Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(44)
“Wish I could be more help, Chief Burkholder. The Amish keep to themselves down here. The only place I see them regularly is the farmers’ market. They’re there every weekend with furniture, vegetables, quilts, and whatnot. They do some work for folks around here in Portsmouth. Fences. Sheds. Stuff like that. One of the local guys built a workshop for me last summer. Nice dude and he did good work.”
He studies me intently for the span of several seconds. “I think I’ve got his name and address around here somewhere. Might be a good place for you to start.”
“That would be great.”
Pulling out his phone, he taps the screen. “Got it right here. Name’s Adam Fisher.” He recites an address and I thumb it into my phone.
I rise and once again extend my hand for a shake. “Is there a police department in Crooked Creek? Anyone I could talk to there on the law enforcement side?”
“Mayor disbanded the department a couple years ago. They were down to two officers. Lack of funds, you know. Scioto County covers that whole area now.”
He looks at me again as if he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. “If you need anything from us, Chief Burkholder, you let me know and we’ll help out if we can.”
I thank him for his time and head for the door.
* * *
Driver hit the buggy from behind. Had to be doing fifty. Killed Schwartz instantly.…
The deputy’s words echo in my head as I drive east toward Crooked Creek. Sadly, buggy accidents are a fact of life in Amish country. They’re slow-moving vehicles and, unfortunately, some of the Old Order reject the use of reflective signage and safety lights. Add a driver under the influence to the mix and it’s a recipe for disaster. I’ve investigated my share of accidents over the years; too many of them are alcohol or drug related.
No witnesses. Nothing left behind. Not even a fuckin’ skid mark.…
While his assertion that the lack of skid marks can indicate an intoxicated driver, it’s not the only conclusion that might be drawn. If Bishop Schwartz was involved in the illegal adoption of an infant, who’s to say some enraged parent or relative didn’t take it upon himself to mete out a little retribution?
Crooked Creek is a tiny village with a population of 623, according to the sign at the corporation limit. The hamlet is nestled in an old-growth forest along the banks of the Ohio River. Set against the backdrop of the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains to the south and east, it’s a picturesque setting. But there’s poverty, too. On the outskirts of town a smattering of abandoned industrial-type buildings demark what was probably once a bustling manufacturing hub.
The small downtown area is lined with historic buildings, some of which date back to the mid-1800s. As I make the turn onto River Road and idle down the brick-paved street, it becomes even more apparent that hard times have fallen upon this pretty little town. At least half of the once-grand buildings are vacant. Several of the display windows are boarded up with plywood; others are broken, the interiors left open to the elements. There’s a sandwich shop called The Fat Catfish that looks open. Dooley’s Hardware advertises red-hot deals on potting soil, select hand tools, and Adirondack chairs. Lochte General Store has Folgers coffee and women’s housecoats on sale. I see a sign for a pharmacy, but as I drive past I realize it, too, has closed. At the end of town, a sign with an arrow urges motorists to make the turn for Deer Corn and Beer.
I leave the downtown area, drive past a post office and a gas station, and I head east on the Ohio River Scenic Byway. Even in light of the economic downturn, this part of the state is beautiful. Light rain falls from a glowering sky as I drive past massive maple, oak, and black walnut trees. I pass several quaint farms, some of which are Amish. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of the river, a shimmering, muddy blur through the trees.
As I travel east, the houses become sparse. Many are little more than shacks. Mobile homes sit like rusty tin boxes. I can’t help but wonder what this place was like at the height of its manufacturing heyday.
A few miles east of Crooked Creek proper, the voice of my GPS tells me to turn left on Stephen Road. Another mile and the name on the mailbox tells me I’ve reached my destination.
The Fisher farm is set on lush bottomland with a pasture to the east and a cut cornfield on the west side. Farther in, the lane wends through a wooded area. At the top of a rise it veers toward a two-story brick house that’s been painted white. Green shutters. A galvanized-steel roof from which a tall chimney juts. There’s a bank barn twenty yards from the house. A dozen or so head of Black Angus cattle graze in a pasture. There’s a manure spreader heaped with its namesake parked in front of the barn.
I cruise around to the rear of the house, park, and take a pea-gravel walkway bracketed by landscape timbers to the front. I’ve just stepped onto the porch when the door swings open. I find myself looking at a plump Amish woman of about forty. She’s holding a broom in one hand, a dustpan in the other. White apron and kapp. Cheap black sneakers.
She startles upon spotting me and drops the dustpan, which clatters to the floor. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I pick up the dustpan and hand it to her. “I’m looking for Adam Fisher.”
“That’s my husband.” She glances at my badge as if she’s not quite sure she believes me. “What’s this all about?”