Part 15 (2/2)
Instead of replying, he stabs at the smoldering brush, sending a scatter of sparks into the air.
”Where did the argument happen?” I ask.
”At the auction. In Millersburg. You already knew that, though, or you wouldn't be here.” He pokes harder, watching as new flames lick at the dry kindling. He's got large, strong hands and forearms turned brown from the sun. He wraps his fingers around the length of wood so tightly his knuckles go white. ”I didn't run him over, if that's what you're going to ask me next.”
”Where were you two nights ago?”
”Here. Clearing brush.”
”Was there anyone with you?”
He sighs. ”It was just me and all these goats.”
”Do you mind if I take a quick look at your truck, Mr. Wengerd?” I say amicably. ”Then I'll get out of your hair and let you get back to work.”
”It's right there.” He motions toward the vehicle, but his attention stays riveted on me.
”Thanks.” I start toward the truck, aware that he's right behind me, stick in hand. Not for the first time, I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.
”It run okay?” I glance over my shoulder. He's less than three feet away. So close I can smell the smoke and sweat coming off his clothes.
”Good enough to get me under the bann,” he grumbles.
The truck is an old blue F-150. Not the model I'm looking for. I'm no expert, but it also looks older. ”What year?”
”Nineteen ninety-two.”
I look at him over the hood as I round the front of the truck. There's no damage. No recent body work. It's not the right color, either, though I'm well aware how easily paint can be changed. But it doesn't look freshly painted. The driver's side door is covered with patches of primer. There's no brush guard. No evidence the front end has been altered in any way. Both headlights are intact and covered with dried-on insects. Aside from a small crease and a few areas of rust, the b.u.mper is undamaged. This truck was not involved in any recent accident, certainly not the kind that took out that buggy.
”Do you own any other vehicles?” I ask.
He gives me an are-you-kidding look and shakes his head.
I make two complete circles around the vehicle and then turn to him, extend my hand. ”Thanks for your time, Mr. Wengerd.”
He looks surprised by the gesture, but quickly reciprocates the handshake. It makes me wonder if it's the only gesture of kindness he's received since his Amish brethren excommunicated him.
The people I'm closest to have told me I have an obsessive personality, particularly when it comes to my job. I argue the point, but my defense is usually halfhearted, because they're right. When I'm in the midst of an investigation-especially a horrific and baffling one like the Borntrager case-I think of little else. I have difficulty focusing on other things that are going on in my life. I've been known to brood.
I've always chalked up my obsessive behavior to my work ethic, my black-and-white stance on right and wrong, or maybe my intolerance of people who hurt others. It wasn't until I worked the Plank case last October-the murders of an entire family-that I was forced to take a hard look at myself and examine my shortcomings. I stepped over a line in the course of that investigation. I did some things I shouldn't have. But I hate injustice. Even more, I hate the thought of someone getting away with murder.
I'm on my way back to the station when I drive by the Hope Clinic for the Amish. It's the medical facility where Paul had taken his children the afternoon of the accident. On impulse, I pull into the lot and park opposite a shedrow designed to shelter the buggy horses. A single black buggy is parked inside, the sorrel horse standing with its rear leg c.o.c.ked, swatting flies with its tail. Six parking s.p.a.ces are marked not only with the buggy symbol, but a handicapped sign as well, and I'm reminded the clinic deals mainly with children afflicted with some of the genetic disorders plaguing the Amish. It opened a few years ago to study several rare genetic diseases that apparently aren't so rare among the Amish.
The facility is housed in a small farmhouse that's been completely refas.h.i.+oned to look like an Amish home, with hanging planters, a porch swing, and even an old-fas.h.i.+oned clothesline in the side yard. The owner of the original property, Ronald Hope, pa.s.sed away four years ago. His son, Ronald Jr., rather than sell the entire farm, donated the house and outbuildings to the clinic while maintaining owners.h.i.+p of the land for farming. People still talk about the appropriateness of the donor's last name.
I park adjacent the shedrow, cross the parking lot to the house, and ascend the steps to the porch. The facility is wheelchair friendly with a ramp stenciled with horseshoe prints. A sign in Pennsylvania Dutch written in an Olde English font proclaims Welcome to All.
