As is always the case at the start of a homicide investigation, there are a hundred things to do and they all needed to be done yesterday. While experience has taught me the art of prioritization, I don’t fare as well when it comes to keeping my impatience in check. Not only do I have little in the way of hard facts, but I’m out of my jurisdiction and operating without my usual resources. Worse, I’m personally involved in a way that will likely work against me—at least in terms of my contemporaries. Sergeant Gainer made it clear that my law enforcement credentials will not garner me preferential treatment. In fact, I’m under the impression that he’ll go out of his way to keep me at arm’s length—and in the dark.
I’m in the Explorer, heading toward Belleville, where I have reservations for a room at the Kish Valley Motel and RV Park. I’m anxious to get checked in and unpacked, but there’s one more thing I want to do before I run out of light.
The land where the remains were found is owned by an Amish man by the name of Doyle Schlabach. According to newspaper accounts, he was cutting hay when he discovered the skull. I have no idea if visiting the scene will be helpful, but it’s a starting point. I’m not sure if he’ll grant me access to the property, but it’s worth a shot.
The Schlabach farm is on the north side of Belleville at the foot of a verdant green ridge. I make the turn into a long gravel lane, and I’m rewarded with a view so spectacular, I roll to a stop just to admire it. Lush with forest and surrounded by the gray veil of evening humidity, the mountain is a majestic sight. A four-rail wood fence lines both sides of the lane. Farther in, an ancient German bank barn is built into the hillside, with the livestock pens facing the front and the upper, bank side of the barn looking out at the ridge. These kinds of barns are common in Ohio. What differentiates this barn is a forebay where the upper-level wall overshoots the foundation.
The lane curves left and a frame house looms into view. It’s a typical Amish farmhouse with the appearance of having been added on to several times over the decades and not all of those additions executed with forethought.
I do a double take upon spotting the buggy parked beneath a giant oak tree, its shafts resting on the ground. I’ve heard of the Pennsylvania yellow-topped buggies, but I’ve never seen one and it’s a shocking sight to behold. The lemon-yellow top is anything but plain. I park next to it and get out of the Explorer. The brightly colored top isn’t the only difference from the buggies I’m used to seeing in Painters Mill. There are rearview mirrors on both the driver’s and passenger sides. At the rear, someone has installed brake lights, taillights, half a dozen reflectors, and two slow-moving-vehicle signs. Nearly as astounding as the yellow top is an interior decked out with green velvet and a gleaming burled-walnut dash more befitting a Rolls-Royce.
“She’s a nice one, ain’t she?”
I turn to see an Amish man approach. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties. A longish beard that tells me he’s married. He’s wearing typical Amish garb—trousers, work shirt, and a flat-brimmed straw hat. A single suspender crosses at his chest.
“It’s the most amazing workmanship on a buggy I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.
He grins. “I’m no craftsman—just ask my wife—but I do appreciate all that walnut. Too pretty for a buggy, if you ask me. Definitely got all the bells and whistles. Watch this.” He leans into the buggy and punches a button. He tugs a cigarette pack from his pocket, taps one out. By the time he’s got the cigarette in his mouth, the lighter has popped out of its place in the dash, and he lights up.
“Comes in handy if there’s a smoker in the family,” he says.
I’m not sure which surprises me most, the lighter set into the dash or the fact that he’s smoking. At a loss for words, I extend my hand and introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police over in Painters Mill, Ohio.”
“Burkholder, huh?” He squints at me. “There’s a good name for you.”
“I’m an old friend of Jonas Bowman’s,” I tell him. “The Diener asked me to look into what happened.”
“Ah. Holy cow.” The mention of Jonas seems to deflate his mood. “Awful thing. About the bishop. Jonas, too.”
I glance toward the fields spread out to my left. “I understand you discovered the remains.”
He puffs the cigarette and motions toward the rear of the property. “I was out cutting alfalfa that day. Thought the blade hit a rock. I stopped to toss it and … there it was.” He feigns a shiver. “You don’t expect to see something like that. At first, I thought it might be some historical thing. You know, an old grave. A pioneer or forefather. Then I remembered the bishop disappearing and a shiver went right through me.” He exhales smoke. “I called the police. They came out with all their tools and such. Spent two days digging around in that field. Had those bones identified in a couple of weeks.”
The laugh that follows sounds forced. “I’m no believer in ghosts, but I ain’t been in the field since.”
“Would you mind if I took a look at the scene?”
He hesitates, his smile faltering. “I reckon I could walk back there with you.”
“I know you’re busy,” I say, giving him an out if he wants it. “If you point me in the right direction, I’m happy to walk on my own. I shouldn’t be but a few minutes.”
“Well, my wife is wanting me to finish that raised flower bed by the garden.” He flicks the cigarette to the gravel and crushes it beneath his boot. “I’ll walk you part of the way.”
It’s a half-mile hike to the field. As we walk, I learn that Doyle and his wife are Byler Amish. I don’t know much about them. My datt used to refer to them as “bean soupers,” ostensibly because they regularly served bean soup for lunch after the preaching service. The men wear their hair shorter than some of the other sects. The women sometimes wear brown bonnets. And, of course, the yellow-topped buggies.
“Do you know Jonas?” I ask.
We’re on a dirt two-track. A cornfield to our right. Thick woods to our left and, beyond, the steep ascent of the ridge.
“Sure. I’ve talked to him a hundred times over the years. Church Sunday, you know. Helped him on that workshop he built a few years ago. My wife spent some time with Dorothy down to the auction last summer, selling bread and cakes and whatnot.” He shakes his head, his brows knitting. “Good family. I always liked Jonas. Some people say he has a temper, but I never saw it. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to think when I heard they arrested him. Didn’t seem right.”
