Only the Lucky, Page 3

  “Roger that.”

  I’d been hoping the girl would regain consciousness by now, but she’s not even stirring. Her face is slack. Her mouth open. A string of drool dripping onto the dirt floor. Her eyes are partially closed and I can see them rolling back white. Shit.

  Movement at the big sliding door draws my attention. I glance over to see a paramedic enter. He’s in uniform. Hands gloved. Nylon medical bag at his side.

  Rising, I address the crowd, motion for them to move away. “Back up. Give him room.”

  The paramedic makes eye contact with me briefly before crossing to me. He drops the bag next to the girl and kneels. “What do we have?” he asks easily.

  I tell him everything I know, which isn’t much. “There’s blood on her shirt there and on the back of her head.”

  “How long has she been unresponsive?”

  “She was unconscious when he found her.” I look at the Amish man.

  “Five or ten minutes,” he says. “I don’t know! I found her like this. What’s wrong with her?”

  The paramedic quickly assesses her. “Bleeding is minimal. Airway is open. Breathing regular, but slow.” He cranes his head and looks toward the door where his partner is standing. “I need a backboard and cervical collar.”

  He turns his attention back to the girl. “Hey, sweetheart. Can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened?”

  No response. Not so much as a twitch.

  I get a bad feeling in my gut. Anything could have happened, but the wound on the back of her head worries me. I don’t think it happened in a fall.

  The second paramedic joins us, and while the first supports the patient’s head, he applies the collar. The two men carefully lift her onto the backboard. All the while the Amish man hovers, pacing, too close and getting in the way.

  After the girl is strapped onto the backboard, the paramedics lift her and carry her to the waiting ambulance. The Amish man follows, but I stop him. “I need to talk to you,” I tell him.

  He barely hears me; he can’t seem to take his eyes off the girl. “But she’s all alone. I need to go with her.”

  Or maybe he’s in a hurry to get away from me because he knows I’m about to ask him what happened. “Come over here,” I say firmly. “Now.”

  Taking a final look at the door, he gives me his full attention. I look past him at the growing crowd in the doorway. “Stay put,” I tell him and address the crowd. “You people need to clear out. Right now.”

  Since most of them are simply curious—and would rather spend the rest of their evening partying instead of in this dusty barn with me—they begin to disperse.

  I hit my shoulder mike. “Ten seven eight.” Need assistance.

  I turn my attention to the young man. He’s about twenty years old, with dark hair. Brown puppy dog eyes. He’s a good-looking kid. I can tell by the haircut he’s Amish.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Aden Keim.”

  “What’s your relationship with the girl?”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “What were you two doing here tonight?”

  “I was supposed to meet her. When I got off work.”

  “What happened?”

  “I walked in and . . . found her on the ground.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “No, she was . . .” His voice breaks. “She was just . . . unconscious.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Was there anyone else around?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.” He looks over his shoulder, casts another glance toward the door. “Look, I need to get to the hospital.”

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with her family?”

  “Andy and Edna Fisher. They live out on Otterbein-Ithaca Road.”

  I’ve never met the Fisher family, but I know of them; I’ve driven past their place a hundred times. “I need to take a look at your ID,” I tell him. “I’m going to need to get in touch with you later.”

  He tugs a wallet from his pocket, yanks out his brand-new driver’s license and shoves it at me, slings another look toward the door where the ambulance is pulling away. A boy losing sight of his mama in a crowded grocery.

  Taking his license, I move away and speak into my lapel mike. “Ten twenty-nine,” I say, which is the code for “check for wanted,” and I recite Keim’s driver’s license number.

  All the while he paces, looking repeatedly at the door. Anxious to leave. To get away from me and my questions? Or is he simply eager to get to the hospital to check on his girlfriend?

  When his license comes back clean, I walk over to him and hand it to him. “Do you have any out-of-town trips planned, Mr. Keim?”

