Dorothy didn’t have an address for Ananias Stoltzfus’s daughter, but Amish directions are usually spot-on. Just west of town, she’d told me, take a right on Blue Run Road. Past the chicken farm. Over the bridge at Little Kishacoquillas Creek. Second place on the right. There’s a big “Brown Eggs for Sale” sign out front. Can’t miss it.
I pass the sign for eggs, which spells out NO SUNDAY SALE in bold caps, and pull into the gravel driveway. The house is nestled in a pretty spot with half a dozen shade trees and a white picket fence. As I get out of the Explorer, I notice the square of cardboard crisscrossed with duct tape covering a front window. A plump Amish woman stands at the clothesline, laundry basket at her feet, watching me through the space between two pairs of trousers. I guess her to be in her mid-fifties. She wears a gray dress with dark stockings and shoes. Blond hair streaked with silver is tucked into a gauzy white kapp.
“Mrs. Hershberger?” I say as I pass through the picket gate.
She cocks her head, wondering who I am and how I know her name. “That’s me.”
I extend my hand for a shake and introduce myself. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
She unpins a shirt, folds it, and places it in the basket. “Always nice to take a break, especially on such a pretty evening.”
I’ve debated how to best approach Ananias Stoltzfus’s family. Asking questions about the death of a loved one, even after so many years, requires tact. That’s particularly true in this case because the remains were just recently discovered—and I’m friendly with the accused.
I lay out the reason for my visit, my background, and my connection to Jonas. “The Diener came to me in Painters Mill and asked me to look into the case.”
“The Diener, huh?” Her expression remains impassive as she takes in the information, with no indication of wariness or hostility. “I reckon it took some nerve for you to show up here.”
“I know this is a difficult time for you and your family,” I tell her.
“As long as you’re not here to get that no-good friend of yours off the hook.”
“I’m just looking for information,” I say simply.
She snaps a shirt from the line, shakes out the wrinkles. “The police seem pretty sure Jonas Bowman shot my father with that old muzzleloader of his.”
“Sometimes things aren’t always as they appear,” I tell her.
Frowning, she tosses the shirt into the basket without folding it. “Jonas Bowman.” She huffs the name like a curse. “Shot his own bishop like an animal. Left him for the vultures and critters to pick at. Not a shred of decency or a thought for the family. Eighteen summers and winters and not a word. The awfulness of that tears me apart to this day.”
I look past her at the house where the shadows of the trees play against the siding, give her a moment before continuing. “What do you think happened?”
“What do I think?” She chucks a clothespin into a small wicker caddy. “I think the devil lured my datt down to that abandoned farm. Nearly two miles and the man was eighty-six years old, for goodness’ sake. Spry for his age, but not a spring chicken.” She sighs. “Once we realized he was gone … we figured he’d fallen somewhere or had a heart attack. The kind of thing that happens to an old person.” She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but she’s talking, so I don’t interrupt.
“We looked for him for days,” she says. “Even the Englischers pitched in with their ATVs and horses and whatnot. All the while, we worried and we prayed.”
“Was there anything unusual going on in your father’s life at the time he disappeared?” I ask. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nothing of the sort. Like I said, he was old. Liked to take walks and tend his garden. Feed the birds. He was a godly man. A loving man who lived simply and plainly.”
“Had there been any disputes or arguments with anyone?” I ask.
“Everyone loved Datt.” Even as she snaps the words, I see a flash of hesitation in her eyes, and I wonder if she truly believes it—or if she’s convinced herself of it because she loved her father. “He was a good bishop. Must have done a hundred communions and baptisms. Dozens of marriages.” She clucks, a sound of irritation, as if I’m trying to sully his good deeds.
“What about excommunications?” I ask.
“Datt brought them backsliders right back into the fold.”
“Not all of them came back, though, did they?” I ask. “Roman Miller?”
“Now there’s a backslider for you. Two-timing a nice Amish girl with some Mennischt floozy.” Mennischt is the Deitsch word for Mennonite.
