I scan the paper. It’s a ten-year-old police report from Arcanum, Ohio, a small town near the Indiana state line. Four men, all between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, were arrested for severely beating an Amish man and cutting off his ear. The ear was never found, and therefore could not be reattached. One of the men, James Hackett Payne, later confessed to having eaten it. Each of the men was later convicted and sentenced to five to eight years in prison. My pulse kicks when I see that Payne, now twenty-nine, is living in Painters Mill.

“He did extra time on the hate crime designation,” Glock says.

“I’ll bet that improved his outlook on life.” I pass the paper to John.

He scans the report and frowns. “It’s a stretch going from felony assault to mass murder.”

“Eight years in prison is a long time for anger to fester into rage,” I say.

“What the hell kind of person eats a guy’s fuckin’ ear?” Glock asks no one in particular.

“Twisted son of a bitch,” Tomasetti mutters.

“I don’t get the hate thing,” Glock says.

I shrug. “Some people see the Amish as easy targets.” Both men’s gazes swing to me. “They refer to the Amish as clapes for ‘clay apes.’ It’s a derogatory term that somehow relates to farming. The incidents against them are known as clape-ing.”

Glock shakes his head. “I can’t believe it happens enough for someone to coin a term for it.”

I glance at him, knowing that as an African-American cop, he’s experienced a few hate-related incidents himself.

“You got an address on this guy?” Tomasetti asks impatiently.

Glock grins. “You bet.”

I rise. “Let’s go talk to him.”

“Going to wear my fuckin’ earmuffs,” Glock says.

CHAPTER 14

James Hackett Payne lives on the south side of Painters Mill in a three-story brick home that looks old enough to be historical. Surrounded by ancient maple and sycamore trees, the house sits on a large lot set back from a tree-lined street. A dilapidated privacy fence tangled with honeysuckle runs the perimeter of the backyard. I park curbside and we disembark.

“He live alone?” Tomasetti asks.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Glock replies. “Inherited the house when his dad died last year.”

“What’s he do for a living?” I ask.

“He’s on some kind of disability,” Glock answers.

“Mental or physical?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“Terrific,” Tomasetti mutters.

I start down the sidewalk toward the house. The place had once been grand, but years of neglect have turned it into a big, ugly eyesore. The front yard is a collage of tall grass matted with orange and red leaves. From where I stand, I see a detached garage at the rear. I take the concrete steps to the wraparound front porch and cross to the door. I press the doorbell, then open the storm door and knock.

“Creepy fuckin’ place,” Glock comments.