Chapter 11
Jojo turned slowly and carefully to face the gray-uniformed Pennsylvania State Police trooper who was striding toward her, keeping her hands where he could see them.
If she’d been called to a wreck and heard a gunshot, then found somebody standing in the middle of a crowd of people with a pistol drawn …
she might not have given that person the benefit of the doubt that he was giving her.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with flaming red hair peeking out from beneath his state trooper cap, and if he’d had one more freckle, he’d have had to hold it in his hand because there was no more room on his face.
He smiled, and it was a winning smile, the kind that disarmed people, but she watched his eyes sizing her up, taking in her stance, the pistol, and Trident sitting next to her.
The man who had been driving the car—she noticed him now for the first time—marched up to the state police trooper, his lip curled, adding a snarl to his voice. He was a beefy man in an expensive suit, with jowls that quivered when he spoke.
Riiight. If the wreck had happened half an hour ago, the horse would have bled to death, and Jojo wouldn’t have had to shoot it.
“Damn fool ran the stop sign, pulled right out in front of me! There wasn’t anything I could do, buggy just came barreling down that road, how the hell was I supposed to miss him?”
The man continued his tirade, and she watched the state police trooper look from the shouting man to the silent Amish man who leaned against the overturned buggy, looking dazed, unaware that his straw hat was askew on his head.
“Can you give me your name please?” asked the trooper when the man finally paused for a breath. The trooper’d said his name was something Irish—big surprise—McCaffrey.
“Name’s Herbert Jacobson.” He paused and puffed up his chest. “I own Jacobson Manufacturing, one of the largest employers in Somerset County.”
Jojo could have sworn the man shot a look at her, the officer and the crowd of people as if … what? Did he expect a round of applause? Or maybe just bows from the men and polite curtseys from the women? What a jackass.
“Are you hurt, Mr. Jacobson?”
“No, I’m not hurt, but I could have been.
Hell, I could have been killed, that guy pulling right out in front of me like that.
And look at my car, just look at it. A brand-new Mercedes, just had it two weeks, and now it’s wrecked.
” He flashed the Amish man a nasty look.
“Stupid farmer!” Then the man let fly a spiel of expletives like Jojo hadn’t heard since she was in the military.
As he continued to vent, Jojo turned and walked to the Amish man, putting her hand lightly on his shoulder. When she looked at him closely, she realized she knew him. His name was Amos Yoder, and she’d attended his daughter’s wedding years ago.
His eyes registered recognition too. “Joanna,” he said, relaxed a little, and began to speak in Deitsch.
Like other bilingual people, in stressful situations the Amish tended to revert to their “native language”—a dialect of German that developed in America which outsiders called “Pennsylvania Dutch,” and the Amish called Deitsch.
In church services, the Amish used “high German,” Hochdeutsch, for Bible readings, hymns and prayers.
“That man says I ran the stop sign. I didn’t run it.
I stopped. I always stop. But him,” he gestured with his chin toward the man who was still yelling at the Pennsylvania State Police trooper, “he came around that corner so fast I’m surprised he didn’t run off the road, and he crashed right into me.
” The Amish man looked down at the horse then.
“Ah, Willie. My poor, poor Willie.” Joanna knew that however much damage had been done to the shouting man’s car, he had insurance.
He’d get it repaired. Or maybe they’d total it, and he’d get a brand-new car.
But Amos—there was no insurance on Amos’s horse, and horses were expensive.
Or on his buggy, which was lying on its side with the left front tire mangled and useless.
The Amish man bent down then beside the horse, didn’t touch it, just squatted there beside it. It wasn’t an old horse, maybe twelve to fifteen years, and he’d probably had the animal its whole life.
Jojo tuned in then to what the man was yelling at the trooper—about how Amos had run the stop sign and pulled out in front of him. She stepped to the trooper.
“That’s not the way he tells it,” she said, gesturing to Amos, who still squatted by his horse. “He says this guy came flying around the corner so fast it was a miracle he made the corner at all.”
“That’s a lie! That’s a damn lie.”
The trooper spoke then to Amos. “Sir, can you tell me your name, please?”
“Amos Yoder.”
“Yoder,” Jacobson slathered the word in sarcasm. “Hell, every third one of these penguins is named Yoder. All that intermarriage, no wonder they’re all so damned stupid!”
A flash of anger brought more color to Jojo’s cheeks than the cold wind.
“Could you tell me what happened here?” the trooper asked Amos.