“Was Miller upset with your father?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” She straightens and gives me a level look. “My datt helped a lot of people here in Big Valley, Chief Burkholder. He did a lot of good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I nod my acceptance of that and press forward. “Was he a strict bishop, Mary Elizabeth? With the rules, the following of the Ordnung?”
“Someone’s been handing you a lot of talk.” She chucks a handful of clothespins into the wicker basket, but misses and they scatter in the grass. “You’d be wise not to listen to the gossipmongers.”
She’s getting herself worked up, so I kneel and pick up the pins, place them in the container. “I’m just gathering information,” I tell her. “Trying to figure out what happened.”
When the clothesline is bare, she steps back and looks at me as if trying to decide if I’m friend or foe. “Look, my datt kept people in line. A bishop has to keep things in order. Things are just better that way.”
“Fair enough.” I motion toward the house. “I couldn’t help but notice the broken window when I pulled up.”
She turns and looks, shrugs dismissively. “Someone threw a rock. English kids probably. You know how they are.”
“Did you report it to the police?” I know the answer before she answers.
“I don’t know how it is where you come from, but around here we like to handle things on our own.”
“I understand there was a fire, too,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “You know a lot for having been here only a day.”
“Any idea who did it? Or why?”
“Wasn’t much of a fire, really. We lost some lumber is all. Adrian is renovating that old mill at the back of the property. Thinks he’s going to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.” She shakes her head. “I reckon someone would rather we not do that.”
“How long ago did it happen?” I ask.
“Been about a month now.”
“Interesting timing, don’t you think?”
Her eyes probe mine. “Jonas Bowman was still on the loose.”
“Are you saying you believe he started the fire?”
“You’re the one mentioned timing.”
I nod. “Did you report the fire to the sheriff’s department?”
“Like I said, we prefer to handle things our own way. Nothing much they could do, anyway.” Bending, she picks up the laundry basket. “I know you don’t mean any harm with all these questions, but I think I’ve had enough.”
I pass her a card with my cell phone number scribbled on the back. “Let me know if you think of something that might be important, or if you just want to talk.”
After a brief hesitation she takes the card. “I don’t think I will, but thank you.”
I’m midway to the Explorer when a final question occurs to me and I turn back to her. “Mrs. Hershberger, can you tell me where your datt was living when he disappeared?”
Holding the basket at her hip, she motions toward the road. “He’d been living out to the dawdi haus since Mamm passed.” It’s Deitsch for “grandfather house” and is generally a small abode where Amish grandparents live with—or close to—their grown children when they become too elderly to manage on their own. “Little cottage on Indian Ripple Road. It’s been vacant since we lost him.”
“Would it be all right if I took a quick look around?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you expect to find. A mouse or two maybe.” She shrugs. “I don’t think my brother keeps it locked, so go ahead.”
“Thank you.” I turn and start toward the Explorer, but she calls out to me.
“You want to know what the worst part of this was, Kate Burkholder?”
I reach my vehicle and turn to her.
“The not knowing,” she tells me. “Eighteen years of wondering. Is he alive or dead? Is he hungry and cold and hurting? Did he suffer? Cry out for us? Think about that while you stand there and ask questions so you can get that hohchmeedich friend of yours out of jail.” It’s the Deitsch word for prideful. “All the talk of justice. Tell me, where’s the justice in that?”
According to my GPS, Indian Ripple Road runs east and west on the north side of Belleville. There’s a good bit of daylight left, so I head that way and quickly realize it’s a barely-there asphalt two-track shrouded with trees and marred with potholes. I’ve just spotted the dead-end sign when I notice the narrow opening in the trees to my right. I slow, discern the patches of gravel, and pull in.
