“That’s going to be up to Children Services.”
Even from twenty feet away, I see the quiver go through his body. His fists clench at his sides. He makes a sound that’s part grief, part outrage. It’s the kind of sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Back in the Explorer, I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. Pickles hefts himself into the passenger seat. “For a moment there, I thought he was going to knock your head off.”
“That would have been a mistake on his part.” I toss him a sidelong look as I turn the Explorer around. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s pretty damn squirrelly.” He shakes his head. “We’ve been cops long enough to know family dynamics play into a crime like this more often than not.”
I nod in agreement. “Even if he loved his brothers, if he wanted those kids badly enough, he might’ve done it.”
“That’s some tough love.”
“Let’s keep him at the top of our suspect list for now.” I think about everything we know about Slabaugh. “When we get back to the station, I want you to pull everything you can get on the accident that killed his wife.”
Pickles gives me a look. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
He laughs. “Yeah, and I ain’t fuckin’ old.”
One thing I’ve realized in the last few months is that an insomniac can get a lot done in a twenty-four hour period. While most people are sleeping, we’re still hard at work. But even the sleepless eventually need sleep. At the very least, they need to turn off. I know from experience that I’m not going to sleep tonight. I’ve got that hum coursing like nitro in my head. An edgy, grinding energy pumping through my veins. A motor revving high and running hot.
It’s nearly 11:00 P.M. when I shut down my computer and grab my parka. In the reception area, I find Mona Kurtz, my night dispatcher, at the switchboard/dispatch station, her UGG boots propped on the desk, her nose in a college text titled Law Enforcement Through History. She starts when she spots me. “Oh, hey, Chief.” Subtly, she sets the book into an open drawer. “Calling it a night?”
She’s an almost pretty twenty-something with wild red hair, a wardrobe that would make Madonna blush, and the attention span of a teenager. But in the two years she’s been my dispatcher, I’ve learned to appreciate her finer points. She’s enthusiastic, with a strong work ethic and an obsessive interest in everything cop. With a little maturity and some experience, she just might make a good police officer.
“I just e-mailed you the press release,” I tell her.
“I’ll get it dispatched pronto.”
“Everything quiet?” I ask, slipping into my parka.
“Just the usual. Skid caught that Hoskins kid speeding out by the Jackson place again, wrote him a ticket.”
“Second ticket in two months.”
“Kid’s an accident waiting to happen.” She taps her fingers on her desktop. “Oh, and Mrs. Cartwright called about an hour ago.”
I nod. Mrs. Cartwright has Alzheimer’s and reports a prowler at least twice a week. Anticipating the cold, I zip the parka up to my chin. “My cell’s on if you need anything.”
“Righto.”
“You can get your book back out now.”
She grins. “Roger that.”
Snow greets me when I step onto the sidewalk, but I’m too distracted to fully appreciate its beauty. Three people were murdered in my town today. An Amish mother and father. An uncle. Here I am, nineteen hours later, and I’m no closer to knowing who did it than when I rolled out of bed this morning.
Before leaving for the day, Pickles dug out the police report for the traffic accident that killed Adam Slabaugh’s late wife, Charlotte. I was shocked to learn it was DUI-related. She’d been driving at a high rate of speed with a blood-alcohol level that was twice the legal limit. She died at the scene from massive trauma. The coroner ruled her death accidental, and the Ohio State Highway Patrol concurred. There’s no way her husband was involved.
The CSU from BCI arrived late in the afternoon. They’ll be working through the night and into the morning gathering evidence in the barn. Glock and T.J. spent the remaining daylight hours canvassing the farms around the Slabaugh place. Unfortunately, no one remembers the day laborer Solly Slabaugh had purportedly hired.
We couldn’t even manage a break on the burning buggy case. Despite the Holmes County Sheriff’s Office doubling up on patrols, the dark truck was never spotted. No one saw anything. The day was a wash.
I’m not even a full day into the Slabaugh case, but already I feel battered by the dead ends I’ve run into, and I’m frustrated by my lack of progress. Worse, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something—something that’s right in front of me. But for some reason, I can’t get my mind around it. There’s a dead space in my head I can’t seem to waken.
I should go home, have some dinner, take a long, hot shower, and fall into bed for a few hours. But I know I won’t sleep. The idea of spending the next several hours tossing and turning is about as appealing as a sinus infection. And so as I pull out of the station, I head west instead of east.
I’m not even sure where I’m going until I find myself on Wheatfield Road. It’s a dirt track that dead ends two miles in. My sister, Sarah, and her husband live in the last house. It’s been months since I last saw them. I feel guilty about that because Sarah gave birth to a little girl, my only niece, a couple of months ago. It’s stupid and selfish, but I haven’t been able to make myself come here. I want to believe I haven’t yet met my niece because I’ve been too busy. That would be a somewhat acceptable excuse and a lot simpler than the truth.
A mile from their farm, I cut the headlights and coast down the road. I park on the shoulder and shut down the engine. The kitchen window glows yellow with lantern light. The upstairs bedroom is lit as well, and I picture Sarah up there with her new baby, sitting in the old rocking chair that had once been our grandmother’s, nursing. I wonder if she is the center of her universe, a place where nothing else in the world matters. And I surprise myself by feeling an uncharacteristic rise of an emotion that’s disturbingly close to envy.
Around me, snow floats down from a fuzzy black sky. I can see the tall yellow grass in the bar ditch sway in a light breeze. A row of blue spruce trees runs parallel with the gravel lane. I can just make out the silhouette of the barn and outbuildings beyond, and the big pine tree that grows on the east side of the house. I look at the glowing windows, and I feel like a fool for being parked out here with the headlights doused, like some misunderstood teenager. I know if I went inside, Sarah would be happy to see me. She would welcome me and let me hold my new niece.
But emotions can be so complicated. At the moment, I’m experiencing more than my share, and they all seem a bit too complex to be dealt with when I’m exhausted and distracted by a case. The truth of the matter is, I’m afraid to go inside. I’m afraid to reach out, to tell my sister I’ve missed her and that I want her in my life. Most of all, I’m afraid to hold that little baby. Maybe because there’s a small part of me that feels as if I’m too tainted to hold such a precious thing as a newborn child. Maybe because it would remind me of all the things I’ve lost, of the things I threw away. The memories send a slice of grief through me with such force that I hear myself gasp.
I hit the window control, let the cold air wash over my face. Taking a final look at the house, I start the engine, put the Explorer in gear. And I drive away without looking back.
A few minutes later, I pull into the gravel parking lot of McNarie’s Bar. I’m relieved to find only two cars in the lot. It’s one of many reasons I come here. The place is low-key and quiet—in terms of clientele anyway. McNarie never asks too many questions. Though he’s just a little bit shady, he keeps his ear to the grapevine and passes information on to me if he thinks it might be important. I guess you could call him a small-town version of an informant.