He looked up and began to speak in Deitsch, and the trooper looked instantly uncomfortable. After a few words, the trooper held up his hands and interrupted.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand?—”
“They all speak that gibberish!” Jacobson laughed and nudged the trooper, as if the two of them were “us” and the Amish man was definitely “them.” “Can’t understand a word they say, babbling at each other in Pig Latin.”
Jojo had to grind her teeth to keep silent. She was furious at Jacobson, of course, but also at the trooper’s lack of respect for Amos. He was allowing the loudmouth to take over when it was Amos who was the victim.
“Amos said he did stop at the stop sign,” Jojo told the trooper, her eyes flashing.
“Looked both ways and no one was coming, so he pulled out.” She gave Jacobson a look sharp enough to cause internal bleeding.
“But Mister-Get-Outta-My-Way-I’m-Driving-A-Mercedes here came barreling around the corner and plowed right into him. ”
“That’s not true, all lies and he knows it. These Amish shouldn’t be allowed on the road. Horses and buggies on a road that’s meant for cars. They’re a hazard. Going too slow. Taking up more than their share of the road. They cause wrecks every day, people get killed because of them. They?—”
He continued to sputter as the state police trooper spoke into his microphone, advising the dispatcher to send a wrecker, that there was a wrecked car and a wrecked buggy on the road.
He paused then and simply said, “… and a dead horse.” Clearly, he didn’t know what she should send to remove it, but Jojo suspected the dispatcher did know.
One of the bystanders among the looky-loos who had gathered in a growing circle around the wreck, spoke up then, a man in a bright orange ski jacket and a knit cap the same color. “That fella passed me on the straight-away before the curve, blew my doors off. He was flying!”
Jacobson shot him a fierce look but said nothing.
McCaffrey turned to the crowd. “Anybody see what happened here?”
No one did, but several said they’d encountered Jacobson shortly before the wreck and that he’d been driving fast and reckless.
“He came roaring down the road like his ass was on fire,” one man said.
Trident got up then and padded over to the angry man’s wrecked car, sniffing around the open driver’s side door. He suddenly stiffened. His metronome tail froze, and he remained rigid.
Jojo turned away from the trooper and crossed to Trident. She leaned over and spoke softly, two words, “Show me,” and Trident began to scratch at the damaged interior panel on the door.
That was when the man noticed the dog for the first time, and his eyes grew wide.
“Hey … get away from my car. Get that dog away from my car!” He marched over to the vehicle and tried to slam the door that Trident had been sniffing, but it was bent, and it wouldn’t close.
Trident continued to scratch at the door panel.
Jojo’s and McCaffrey’s eyes met and locked. His were a dark color, either blue or green, and penetrating.
“I came home to Somerset County about nine months ago from Chicago, where I was a special agent with the DEA’s Canine Enforcement team.
” She nodded toward the dog that was still pawing at the door panel.
“Trident is a Drug Detection K-9 … a trained narc dog. We worked airports searching luggage, shipping hubs, and vehicle inspections on the interstates.” She paused for a beat, looking at Jacobson, whose face had suddenly gone deathly pale.
“And my narc dog just alerted to something in the side panel of that car.”
The man’s belligerence drained away, replaced by a manufactured indignation that wasn’t fooling anybody.
“Now, you see here … that dog’s got no business nosing around my car and I …
I demand that you get him away from it.” He turned pleading eyes toward McCaffrey.
“You tell her to get that dog away from my car. It’s …
private property and he’s … trespassing. ”
McCaffrey moved toward the man who was now trying to stand between Trident and the car, took his arm, and moved him out of the way. “The dog seems to think there’s something behind that door panel.”
“The dumb dog’s just scratching at the side pocket to get at the … candy that’s in there. I put some chocolates in that pocket—taking them home to the wife … it’s our anniversary. That’s all the dog’s smelling. You know how dogs love chocolate.”
Actually, chocolate was poisonous to dogs.
The man smiled ingratiatingly, draped a pleasant expression on his face like hanging sheets on a clothesline.
The trooper ignored him, dropped down to one knee, and examined the door panel.
Jojo squatted down beside him. Trident was now sitting absolutely still beside Jojo.
The trooper reached out to the door panel and tapped on it.
It was loose. He ran his fingers along the edge of the panel, feeling for a space, and then pulled.
Most door panels didn’t come off easily, but this one must have been loosened by the impact of the car hitting the tree.
It popped right off, revealing an open space between the door and the panel.
In the open space was a plastic bag full of white powder.
“Probably just powdered sugar,” Jojo said, her voice expressionless. “He’s taking it home to his wife … you know, it being their anniversary and all.”
McCaffrey smiled.
Jojo was still angry at him, but she smiled back.