“You want to wait out here?”
He stares down at the heads in disgust. “This is going to ruin the whole baby back rib thing for me.”
Grinning, I go through the door. “Man up, Tomasetti.”
I grew up on a farm where the slaughter of livestock was a routine part of life. I bore witness to the process a dozen times before I was old enough to realize how much I hated it. Sense memories, I think, and I’m surprised at how vividly those days come rushing back.
The smell of dirt and manure and the salty copper stench of blood assaults my senses when I enter the building. A lantern hangs from a wire strung between two rafters and casts yellow light in all directions. A buggy with a missing wheel is parked a few feet away, its dual shafts angling down to the floor. Steel livestock panels lean against the wall. Next to them, an aluminum trough is tipped onto its side. A dozen or more burlap bags filled with some type of grain are stacked neatly atop a flatbed wagon, a good bit of yellow corn spilling onto the floor. Beyond, a shadowy hall leads toward the rear of the building.
“Hello?” I call out as I scan the shadows. I notice the stairs to my right, which lead up to some type of loft. I’m about to call out a second time, when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot explodes.
Next to me, Tomasetti drops down slightly and draws his sidearm. “Where did it come from?”
I pull my .38. “I don’t know. The hall, maybe.”
A guffaw of laughter draws our attention. I glance toward the hall, where I see a short Amish man with bowed legs emerge from the shadows. He wears a light blue work shirt with dark suspenders and a straw hat. A black rubber bib is tied at his waist, and he’s laughing his ass off—at us.
“Can I help you?” He barely gets the words out before breaking into laughter again, bending at the waist and slapping his knees. When he straightens, I see tears on his cheeks.
I holster my .38 and try not to feel like an idiot. “Mr. Mast?”
Tomasetti isn’t amused, and he doesn’t relinquish his pistol.
“I’m Benjamin Yoder.” Chuckling, wiping at the tears with his sleeve, the man hobbles over to us. “My wife and I live next door. I’m helping Perry butcher the hogs.” He looks at Tomasetti, his eyes twinkling. “You thought the hogs were shooting back, eh?”
Tomasetti holsters his weapon. “For Chrissake.”
I can’t help it; I laugh—a big belly laugh that feels good coming out. Yoder joins me, and I swear I hear Tomasetti chuckle.
After a moment, I extend my hand to Yoder. “I’m Kate Burkholder.”
Wiping his eyes with his left hand, he pumps my hand with the other. “Hello, Kate Burkholder. That’s a good strong name.” He turns his attention to Tomasetti and the men shake.
“We’re with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation,” Tomasetti tells him. “Are the Masts home?”
Yoder’s expression falls somber. “You have news of Noah?”
“Just a few routine questions,” Tomasetti tells him.
We both know none of this is routine for the families of the missing.
“Come this way.” Yoder limps toward the hall. “I’ll take over so he can talk to you.”
I don’t miss the revulsion on Tomasetti’s face as we pass by a stainless-steel bin filled with severed hog hooves, and I know the slaughter room is the last place he wants to be. Of course he won’t admit it, and he falls in next to me. But I suspect it might be a while before he indulges in those baby back ribs.
Yoder leads us down a short hall. Ahead, lantern light spills through a wide door. The stink of fresh manure and blood is stronger here. I can hear the pigs grunting and moving around in the chutes to my right, and I wonder if the animals know their fate. I’m aware of our footsteps on the concrete floor, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I’ve never been squeamish, but my stomach seesaws when we reach the room.
Yoder enters first. Tomasetti and I stop at the doorway. The room is about twenty feet square. The air is overly warm and unpleasantly humid. But it’s the smell that unsettles me. Corrugated steel panels comprise the walls. In the center of the room, a dead hog hangs suspended by a single rear leg, a chain wrapped around the area between the hoof and hock. The chain is attached to a pulley affixed to a massive steel beam overhead. A second Amish man, presumably Perry Mast, stands next to the dead animal with a large knife—the sticking knife—in hand. There’s a drain cut into the concrete floor and blood still drips from the hog’s snout.
“Fuck me,” Tomasetti mutters.
“Maybe we can do this outside,” I hear myself say.
Yoder looks at the hog approvingly. “That’s a good bleed, Perry,” he says.
The other man doesn’t even look up. With gloved hands, he shoves the giant carcass toward a massive steaming vat. I don’t want to watch what comes next, but I can’t look away. I remember my datt and brother doing the same thing. They called it “the scalding tank.” Not bothering with gloves, Yoder jumps in to help guide the carcass toward the vat. He quickly checks an industrial-size thermometer and nods. Using the pulley and chain, they lower the carcass into the hot water.
“Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,” Yoder says when the carcass is lowered. We have non Amish visitors.
Mast finally glances at us. “Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.
Yoder lowers his voice and, speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, tells him about us drawing our sidearms. Yoder breaks into laughter again, unabashedly amused. Mast’s reaction is more subtle. If I hadn’t been watching him, I would have missed the whisper of a smile on his lips.
He motions toward the hog. “When the hair slips easily, pull it out. I won’t be long.”
Without looking at us, he peels off his gloves and removes his blood-spattered apron. He tosses both on the scraping table and starts toward us. Perry Mast is a tall, thin man with sagging jowls and hound-dog eyes. He wears black work trousers with a dark blue shirt, black suspenders, a black vest, and a flat-brimmed straw hat.
“I am Perry Mast,” he says by way of greeting.
Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves, letting him know we’re with BCI. Neither of us offers our hand.
“Is this about my son?” he asks.
The question is clearly devoid of hope. And I wonder how many times during the last nine years he asked other law-enforcement officials the same question. I wonder how many times their answers tore the last remnants of hope from his heart.
“I’m sorry, no. There’s a girl who’s missing,” I tell him. “An Amish girl. Annie King.”
“Ja.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I heard.”
Tomasetti motions toward the door. “Is your wife home, Mr. Mast? We’d like to speak with her, as well.”
Mast looks as if he’s going to refuse; then his shoulders slump and he seems to resign himself to unavoidable unpleasantness. “This way,” he says, and leads us through the door.
A few minutes later, Perry Mast, Tomasetti, and I are sitting at the table in their small, cluttered kitchen. The interior of the house isn’t much neater than the exterior. Dozens of jars of canned fruits and vegetables cover every available surface on the avocado green countertops. A hand-painted bread box—perhaps from the Branch Creek Joinery—encloses a crusty loaf of bread. A well-seasoned cast-iron skillet sits atop the big potbellied stove. The open cabinets expose stacks of mismatched dishes—blue Melmac and chipped pieces of stoneware—and sealed jars of honey with chunks of honeycomb inside. Homemade window treatments dash the final vestiges of daylight, giving the kitchen a cavelike countenance. A kerosene-powered refrigerator wheezes and groans. The lingering sulfur stink of manure has me thinking twice about coffee.