanz worked for you a while back,” I begin.

“Milan Swanz.” The Amish man grimaces as if he’s bitten into something sour. “Is this about the fire?”

“You know what happened?” I ask, surprised.

His eyes narrow. “How could I not know about it? It’s my business that burned down.”

Realizing we’re not talking about the same incident, I clarify. “Mr. Stutzman, Milan Swanz was killed last night.”

“Oh.” He recoils with so much force that his chair scoots back a little. “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know.” His brows knit. “How’d it happen?”

“We believe he was murdered,” I say.

“Holy cow!”

“What can you tell me about Mr. Swanz’s time here at the cabinet shop?” I ask.

“He worked here a couple years, I guess.” He assumes a pained countenance. “Milan was good with his hands. He knew his wood, too. Knew his tools. But there were some problems.”

“What kind of problems?” Tomasetti asks.