The canopies of seventy-foot-tall trees fill the cab with shadows. Spindly fingers of bramble scrape at the doors. I’m wondering if I made a wrong turn and thinking about turning around when the forest opens and I find myself looking at a small cottage. The siding had once been fresh and white, but time and the elements have worn it to gray. A porch encompasses the front, but the character is lost due to a dozen or so missing rails and a warped floor that gives the place a lopsided appearance. A stone chimney juts from a steeply pitched steel roof that’s gone to rust. There are no shutters or landscaping. A tiny one-horse barn is the only other building. The attached pen is filled with weeds as tall as a man’s shoulders. In the side yard, I see the scar of what had once been a garden, the picket fence grinning a hit-or-miss smile.
I park in front of the cottage and get out. A breeze eases past me from the west, carrying with it the scent of the forest and fresh-cut hay. Taking in the sight of the house, the place where the garden had once been, and the old horse pen, I get a sense of what the place might’ve looked like in its heyday. Peaceful. Quiet. Pretty. The perfect dwelling for an elderly widower to live out his twilight years.
A blue jay scolds me from the branch of an elm as I start toward the house, my feet swishing through weeds. The sidewalk is uneven and cracked. The wood steps creak beneath my feet as I take them to the porch. I know there’s nobody inside, but I knock anyway.
“Hello?” I call out. “Is anyone home?”
No answer.
I try the knob, but it’s locked. “Crap,” I mutter.
I didn’t come here expecting some earth-shattering piece of evidence to fall into my hands, but I’ve got enough experience under my belt to know it can be helpful to see the residence of the victim. Not giving myself time to debate, I leave the front porch and head around to the back.
I wade through hip-high weeds and a profusion of thistle to reach the rear. An antique-looking hand pump stands guard over a galvanized trough that’s eaten through with rust. Between the house and barn, a chicken coop not much bigger than an outhouse is nearly swallowed up by saplings and weeds. A hitching post slants up from the ground at a forty-five-degree angle.
The porch is a small slab of concrete that’s surprisingly intact. Half a dozen wasps buzz around a nest beneath the eave. A clay pot lies on its side next to the step. A screen door hangs by a single hinge. I take the steps to the door and find it unlocked.
“Hello?”
I step into a small kitchen. The stink of mildew and rotting wood hangs in the air. The linoleum floor is covered with dirt and indistinguishable debris. Yellow Formica counters are littered with rodent droppings. Plain wood cabinets line walls painted robin’s-egg blue. A battered porcelain sink has collapsed into the cabinet below. Through the opening, I see water damage and a tangle of insulation that’s become a nest for some lucky mouse.
Dirt and grime crunch beneath my boots as I cross to the doorway. The living room is small, with three narrow windows and the front door. The only furniture is an old sofa that’s been shredded by some animal, stuffing scattered all around. A rusty oil lantern lies on its side in the corner. The floors look like oak and are still in pretty good shape. There’s nothing of interest. Just a nice little cottage that’s seen better days.
There are no stairs or second level, so I make my way to the hall. There’s a bathroom ahead. A bedroom to my left. In the ceiling, a small square door likely leads up to an attic. I walk into the bedroom. There’s a night table. An old-timey blue-and-white-striped mattress. No closet. A rocking chair with a broken armrest sits forlornly in the corner.
Nothing to see here. Move along.
I traverse the hall, go back through the living room. In the kitchen, I pause and look around. Ananias Stoltzfus was eighty-six years old. He lived alone. A widower for five years. Did someone come into his home, murder him, and dump his body in the woods? According to reports, there were no signs of forced entry. Did Ananias know his killer? Mary Elizabeth had said her father enjoyed walking. Did he go for a walk and encounter his killer? Or did Ananias leave his house to meet someone?
I go through the door and walk outside. The house and yard are surrounded by trees, which makes it difficult to figure out exactly where I am in relation to where the bones were found, but I have a general idea, so I head in that general direction.
There’s no visible trail. No fence line to follow. I’ve only gone about fifty yards, and I’m thinking about going back, when my foot catches on something in the weeds. I glance down to see the remains of an old barbed-wire fence. Most of the wood posts have been broken off at ground level, the barbed wire rusted through and snapped. Blackberry and bramble have pulled all of it to the ground.
