Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

I leaf through the remaining pages, refreshing my memory, looking for new information. Thirty-six-year-old Joseph King, his wife, Naomi, and their five children, ages ranging from three to ten years, lived on a small farm near Middlefield, Ohio. On the morning of May 11, twenty-nine-year-old Naomi King was discovered by her children, lying dead in her blood-soaked bed. The oldest child, Becky, ran to a neighbor’s farm, over a mile away, and called police.

According to the children, King had gone fishing at Lake Erie. He arrived home a few hours after the grisly discovery, at which time he was detained and interviewed by the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department. The Amish man claimed no knowledge of the murder. Ultimately, King was released. He took his children to stay with relatives while the police processed the crime scene. But as King’s criminal record came to light—and the stories about his rocky relationship with his wife emerged—he quickly became a person of interest.

The Geauga County Sheriff’s Department confiscated a shotgun found at the scene. The CSI was able to capture the tread of a single shoe print. A bloodstained jacket found in a hamper was also sent to the lab for testing. When the police interrogated King a second time, the timeline of his alleged fishing trip didn’t quite align with his previous story. Forty-eight hours after Naomi King was discovered dead, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Sheriff’s deputies picked him up at his farm and arrested him in front of his children, who were placed with relatives.

According to the prosecutor, sometime between three and five A.M. King returned to the farm, entered the residence, and shot his wife as she slept. The murder weapon was a shotgun owned by King; his prints were all over it, and all over the shells. The jacket found in the hamper was determined to belong to King and tested positive for gunpowder residue as well as Naomi King’s blood. The evidence was damning—and it didn’t end there.

Those who knew the Kings claimed their marriage was rocky. Joseph had a temper; he was abusive and had a record of domestic violence. Combined with the physical evidence, it was enough to make a case against him and take the case to trial.

I turn the page, find myself looking at a statement written by one of the social workers who interviewed the children. The oldest, Becky, who’d been ten years old at the time, reportedly heard “thunder” during the night, but she didn’t get up and the children didn’t find their mother’s body until morning. Upon making the gruesome discovery, all five of the children ran screaming from the house.

Next is the autopsy report. The coroner states that Naomi King died from a single gunshot wound to the abdomen sometime between one and five A.M. A devastating wound that killed the twenty-nine-year-old mother instantly. The coroner ruled the cause of death as massive trauma from a gunshot wound. The manner of death was homicide.

I glance through King’s abbreviated criminal case history. Two DUIs. Drug possession. Marijuana. Meth. Battery upon a public servant, for which he was convicted and served time. Most disturbing, however, is the smattering of domestic-violence calls and arrests in the months before Naomi was killed, two of those calls ending with convictions. I sigh in disgust, suspecting there were dozens more instances no one would ever know about. Physical and psychological abuse that Naomi King suffered in silence.

When you’re Amish you don’t call the English police. Most Amish women do have a support system—either family or female members of the community or even their preacher or bishop—but that’s not always the case. Some Amish women have no one to turn to. Nowhere to go. Far too often issues like domestic violence are glossed over, dressed up to look like something else, or ignored.

Closing the file, I head toward the war room. My small force of officers is already assembled. At twenty-seven years of age, T. J. Banks is the rookie of the group. He’s lounging in a green paisley task chair, thumbing something into his smartphone. Word around the station is that he’s got a new girlfriend, and this time it’s serious.

Next to him, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, resident practical joker and smartass extraordinaire, is embroiled in a retelling of a PIT maneuver he performed while involved in a high-speed chase back when he’d been a patrol officer in Ann Arbor. I’m pretty sure there’s some embellishing going on. Judging from Mona’s face, I’m pretty sure she knows it.

“Pickles” is sitting across from T.J., sipping coffee with a reverence usually reserved for fine whiskey. He has over fifty years of law enforcement experience on his résumé, a good deal of that time spent working in an undercover capacity. He’s the oldest officer to ever serve Painters Mill. But you won’t catch him admitting to his age, which, according to his personnel file, is seventy-five years. He dyes his hair to cover the gray and stays in damn good physical condition. This afternoon, he’s wearing a crisp uniform and well-worn Lucchese boots that glisten with polish.

But it’s the attitude more than anything that keeps him young. He doesn’t take any shit from anyone, including me. Pickles might look like some kindly grandfather, but rub him the wrong way and you’ll quickly figure out he’s got a titanium spine and a tongue capable of laying open even the toughest of shells.

Sitting at the head of the table, Rupert “Glock” Maddox is scrolling through his phone, smiling at something, probably photos of his kids. He’s got two now and a pretty wife named LaShonda. A former marine with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, he’s a solid cop, the first African American officer in the history of the Painters Mill PD, and my go-to guy when I need something done right.

I step behind the half podium set up at the head of the table. Mona has taped a chalkboard-size road map of Holmes County behind me and left a marker in case I need to spotlight a specific area. She also set up the mike, but I don’t need it, so I flip off the power. News travels fast in a small town; I can tell by the way everyone’s looking at me that they already know why we’re here. I want to make sure they have all the right information.

“I got a call from ODRC this morning,” I tell them. “Sometime last night, convicted killer Joseph King escaped from Mansfield. Amish male. Thirty-eight years old. Last seen at nine P.M. The next headcount was at three A.M., so we have to assume he’s had a six-hour head start. The Richland County Sheriff’s Department brought in dogs, but evidently they lost his scent at the highway northeast of the prison.”

Turning, I indicate the area on the map. “It’s believed King reached the highway here, so law enforcement is operating under the assumption that he has access to a vehicle—jacked or stolen or else someone picked him up. If he had help from someone on the outside, we also have to assume he’s had a change of clothes and, more importantly, that he may be armed.

“Normally, we wouldn’t get involved in something two counties away, but King’s got family ties in Painters Mill. His five kids are living with his deceased wife’s sister and her husband, Rebecca and Daniel Beachy, out on Left Fork Road, that dirt track off Hogpath.” Again, I turn to the map, and I use the marker to circle the general location of the Beachy farm.