“Ananias was your bishop?”
“Bishop Stoltzfus baptized me. Got me married off.” He slides his hand under his hat and scratches his head. “In fact, that was the last time I saw him. I was about twenty, I guess.”
“What kind of bishop was he?”
“Some people thought he was strict. You know, kind of set in his ways.” He laughs. “Ananias was tough on backsliders.”
“The sergeant at the sheriff’s department told me there were problems between Jonas and the bishop.”
“Well…” The Amish man ducks his head, looks out across the field, away from me. Hesitant to engage in gossip or say anything negative about one of his brethren. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from our shoes against the ground.
“I’m not here to make judgments,” I say. “I’m just trying to get a handle on the relationship between the two men, so I can figure out what happened.”
Doyle nods, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Fair enough, I guess.”
A rustle in the grass, the breaking of brush to my right startles both of us. I glance over to see a deer and fawn bound across the road and disappear into the trees.
Doyle sets his hand against his chest and bursts out laughing. “That’ll get your heart started.”
“Or maybe stop it.”
We start walking again. Not for the first time, I’m drawn to the beauty of our surroundings. The razor-straight rows of corn in the field we just passed. The lush greenery of the woods and the cacophony of birdsong. Farther, the hulking form of the ridge. I’ve almost given up on getting any useful information out of Doyle when he speaks.
“Jonas’s datt was a minister, you know. Ezra was a good man, too. A good Amisch. More lenient than Ananias, I guess.” He whistles between his teeth. “From what I hear, the two men butted heads a time or two. Ananias could be a hard man. He enforced the rules with an iron hand and was always looking to add more. Bowman was more moderate, willing to ease the rules, especially when it came to technology.”
“Phone?” I ask. “Computer? Electricity?”
“All of it.” He laughs. “And that’s not to mention the tractor!”
We reach a gate. He unlatches the chain, opens it, and we go through. “Boy, did it cause a stir.”
“I bet.” To a non-Amish person, the purchase of a tractor doesn’t sound like a big deal. If you’re Amish, it’s huge. I think back to my own upbringing and I know that not only would such a bold act have been eschewed by the community, but Bishop Troyer never would have allowed it.
“Ezra argued that the tractor was fine because it was a diesel. He even modified the wheels so they were without rubber. Wasn’t good enough for the bishop. Ananias saw the purchase as worldly and claimed the tractor would do violence to the land. He told Bowman to get rid of it.”
Doyle casts a smile in my direction. “Those Bowmans are a stubborn bunch. Ezra used that tractor all spring. Plowed and planted every field. He bought implements, too. Worse, a couple of his Amish neighbors borrowed the thing. That’s when the bishop put him under the bann.”
Doyle shrugs. “What made all of this really bad is that people started taking sides. Some thought we should be able to use tractors—if the engines are diesel—to make life easier, you know. Others were put out by the idea. The situation got so bad Ananias stepped in and silenced Bowman.
“Two weeks later, Bowman died. Just keeled over when he was working in the field. English doctor said it was a heart attack. From what I hear it hit Jonas hard.” Doyle shakes his head. “It was a bad time. Everyone figured things would get back to normal. They didn’t.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Well, all those Amish who supported Bowman still wanted to leave and form their own church group.” Grimacing, he looks down at the ground, then at me. “You’d have a better understanding if you were Amish, I guess.”
“I was,” I say simply.
He gives me a lopsided smile, not sure if I’m pulling his leg.
“I left when I was a teenager,” I say in Deitsch.
“I guess you do know how it is then,” he says. “It’s not the bobblemoul you have to worry about.” The blabbermouth. “But the silent dissenters who leave.” He taps his chest. “They keep all of their discontent inside.”
I nod, understanding.
“I saw Jonas and Ananias go at it that Sunday after the preaching service. It was ugly. No one knew what to think. The one thing we did know, is that we didn’t like it.” He shoves both hands into his pockets and shakes his head, as if he still can’t believe the incident even happened. “In his defense, Jonas was young. Hurting, you know. Just lost his datt and all. He basically accused Ananias of killing his father.” He heaves a sigh. “A couple weeks later, Ananias Stoltzfus disappeared.”
We reach another gate. This one is steel pipe and held in place with a wire loop. Doyle lifts the loop and pushes open the gate, but he doesn’t go through.
“This is as far as I go, Chief Burkholder.”
It’s another pretty spot. The alfalfa is bright green. The fence is newish. Trees growing along the fence line. To my right, a rusty windmill tower lies on its side, the fan blades bent and entangled in hip-high weeds. Beyond, I can just make out the jut of a brick chimney where a house had once stood.
“This was once a farm back here?” I ask.
Doyle nods. “It’s been abandoned for as long as I can remember.” He points to the old chimney. “House burned down a few years ago. My datt and I tore down the barn. Windmill collapsed in a storm last spring.”
I nod. “Was anyone living here when Ananias disappeared?”
“No. ma’am. No one has lived here since before I was born. Land went up for sale a few years ago.” He motions toward the alfalfa field. “I bought that field there. Thirty-five acres. Abuts my own property. My datt and I cleared the trees and strung that wire fence. I planted alfalfa first spring I owned it. It’s given me a good crop every year since.”
“Where did you find the bones?”
He touches my shoulder and points. “About twenty feet from that end post there. I was cutting with my two jennies and I’d just made the turn for the final cut.” He makes a sound to indicate fright. “Never forget the way those teeth grinned at me when I turned it over in my hands.” He gives himself a shake. “I’d best get back to work.”
“I appreciate your bringing me back here and letting me look around. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time, Chief Burkholder.” Grinning, he mimics another shiver. “You might want to keep an eye out for kshpukka though.” Ghosts. “I hear there’s one haunts those woods when the sun goes down.”