  He looks at me as if I’m crazy. “No.”

  “Good, because I have some more questions about what happened tonight. Make sure you’re available.”

  Snatching the license from my hand, he jogs to the door and leaves without looking back.

  * * *

  A few minutes later I’m standing near the spot where Alma Fisher had lain when my first-shift officer, Rupert “Glock” Maddox, saunters into the barn looking as if an Amish rager and city-wide power outage are business as usual. A former Marine, he’s as sharp and competent as any big city cop.

  “Heard there was some excitement out here,” he says as he approaches, and I notice the work light he’s carrying. “Thought this might come in handy.”

  I have no idea how he arrived so quickly—on his day off no less—but I’m unduly pleased by his presence. “What are you, psychic?” I ask.

  He grins. “Where do you want this?”

  I motion toward the spot a few feet from the place where the girl was found. “I’m not sure what we’re dealing with just yet so I’d like a thorough look around.”

  “Hello?”

  Glock and I glance toward the door to see a young Amish man wheel in a good-size generator. “Where do you want this?” the man asks.

  I make eye contact with Glock. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?”

  Another grin. “I thought about confiscating those ribs out there, but I was sort of worried about the whole police brutality thing.”

  Leave it to Glock to go there. Shaking my head, I address the man with the generator. “Over here.”

  He rolls it over to us and kneels beside it, flips a switch. “I appreciate your letting us borrow this,” I tell him. “We’ll pick up the cost of the gas.”

  “Officer Maddox said someone was hurt, so . . .” Rising, the Amish man bends and yanks the pull cord. The engine sputters to life.

  Glock plugs in the work lights and suddenly the barn’s interior is brightly lit.

  “Danki.” I shake the Amish man’s hand. “We shouldn’t be but an hour or so.”

  “I’ll come back then.” With a nod, he leaves the barn.

  I get my first good look at the scene. There’s no sign of a struggle. No blood. No weapon in sight. A woman’s sandal lies on its side a few feet away. Pulling out my phone, I snap four photos of the shoe from different angles.

  Glock holds his ground near the generator. Both of us are cognizant of footwear imprints, from the victim—or someone else—and we’re careful not to disturb them.

  “What’s the story?” he asks.

  I tell him what little I know. “Boyfriend found her.”

  He looks around, glances up at the rafters and farther back, the loft. “Too far away from the loft for her to have fallen.”

  “Even if she had help.” I spot a two-by-four lying flush against the wall a few feet from where she was found. It gives me pause because it looks like someone put it there to keep it out of sight. . . .

  Glock notices it at the same time. “That’s interesting as hell.”

  I cross to the piece of wood and snap half a dozen photos from all directions. It’s about two feet long and jagged on one end where it’s been broken. When I’m finished, Glock j
oins me and we kneel for a closer look. Tugging gloves from a compartment on my belt, I pick it up, hold it to the light. It’s dusty and jagged and old. Suspicion stirs when I spot the hairs tangled on a rusty nail that had been hammered nearly flat.

  “Hair,” I murmur. The strand is about six inches long, shiny and brown—the same color as Alma Fisher’s.

  “Looks like blood, too,” Glock says.

  For the first time I notice the dark smear on the edge.

  His eyes meet mine. “You think the boyfriend did this?”

  “Someone did.” We get to our feet and look around. “This was no accident.”

  Though the work lights emit a decent amount of illumination, there are plenty of shadows. I pull out my Maglite. “Footwear,” I say. “Victim was wearing sandals.”

  “I got waffle sole here.” Glock backtracks toward the door. “The boyfriend?”

  I go to the imprint and pull out my phone. “Looks like work boots. Fits with the boots he was wearing.”

  “Easy enough to check.” He looks around. “We don’t know who else has been in here before tonight.”

  “True. Still, worth documenting.”

  I photograph the work boot imprint.

