I spent most of last evening packing and digging around the internet and various law enforcement databases for information on the disappearance of Ananias Stoltzfus eighteen years ago. The case is ice-cold and there isn’t much out there. The Mifflin County sheriff’s deputy I spoke with wasn’t much help. Neither the sheriff nor the district attorney returned my calls—it was the weekend, after all—but the lack of response reminded me that I’ll be looking into the case not only as a civilian, but as an outsider. I have no law enforcement contacts in Pennsylvania, few resources, and zero in terms of backup. Not that I expect to need it. Belleville is smaller than Painters Mill, with an extremely low crime rate. In fact, there hasn’t been a murder since Stoltzfus went missing.
Tomasetti and I got the birdhouse mounted and the pole sunk into the ground. We put it near the firepit, between the house and pond, and I have to admit it looks nice. We spent every minute together, but I was distracted. I spent too much time thinking about Jonas, the boy I’d once known, mulling the kind of man he’s become, and wondering if he’s the same person I remember.
It’s just after seven on Monday morning now and I’m sitting at my desk in my cubbyhole office, putting together my notes for what will likely be a fifteen-minute meeting. My suitcase is in the back of the Explorer and I hope to hit the road inside the hour. Already, I miss Tomasetti.
“Chief?”
I glance up to see Mona Kurtz standing in the doorway. Though she worked the graveyard shift last night, she looks ready-to-take-on-the-day fresh. She was my dispatcher for several years. During that time, she earned a degree in criminal justice, devoured everything law enforcement, and garnered a good bit of training and experience from the rest of the team. She now graces the ranks of the department as Painters Mill’s first female patrol officer.
“Team is wrangled and penned,” she tells me.
“I’ll grab the branding iron.” Rising, I snag my coffee mug, round my desk, and walk with her to the closet-size meeting room.
I pause at the doorway, take in the sight of my team, and do my best not to acknowledge the quiver of pleasure. My relationship with the men and women who work for me is strictly professional. Aside from the occasional baby shower or celebratory meal, I don’t socialize with them. As chief, I’ve always felt that it’s important not to get too chummy. That philosophy in no way lessens my affection or respect for them. We’re part of a brotherhood, and when you work together as closely as we do, that familiarity doesn’t need to be shouted out, because we feel it where it counts and we know the officer standing next to us has our back.
Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is my oldest officer. He’s nearing eighty years of age now, but he’ll be the last to admit it. If you ask, you’re rewarded with a bald-faced lie or terse reply or maybe a robust cussing out. His law enforcement career spans fifty years. His glory days include an undercover narcotics gig that netted the biggest drug bust in the history of Holmes County and put a lot of bad guys behind bars. Pickles is my only part-time officer. He works fifteen hours a week, usually at the school crosswalk and the occasional football game. He’s been known to nap in his cruiser and sneak a smoke when no one is looking. He took a fall last year and spent a month hiding a limp. While he may be getting older, only the unwise would underestimate Pickles. He is a sheepdog of the first order; he will guard his flock with his life, and fight any wolf that threatens them to his last breath.
Sitting next to Pickles, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore nurses a to-go cup of coffee from Mocha Joe’s. He’s the department’s resident smartass. He upholds the honor with pride, but it’s an unspoken reality that the rest of us appreciate his humor a little too much. He’s a good cop with a laid-back personality and a unique ability to defuse even the most tumultuous of situations.
Glock sits at the head of the table, showing phone pics to Mona. Probably of his children judging by the smile on his face. He’s a family man, a former Marine who spent several years in Afghanistan, and the first African American patrol officer to serve the citizens of Painters Mill. He’s a good man and it gave me great personal satisfaction to hire him shortly after I became chief.
T.J. Banks is just twenty-eight years old. He’s a single guy with an active love life and high-drama relationships that garner him some razzing from his peers. He was the rookie until Mona came on board. He’s come a long way since his early days and has accumulated some good experience in the years he’s been on patrol. He’s a dependable cop with a bright future ahead of him.
I tap my pen against my mug to call the meeting to order. “I appreciate everyone coming in early for a last-minute meeting,” I say.
Skid raises his coffee cup. “No problem, Chief. T.J. was the only one complaining about not getting his beauty sleep.”
“That’s because he was out all night,” Pickles mutters.
T.J. sits up straighter, paying attention now.
I glance at him. “We appreciate your sacrifice, T.J.”
He hefts a sound of faux disgust and the room erupts with chuckles.
“I have to go out of town for a few days and wanted to touch base before I leave,” I say. “Reports.”
“Chief?”
I glance toward the door to see my newest dispatcher, Margaret, standing in the doorway, her hand raised, a student with an urgent question. Next to her, Lois, my first-shift dispatcher, has the headset clamped over her head, listening for incoming calls.
“I’d like to recommend our department invest in a new coffeemaker,” Margaret tells me. “I can’t tell you how many visitors come in and comment on how awful the coffee is.”
A few chuckles ripple around the table.
Glock raises his brows and looks at me. “I say we serve some of that coffee to Auggie,” he says, referring to the mayor. “Might work to our advantage budgetwise.”
“What are we going to complain about if not the coffee?” Skid puts in.
“I think the coffee’s just fine the way it is,” Pickles grumbles.
I give Margaret my full attention. “Put together a request. Get prices on three coffeemakers. I’ll get it done.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glance at my notes. “The mayor says we’ve got vandals with paint out at the Tuscarawas Bridge. We need to step up patrols.” I look at Pickles. “We could use you a few extra hours a week, if you can spare the time.”
The old man takes his time answering, puffs out his chest a little. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to bust those paint-huffing little shits.”
“Clarice will be happy to hear it,” Skid mutters, referring to Pickles’s wife, who’s been known to complain if he’s home too much.
Another round of laughter ensues.
I turn my attention to Glock. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
He gives me a salute. “Roger that.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, dude,” Skid mutters.
“Business or vacation, Chief?” This from Mona. She’s not being nosy, just curious.
“A little bit of both.” I outline the case in Belleville, mostly to quell further questions and deter any potential rumors. “If anyone asks, it’s vacation.” I scan the group, and for the first time I’m cognizant of the fact that I don’t want to leave. That the trip is born of a sense of responsibility that doesn’t fit quite right.