I stand there a moment, look around, and I realize the trees are smaller here; I’m standing in a corridor of sorts and wonder if this was once a two-track that ran parallel with the fence. Did Ananias take this route the night he disappeared?
Weaving through saplings, doing my best to avoid blackberry stickers, I walk along the broken-down fence, keeping an eye out for fallen posts and tangles of wire. The trees thicken; shadows ebb and flow all around. A chipmunk scampers across a fallen log. The tempo of the birdsong rises. Not for the first time, the beauty of the place strikes me, and I wonder what these trees would tell me if they could talk.
I walk for several minutes and reach a shallow ditch and a cross fence. The original fallen fence veers right, little more than a hump in the land that’s covered with knotted foliage. The newer woven-wire fence, topped with a single strand of barbed wire, runs straight as an arrow right to a neighboring field. How far away from where I’m standing were the remains found?
The question gnaws at my brain as I make my way back to the cottage. I’m so embroiled in my thoughts, I don’t notice the sheriff’s cruiser parked behind my Explorer until I’ve stepped into the clearing and I see the flashing red and blue lights.
A deputy in full uniform is walking around my vehicle and looking in the windows.
“Hello!” I call out to him as I approach.
He looks in my direction, and tilts his head to speak into his radio. “Ten-twelve,” he says, which is the ten code used to check the registration and to see if a vehicle is stolen.
He’s a tall guy with a runner’s build and sandy hair shorn into a crew cut. I guess him to be in his late twenties. Probably a rookie.
“We received a trespass call.” His voice is amicable, but he’s got those cop’s eyes and they’re sizing me up as I get closer. “What are you doing out here?”
“Mary Elizabeth gave me permission to look around.” I reach him and stop about ten feet away. “I was—”
“I don’t know who Mary Elizabeth is,” he tells me. “Henry Stoltzfus owns this place. He called us and said someone was breaking into the house.”
“I didn’t break in. The back door was—”
He cuts me off again. “I need for you to walk over to my vehicle.” He points. “I want you to lean against it. Nice and easy. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do you understand?”
“No problem.” I nod, raise my hands in submission. “I’m a police officer from Ohio.”
“Uh-huh.” He responds with a dismissive motion toward his cruiser. “Go lean against the vehicle and be quiet.”
“You got it.”
He’s being an asshole, but I do as I’m told. He doesn’t know me from Adam, after all. As far as he knows, I was kicking in walls and stealing copper plumbing or maybe burying a body somewhere on the premises. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Mary Elizabeth decided she didn’t want me out here after all, and ran down to the pay phone to make the call.
I reach the vehicle and lean.
“Anyone else out here with you?” the deputy asks.
His badge tells me his name is K. Vance. “Just me,” I tell him.
He crosses to me. “You got your driver’s license on you?”
“Sure.” I reach into my rear pocket, pull out my driver’s license and shield, and hand both to him.
He takes both, looks carefully at them. “Chief of police, huh?”
“Last time I checked.” It’s a flip response; I don’t want to get on his bad side, so I add a smile.
“You got a weapon on you?”
“Both of them.”
One side of his mouth curves as he hands my license and shield back to me. “I’m Kris Vance.” Now that he knows I’m not a mass murderer, he relaxes. “What are you doing out at this old place, Chief Burkholder?”
“I’m a friend of Jonas Bowman,” I tell him. “I just wanted to take a look around.”
He speaks into his radio. “Ten-twenty-four,” he says, letting the dispatcher know his assignment is complete.
“You know him?” I ask.
“I bought my kitchen cabinets from Bowman last year. He and his kids helped me install them.” He shakes his head. “Nice family. Never had him figured for something crazy.”
“Me, too.” I wipe sweat from my temple with my sleeve. “You guys probably don’t have much crime in this area.”
“Not at all. I mean, it’s pretty rural. Quiet. A lot of Amish and they keep to themselves. Those human remains were big news.”