  Glock aims the beam of his Maglite on the ground, sweeps it toward the door. “Dirt is pretty packed, but it looks like he came in through the front door and went directly to her.”

  Keeping my eyes on the ground, I notice a smaller shoe impression. It has little in the way of tread, but has pointed toes and inch-wide heels. “Looks like a female shoe imprint here,” I say to Glock without looking up.

  He approaches with caution. “Or a dude with really small feet and a penchant for heels. ”He sets a mini tape measure for scale next to the imprint.

  I snap several photos. “Size seven or eight maybe.” But there’s only a single discernible imprint and it’s been spoiled by other disturbances in the dirt floor—my own tracks included.

  Knowing how quickly word travels in the Amish community, I decide to leave the scene in Glock’s capable hands so I can drive over to the Fisher farm to let the girl’s parents know what happened.

  “Bag that two-by-four and courier it over to BCI,” I tell him. “If you find anything else even remotely interesting, snap some photos and bag it.”

  “You got it, Chief.”

  “I’m heading over to the Fisher place.”

  He nods. “You want me to pick up the boyfriend?”

  “Let’s hold off on that until I talk to the doctor so we know what we’re dealing with.”

  Hopefully, this won’t become a homicide.

  * * *

  I call my significant other, John Tomasetti, on my way to the Fisher farm. He’s a special agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Not only is he a good cop and a good man, but he’s also the love of my life.

  “I’m not going to make it home tonight,” I tell him.

  “I heard about the power outage.”

  “The plot has thickened.” I tell him about the Amish rager and the injured girl. “I’m on my way to talk to the parents now.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You might pull out that nice bottle of cabernet we’ve been saving. I’ll let you know when to break the seal.”

  “I’m all over that.”

  Andy and Edna Fisher live on Otterbein-Ithaca Road in the southern part of Holmes County. It’s a quaint little farm with a good-size sheep herd in the front pasture. The house is small and plain. I park next to a buggy and take the stone walkway to the front door and knock.

  It’s nearly 11:00 p.m. now, so I give them plenty of time to answer. I’m knocking for the third time when the door squeaks open. I find myself looking at a middle-aged Amish man with owlish, sleep-fuzzed eyes. He thrusts the lantern at me, his gaze skimming my uniform.

  “Mr. Fisher?”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, concern spreading across his face.

  “Is Alma Fisher your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s been injured and taken to the hospital.”

  “Hospital? Alma?” His eyes and mouth go wide. “What happened to her? Is she all right?”

  His wife comes up behind him as I lay out what few facts I know. “I can drive you and your wife to the hospital if you like.”

  He shakes his head. “We will take the buggy.” He looks down at the sleep shirt he’s wearing. “I need to . . . harness the horse.”

  “I won’t keep you, Mr. Fisher, but I need to ask you a couple of quick questions.”

  He stares at me, tension and apprehension pouring off him.

  “Do you know where your daughter went this evening? Who she was with?”

  His expression tells me he doesn’t have a clue.

  His wife steps in. “Alma went to the barbeque out to the Davenport place with her friend, Irene. She was going to meet Aden Keim when he got off work.”

  The Amish man blinks, as if still trying to absorb everything he’s been told.

  “What’s Irene’s last name?” I ask.

  “Miller,” she tells me. “The girls are best friends. She lives out to Dogleg Road with her mamm and datt.”

  I put the information to memory and ask, “What’s your daughter’s relationship with Aden Keim?”

  “Aden is . . . courting her,” Mr. Fisher tells me. “I suspect they’ll get married.”

  “Do they get along?” I ask.

  “I don’t think they’d get married if they didn’t get along,” he says.

  His wife interjects. “Alma is a good girl. Aden is a hard worker and a good boy. They’re going to join the church soon.”

  I sigh, realizing I’ll need to be careful because I don’t want to frighten them unduly. “There’s a possibility Alma was . . . assaulted. Can either of you think of anyone who might be angry with her? Someone she’s argued with recently?”

