I’ve never met Joe Weaver, but I’m familiar with his story. Years ago, when he was on Rumspringa, instead of partaking in the usual antics young Amish men get caught up in—smoking and drinking and staying out late—Joe got a job and went back to school, against the wishes of his Swartzentruber parents, and earned his GED. He loved animals and wanted to become a veterinarian. Without the support of his Amish brethren, Joe took a job with a vet, saved his money, and—against all odds—attended The College of Wooster for two years. All the while, he was under tremendous pressure from the Amish community to join the church and marry. Higher education is considered worldly and frowned upon by the elders, one of several tenets I disagree with. The situation made such a stir, the Times-Record interviewed him and ran a front-page piece. In the end, Joe gave up his dream of becoming a veterinarian, but he’s well versed in animal medicine, and the Amish travel for miles to bring their sick or injured pets and livestock to his small clinic outside Painters Mill.
“He knows about English medicine, Katie. He treated Big Jimmy for colic last summer, stitched up my bull when he got tangled in barbed wire. Joe knows what he’s doing.”
The thought of a would-be veterinarian administering medical treatment to a human being, especially for something as serious as a gunshot wound, makes me second-guess the whole idea of not attempting the drive to Millersburg. I think about other options, like asking Doc Coblentz—the coroner, local pediatrician, and friend—to drive over. But I nix the idea; any such request by me would place him in a compromising situation. That’s not taking the inclement weather into consideration.
“Do you think Joe would be agreeable to treating someone he doesn’t know?” I ask. “For a gunshot wound?”
“He is Amish, Katie. If someone is hurt, he will help, no questions asked.”
No questions asked.
The words hover in the air between us, like a curse whispered in the presence of the bishop. My cop sensibilities struggle with my conscience and the knowledge that I could be making a mistake that, once put into play, won’t be easily undone or corrected.
* * *
I’m rarely apprehensive about talking to my significant other, John Tomasetti. He’s the one person in this world I trust implicitly, the one person I can count on no matter the circumstance, the one who will not judge me too harshly if I screw up. He’s a critical thinker, sees the world from a broad perspective, but he also possesses the puissance to speak his mind even when it’s something I don’t want to hear. At the moment, I need to know if he’s heard any whisperings about corruption inside the Columbus Division of Police. Or maybe I just need someone to talk me out of taking that first, dangerous step down the wrong path.
I make the call as I creep along on the township road, the Explorer buffeted by wind, tires bumping over drifts deep enough to scrape the undercarriage. Visibility is down to just a few feet in areas where the snow is blowing sideways. My palms are sweaty inside my leather gloves despite the coldness of the steering wheel.
He picks up on the first ring, his voice easy, relaxed. “I fired up the John Deere and cleared our lane half an hour ago,” he tells me. “Unfortunately, it’s drifted over again.”
“I think you’re going to need a bigger tractor,” I say.
“How bad are things in Painters Mill?”
“We’ve had a few fender benders. Wrecker service is busy. Glock’s on duty. School sent the kids home a couple hours ago.”
“Any chance you can call it a day?” he asks. “I thought we might build a fire. Make a pot of chili. Watch a movie.”
I can tell by his tone he’s already realized I won’t be coming home anytime soon. While most people grumble about getting snowed in and having to hunker down inside their homes, this is the kind of weather that keeps those of us in law enforcement out on the street.
“Tomasetti, I’m not exactly sure how to explain what’s going on, so I’m just going to put it out there.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Taking a deep breath, I tell him everything I know about Gina Colorosa.
“I saw something come over the hot sheet this morning,” he says. “It was Columbus, so I didn’t look too hard.” The tempo of his voice changes, telling me he’s walking toward our home office to log in to his computer.
“I ran her name,” I tell him. “There’s an active warrant and a BOLO. I don’t have the details.”
“Let me take a look. Are you with Colorosa now?”
“I’m on my way to Joe Weaver’s place.”
“Dare I ask.”
I close my eyes briefly. “She’s been shot. Joe Weaver isn’t exactly a veterinarian, but he’s had some medical training.”
“Isn’t that kind of like getting on a plane knowing the person in the cockpit has had a couple hours of flight instruction?”
“If you have a better idea…”
A too-long silence and then he says, “I don’t have to tell you what you’re getting involved in is a bad idea, do I?”
“I’m aware.”
The tap of computer keys sounds on the other end of the line. The curse that follows tells me the news isn’t good. “There’s an open arrest warrant for Colorosa.”
“What’s it for?”
Keys click over the line. “All I can tell you from what I’m seeing here is that she was under investigation. The rest of it is sealed.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” he says slowly.
For the span of several heartbeats the only sounds are the wind pummeling my vehicle, the tap of snow against the windshield, and the occasional bark of my police radio.
I tell him about the couple killed in the course of the no-knock warrant. “She’s given me names. She claims to have dates and amounts. And an audio recording that may or may not be helpful.”
“Kate, you need to stop what you’re doing, while you still can. Turn around. Take her to Pomerene. I’ll meet you there, and we’ll get this figured out.”
“Tomasetti, what if she’s telling the truth? She believes she wasn’t supposed to survive the raid last night.” Even as I speak the words, I realize how improbable they sound. As if I’m too involved to see the situation clearly and listening to my emotions instead of my common sense.
“That’s an extremely serious allegation, Kate. If she’s going to come forward, she’d better have something to back it up.”
The line hisses between us, reminding me of the distance that’s both literal and figurative. “Have you heard anything? Rumors? Gossip?”
You’re grasping at straws, Kate, a little voice whispers in my ear.
“Columbus doesn’t fall in my region, but I can make some calls. You got any names for me?”
I recite them from memory. “There are others, too. Street cops. Patrol mostly. She claims to have taken all of this to Frank Monaghan. He’s deputy chief now, over the Investigative Subdivision.”
The silence stretches, expanding into a high-wire tension that wasn’t there before.
“I know who he is,” Tomasetti says after a moment.