A bell jingles merrily when I enter the homey reception area. The receptionist is a fifty-something woman with curly brown hair and blue eyes. She's wearing pink scrubs with a tag telling me her name is NATALIE. Beneath her name are the words THERE'S ALWAYS HOPE.
”Hi! May I help you?”
I show her my badge and introduce myself. ”I'm working on a case and was wondering if someone can talk to me about Paul Borntrager.”
”Oh my goodness.” She presses her hand against her matronly bosom. ”That was awful about Paul and those sweet little children. Just horrible. I cried my eyes out when I heard what happened. All of us here at the clinic were just crushed.”
A door that presumably leads to the interior of the clinic opens. A young blond woman, also clad in pink scrubs, steps out and then holds open the door for an Amish woman pus.h.i.+ng a wheelchair. A boy of about eight or nine sits in the chair, playing with a stuffed bear. He's wearing trousers and suspenders and a white s.h.i.+rt. Through the thick lenses of his eyegla.s.ses, I see that he suffers with what used to be referred to as lazy eye.
I offer both of them a smile. The Amish woman takes in the sight of my uniform, gives me an obligatory smile, and continues on. The boy, however, hits me with huge, lopsided grin that's so infectious I find myself grinning back.
”Chief Burkholder, Doctor Armitage has a few minutes until his next appointment,” the receptionist tells me. ”He can speak with you now if you'd like.”
”That would be great.”
She stands and calls out to the Amish boy. ”See you next week, Jonas! Bye, Sweetie!”
The boy turns in his chair and waves vigorously. ”Bye!”
Still smiling, the receptionist motions me through the door. ”Third door on the right, Chief.”
My boots thud dully against the hardwood floors as I make my way down the hall. I pa.s.s three examination rooms with paper-covered exam tables, laminate counters, and sinks. But all semblance of clinical ends there. Framed photos of farm animals-horses and pigs and ducks-cover the walls. An oil winterscape of Amish children frolicking on a snowy hillside. A second painting depicts a horse and sleigh and a group of children ice skating on a frozen pond.
The last door on the right is partially open, and a bra.s.s nameplate reads: DOCTOR MIKE IS IN! I push open the door and find myself looking into a large office with a double set of French doors that open to a small deck. Judging from the size of the room, I suspect it was originally a master bedroom. It has gleaming hardwood floors and plenty of natural light. An old-fas.h.i.+oned banker's lamp sits atop a lovingly distressed cherrywood desk, the surface of which is littered with papers and forms and files. On the wall, a dozen or more tastefully framed diplomas and certificates are prominently displayed.
Through the French doors, I see red-stained Adirondack furniture. Two chairs, a lounger, and a table. Beyond, in a small patch of manicured gra.s.s, is an old-fas.h.i.+oned rocking horse and a sandbox filled with plastic shovels and colorful buckets. A man in a white lab coat and blue jeans sits on one of the wooden chairs, thumbing something into his phone.
I cross to the French door and push it open. ”Dr. Armitage?”
The man startles, and only then do I realize he's smoking a cigarette. I almost laugh when he makes a feeble attempt to conceal it. He stands and drops the cigarette, sets his foot over it. ”Oh, h.e.l.lo.” Hand extended, he starts toward me. ”You must be Chief Burkholder.” He glances down at the b.u.t.t. ”I guess I'm busted.”
”It's not against the law to smoke,” I say.
”Well, it should be. I'm a doctor, for G.o.d's sake. You'd think I'd know better.” He chuckles. ”Stupidest d.a.m.n habit I ever started.”
We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. The lack of calluses tells me he doesn't do much in the way of manual labor. He maintains eye contact with me, his expression intelligent and full of good humor.
”Never too late to quit,” I tell him.
”I plan to.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. ”As soon as the divorce is final. Which should be any day now.”
I nod. ”Sorry.”
”Ah, it was my own doing. All work and no play made me a pretty bad husband.” Shrugging, he motions toward the door. ”I've got about five minutes before my next appointment. Would you like to sit out here or would you be more comfortable inside?”
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