  “Assaulted?” Mr. Fisher recoils as if itcouldn’t possibly be true. “No.”

  “Does Aden have a temper?” I ask.

  “No,” the man says firmly.

  Knowing sometimes women see things the men don’t, I focus on Mrs. Fisher and raise my brows.“Mrs. Fisher?”

  “He’s a nice young man,” she says. “Gentle and kind.”

  I give them a moment to add any additional thoughts, but I can tell they’re too worried and anxious to check on their daughter. “I’ll let you get on the road then.”

  * * *

  I call the ER department of Pomerene Hospital as I pull onto the road. Quickly, I identify myself and ask about Alma Fisher’s condition. The third-shift nurse on duty knows me, and since the girl’s injuries are part of a police investigation, she’s able to give me some preliminary information over the phone, even though I’m not a family member.

  “I just talked to Doc McCoy, who’s on call tonight, and I wish to God I had better news. The girl has suffered a traumatic brain injury. There’s some swelling of the brain and she’s slipped into a coma.”

  “How serious?”

  “Still running tests, Chief, but it’s not good.”

  “Does the doctor have any idea how such an injury might have occurred?”

  “He knew you’d be asking. He doesn’t believe it happened in a fall. In fact, he’s pretty sure she was hit multiple times with a blunt instrument.”

  Like a two by four, I think darkly, but I don’t mention it. “Her parents are on the way.”

  “She’s going to need all the support she can get.”

  “Has she had any visitors?” I ask. “Anyone in the waiting room?”

  “Just that nice-looking Amish boy. Been hanging around since shortly after she arrived. Comes up to the desk every ten minutes to ask about her.” She makes a sound. “Can’t tell him anything since he’s not family, so I’m glad her parents will be here soon to fill him in.”

  I thank her and disconnect, wondering how Aden Keim will react when I show up.

  * * *


  Since I’ve already talked to Keim—and it could be beneficial to let him stew for a while—I call Mona for Susie and Perry Miller’s address and then I head that way.

  Despite the late hour, the windows of the Miller place glow with lantern light when I pull into the driveway. More than likely they already know about Alma Fisher. Word travels fast in Amish country, and when someone is hurt or ill, the Amish community shows up in force to help.

  As I walk to the front door, I notice lantern light in the barn, too.I glance over to see an Amish man harnessing a horse. I continue to the front door and knock. A somber-faced Amish woman in her midforties answers quickly. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a cardigan draped over her shoulders.

  She doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Can I help you?”

  I show her my ID. “Is Irene Miller here?”

  “Is this is about Alma?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’re getting ready to go to the hospital.” Stepping back, she ushers me inside and calls out in Deitsh, “The English police are here!”

  Irene Miller enters the living room with the caution of a rabbit sneaking past the fox’s den. She’s short and stocky with dishwater-brown hair and eyes the color of pond moss. She’s wearing a light blue dress that falls to mid-calf and a gauzy kapp.

  Her gaze flicks from me to her mother and back to me. “Is she okay?”

  “The doctor is still running tests,” I tell her.

  Nodding, she looks at the floor. “Poor Alma.”

  I cross to the girl. “You’re friends with her?”

  “More like shveshtahs.” Sisters. “She’s my best friend.”

  Now that I’m standing closer to her, I detect the aroma of wood smoke in her hair, confirming my suspicion that she’d been at the rager earlier. “You were at the party tonight?”

  She doesn’t look up, but nods. I’m betting her parents didn’t know beforehand and probably wouldn’t have found out if someone hadn’t clobbered Alma Fisher with a two-by-four.

  “Did you go with Alma?” I ask.

  Another nod.

  Remembering the footwear imprints that came from a female shoe, I send a covert glance to her feet, but she’s wearing sneakers. Of course that doesn’t mean she didn’t change shoes. . . .

  “How did you hear about the party?” I ask.