“Same in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “Do you know much about the case?”
“Just that it was cold for a long time,” he tells me. “To tell you the truth, the brass is being kind of tight-lipped about it. Probably because there’s going to be a trial.”
He’s warming to me. Probably bored. Likable.
“Do you think Bowman did it?” I ask.
He takes the question in stride. “From what I understand, there was some kind of feud between Stoltzfus and Bowman. Sheriff’s department questioned him when the old man disappeared, but without a body…” He shrugs. “Nothing ever came of it. Then Doyle Schlabach found the bones and the case heated up quick.”
“So, investigators went back to Bowman.”
“Well, we found Bowman’s muzzleloader with the bones. That kind of sealed the deal. And, of course, Bowman doesn’t have an alibi.”
“That doesn’t help.” I look out across the field. “You guys look at anyone else?”
“Well, I’m not really involved in the case,” he tells me. “I mean, directly.”
He’s getting nervous about my asking too many questions. Once again, I’m reminded that I’m an outsider here, so I slow down, stop pushing. “I’m not trying to pressure you into telling me anything you’re not comfortable with.”
He smiles. “I appreciate that, but most of what I’ve told you is already out there for public consumption.”
“I’m just trying to sort through all of it.” I smile back. “Help the family negotiate the legal system.”
He shrugs. “Basically, everyone we talked to pointed a finger at Bowman.” He laughs. “Gotta hand it to him for being honest, though. A couple of deputies took that old muzzleloader that was found at the scene out to Bowman’s place, and he tells us right off the bat that it’s his. He didn’t try to lie or explain it away.” He shakes his head. “No offense, but if he’s trying to avoid prison, that didn’t exactly help his cause. The muzzleloader doesn’t have a serial number. Had Bowman kept his mouth shut, we probably wouldn’t have been able to prove it was his. Go figure.”
“Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a guilty man would do,” I say.
“Maybe.” He looks at me a little more closely, sizing me up again. “You think we got the wrong guy, or what?”
I shrug, noncommittal. “I knew Jonas when he was young and I can tell you he was a good person. So when the Amish elders asked for my help, I told them I’d look into it.”
He looks past me, nodding, saying nothing.
I keep going. “Were you around when the old man went missing?”
“Naw. I was just a kid.” He laughs. “Went out with my dad and searched though. We had an ATV and looked high and low for that old dude. Everyone figured he’d fallen down and hurt himself.”
“Do you guys have a theory on what happened?” I ask. “I mean, do you think Stoltzfus left his house to meet someone? Did he run into someone he wasn’t expecting? Or was he killed in the house, his body moved?”
“No one knows for sure.”
I think of the short walk I just took. “How far is the field where the remains were found from here?”
He motions in the general direction of where I just walked. “A couple of miles.”
“Was the field wooded back when Stoltzfus went missing?”
“This whole area was wooded. Farmers are clearing as they need more land. I think Schlabach and his daddy cleared that field a couple of years ago. The general consensus is that the body was buried in a shallow grave. Between the plowing and natural erosion, the bones worked their way to the surface.”
I think about that a moment. “Back when Stoltzfus went missing, do you recall if anyone happened to notice tire marks? From a car or buggy? Anything like that?”
He smiles. “I guess you are a cop.”
I smile back. “Character flaw.”
“I hear you.” He cocks his head. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’m not part of the investigation. Did you talk to anyone at the sheriff’s department?”
“Sergeant Gainer wasn’t too inclined to share information.”
“Ah.” He clears his throat. “He’s not known for his congeniality.”
“There’s one in every department.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He lets the silence ride a moment and then adds, “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”
I give him my card. “I appreciate it.”
We stand there in companionable silence for a minute or two, enjoying the breeze, the cacophony of birds all around.
“I reckon I ought to get back to work.” He pushes away from the vehicle.
I extend my hand. “Thanks for not writing me a ticket.”
“Glad I didn’t have to write up the report.”
We shake and go our separate ways.