“What? You’re full of shit. That ain’t no pipe.” Rankin crosses to the door, yanks the knob, and slams it shut. “You ain’t got no business looking in my fuckin’ house, man.”
“It was in plain sight,” Skid says amiably.
I glance at Skid. “I wonder what else he has in there?”
“Where there’s a pipe, there’s usually meth.”
“That sounds like reasonable cause,” I say conversationally.
“This is a bunch of crap.” Rankin breaks in, his voice incredulous. “I ain’t got no pipe in there! I ain’t done that shit in months. You guys are full of shit.”
“Tell us about the Slabaugh woman, and maybe we’ll let the pipe go,” I say.
“Ain’t no damn pipe!”
“Calm down.” Sobering, looking a little badass himself, Skid steps toward him. “You’re an inch away from getting your ass carted down to the station. You got that?”
“Okay! I’m cool!” Rankin glances over his shoulder, toward the woods. For an instant, I think he’s going to bolt. All he’d have to do is vault the rail. Twenty yards and he’d be in the trees.
I sidle right, positioning myself between him and the porch rail. “Tell me what happened between you and Rachael Slabaugh.”
“Nothin’! I swear to God, I was just messing with her. You know, flirting.”
Flirting. Coming from the mouth of a man arrested for sexual assault, the word pisses me off. A hard rush of anger shakes me, jarring my brain, like a dog shaking a stuffed animal. I envision myself pulling my baton, giving him a couple of good whacks, taking him to his knees. I grapple with my temper, yank it back hard.
“You’re a real Romeo, aren’t you?” Skid comments.
Rankin turns his head and spits. “Fuckin’ hayseed Nazis. You can’t come on my property and jack with me like this. I got rights.”
“We can do it at the station if you prefer,” I say.
Some of his belligerence slips away, but I know it’s only temporary. “Look, man, I already told you, I didn’t do nothing to that Amish chick. I swear. I just talked to her. That’s all.”
“I got a witness says you were verbally abusive.”
“I mighta stepped over the line a little. I ain’t exactly the polite type. But I didn’t put my hands on her. I swear.”
“Where were you yesterday morning?” I ask.
“I was here. Slept in late.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My girlfriend.”
“The one you beat the crap out of a few weeks back?” Skid asks.
He swings around to face Skid. “She fell.”
“So she said.”
I hear Rankin’s teeth grind, like hard chalk against slate, and I put my hand on my baton. “Rankin,” I warn.
“I didn’t touch that bitch!” he shouts. “You can ask her.”
“What’s her name?” I snap. But I already know. I read the emergency room report before leaving the station. Two weeks ago, Rankin’s current girlfriend, Lauren Walker, made a trip to the emergency room of Pomerene Hospital with broken ribs and a broken nose. Suspicious, the attending physician asked her what happened. She claimed she fell down some stairs. It’s an old story, one that’s retold far too often. The doctor notified me, but the next day when I went to her apartment for a statement, she was nowhere to be found.
I look at Rankin, daring him to make a move. “You know we’re going to check with Lauren.”
“Go for it. I was here. All fuckin’ night. We slept late.”
“I find her marked up, and we’ll be back for you,” I say.
“You guys don’t have shit on me.” He looks from me to Skid, gives an incredulous huff. “You’re fishing. Well, I ain’t biting, so hit the fuckin’ road.”
There’s nothing I’d like more than to cuff him and haul him into town. He’s a rude, drug-using, woman-beating son of a bitch. Unfortunately, none of those things make him guilty of murdering the Slabaughs.
“Don’t leave town,” I say.
Muttering obscenities, he yanks the door open, goes inside, and slams it in our faces.
“Now there goes a model citizen,” Skid comments.
I glance at him and lower my voice. “Did you really see a meth pipe in there?”
“I saw something.” He grins. “Might’ve been a pen.”
“I can see how a trained police officer could get those two items confused.” I punctuate the statement by rolling my eyes. “Let’s go find Lauren Walker.”
CHAPTER 9
Skid and I are in my Explorer a few blocks from the station. I’m thinking about swinging by the sheriff’s office to talk to Tomasetti, when my radio crackles. “Chief, we got a ten-sixteen out at the Slabaugh place,” says Lois.
We use the ten-code system in the department. A 10-16 is the code for a domestic dispute. I’ve been the chief of police for three years now, and I have yet to take a call for any kind of domestic problem at an Amish farm.
Skid and I exchange “What now?” looks, and I pick up my mike. “You got details on that, Lois?”
“CSU guy called it in. Said there was a bunch of Amish people out in the yard and there was some kind of argument. He said it looked like a fight was going to erupt.”
“I’m ten-seven-six.” Pulling into the parking lot of a Lutheran church, I turn around and hit the emergency lights.
“Well, that’s a first,” Skid says. “What about Lauren Walker?”
“She’ll have to wait a little while.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the Slabaugh farm. Sure enough, a dozen or so Amish men and women are standing in a group between the barn and the house. Quickly, I park and Skid and I get out. As we approach, I identify Bishop Troyer’s grizzled form in the center of the group and then see Adam Slabaugh, who’s wearing his English work clothes. I notice Salome’s slight form in her blue dress and white kapp. Several Amish women stand at the perimeter of the group, hovering like nervous hens.
I reach them in time to see Mose Slabaugh charge his uncle. Head down, the teenager butts the larger man like a bull, ramming his shoulder into the other man’s stomach. I hear a whoosh of breath, and then the elder Slabaugh reels backward, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his butt. Snarling, Mose drops down on top of him. He draws back and lands a blow to his uncle’s cheekbone. Behind me, Skid mutters, “Shit,” and I lunge at the boy.
“Mose!” I bring my hands down on his shoulders, try to haul him back. “Cut it out!”
It’s like trying to wrestle a steak from a starving rottweiler. He twists hard. My hands slide off his shoulders. I see him draw back, hear the wet-meat slap of his fist connecting with his uncle’s face. Vaguely, it registers that Adam makes no effort to protect himself.
“Stop it!” I shout. “Right now! Get off him!”
“He killed my mamm and datt!” Mose screams. “He killed them!”
“Mose! You need to calm down.”
The next thing I know, Skid is beside me. Simultaneously, we lock our hands around the boy’s biceps and drag him back. Mose’s head swings around. Blind, furious eyes connect with mine. His teeth are drawn back and his contorted face is the color of raw hamburger.
Lightning fast, he draws back. I duck an instant before his knuckles careen off my left temple. It’s only a glancing blow, but it’s enough to whip my head around and make me see stars.
Skid thrusts himself between us, jostling me out of the way. I fall to the right and watch in dismay as Skid takes the boy down, flips him onto his stomach, and snaps the cuffs into place. “You just hit a police officer, partner,” he says.
“He killed my datt!” Mose screams.
“You just lay there a second and cool off.” Pressing the boy down, his breathing elevated, Skid turns to me. “You okay, Chief?”