I call the sheriff’s department twice on my way to the Bowman house. Once, I’m put on hold and never gotten back to. The second time I’m transferred to the public relations officer’s voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message.
The Bowman property is alight with the flashing blue lights of law enforcement vehicles when I arrive. I count three cruisers as I pull in to the driveway. A state police crime scene unit truck. A fifth vehicle—a white van—belongs to an NBC affiliate from nearby State College. A lone deputy stands in the driveway, pacing and talking on his phone. I catch sight of Dorothy on the front porch, huddled in a big cardigan sweater, lantern in hand, and I pull over and get out.
“What happened?” I ask as I start toward her.
The Amish woman is disheveled, hair sticking out from beneath her kapp. Sockless feet jammed into plain white sneakers. All of it telling me she was roused from sleep with no time to dress properly.
“They just came pounding on the door.” She brandishes the warrant, the papers rattling because her hand is shaking. “Gave me this. Said they were going to search that old well out back.”
“A water well?” Even as I say the words, I take the warrant and skim. Executed in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The warrant application was approved by the district attorney. In the description of the premises to be searched is the address of the home, but neither the house nor the workshop is listed. Instead, the area to be searched is listed as a nonoperational water well.
Farther down, I come to the place on the page where the specific evidence to be obtained is listed.
Firearms, ammunitions, biological evidence, multimedia devices, and any other physical evidence related to the crime in question.
Puzzled, I look at Dorothy. “Do you have any idea what they’re looking for?”
“I can’t imagine.” She shakes her head. “That well’s an old thing that was here when we bought the property. I’ve asked Jonas a dozen times to fill it in to make sure no one fell in.”
“Mamm!”
The three of us spin to see Junior burst through the front door. “They’re beating up Reuben!”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Stay put,” I tell them. Then I’m through the door, the living room and kitchen. I hit the back door with both hands. I spot lights through the trees as I take the steps two at a time to the walkway. I hear raised voices, but I’m too far away to make out what’s being said. The one thing that’s clear is that there’s some kind of scuffle taking place, and if I don’t get there quickly to deescalate the situation, Reuben might end up in jail with his father.
I yank my mini Maglite from my pocket as I jog across the grass. I enter the trees, see a deputy sheriff.
Flashlight in hand, he strides toward me. “Ma’am!”
“I’m a cop,” I tell him. “What happened?”
“You can’t be out here,” he says.
“I know, but there’s a minor child over there.” I slow down, keep moving toward the lights and the sounds of a heated confrontation. “Can you give me a hand?”
I’m aware of the deputy following me, keeping pace though I’m moving fast.
Another ten yards and I catch a glimpse of two deputies kneeling over someone on the ground. Reuben. Facedown. Arms behind his back. Shit. Shit.
“Reuben.” I slow, take a moment to crank it down a notch, calm myself. “He’s a minor child,” I say to the cops. “I can help.”
“Get her out of here!” a deputy shouts.
A second starts toward me. Face grim. Mouth taut. “Ma’am.”
“I’m a cop.” I point at Reuben. “A family friend. Let me get him out of your hair.”
The deputy stops a few feet away. In his eyes, I see a reluctant acknowledgment of the connection I’d been hoping for. The blue brotherhood. Right or wrong or somewhere in between, he’s recognized that I’m one of them. However tenuous the connection, I seize it, hold it tight.
“I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill, Ohio,” I tell them. “I need someone to tell me what the hell is going on.”
One of the deputies that had been kneeling next to Reuben gets to his feet. He’s sweating and disheveled. Pissed off. Leaves and dirt stuck to sweat-slicked arms. “If you want to keep this little shit out of jail, I suggest you take him to the house. Right now.”
“No problem.” I reach them as both men haul Reuben to his feet. The Amish boy’s shirt isn’t buttoned. His skinny, white chest is heaving and covered with dirt and dried grass. Hands cuffed behind his back. Single suspender dangles at his hip. He’s not wearing a hat. Head hanging down. Eyes not meeting mine.
“Bleiva roowich,” I say to Reuben. Stay calm.
The boy raises his eyes to mine, but he quickly looks back down at the ground.
“I can take it from here, guys,” I say to both deputies. “Thank you.” I turn my attention to the pissed-off deputy. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says nastily.
I jab a thumb at Reuben. “He won’t cause any more problems.”
The boy looks at me as if I’ve betrayed him and chokes out a sound of anger and frustration, his eyes sweeping to the deputy. “Eah sheeva mei mamm!” He pushed my mamm!
I point my finger at his face. “Don’t say another word.” I address him in English, my harsh tone leveled as much at the cops as at the boy.
Reuben hangs his head.
“Chief Burkholder.”
My heart sinks when I spot Rick Gainer approaching, the sergeant I spoke with at the sheriff’s department yesterday.
“Temper must run in the family.” He smiles, but his expression isn’t friendly.
“Teenagers aren’t exactly known for restraint,” I tell him.
He looks from the boy to me and frowns. “I’m an inch away from taking him down to juvie.”
I hold his gaze. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. This family has been through a lot.”
In the too-long pause that follows, sweat breaks out on my back, at my nape. I feel my own temper rise, but I force it back. Finally, Gainer nods at the deputy holding Reuben. “Cut him loose.”
While the deputy unlocks the cuffs, I look past him at the well. “What are you guys looking for?” I ask Gainer.
“It’s all in the warrant.” It’s the standard-issue response when you don’t want to answer. I’ve uttered those very same words myself dozens of times.
“Timing is interesting,” I say. “You get some new information?”
He offers up a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know smirk.
I smile. “I guess you’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Keeping my expression neutral, I focus on the well. The stone wall surrounding the pit is about two feet high, some of which has collapsed. There’s no cover or bucket. The crime scene unit investigator has set up a work light on a scaffolding. A second investigator is in the process of lowering something into the well. A light? A camera? Both?
When the cuffs are off, Reuben looks at the deputy, awkward and sheepish, then at me.
“Let’s go,” I say firmly.
Reuben gapes at me, incredulity flaring in his eyes. “But they can’t—”
“Yes, they can.” I set my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “They have a warrant.”
A sound of resignation and disappointment hisses between his lips. “I thought you knew how to stand up to people.”
I stop and face him. “There’s a difference between standing up for what’s right and getting yourself thrown into some juvenile detention center for no good reason. You should take a few minutes and think about that.”
He looks at me, nostrils flaring, mouth taut. At that moment, he looks so much like Jacob when he was that age that my chest aches.
“Go inside,” I tell him. “Ask your mamm to make coffee. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Without a word, he turns and starts for the house.
I linger on the periphery of the scene. Twice, I’m told to back away and keep my distance. Twice, I slowly work my way back, but I can’t get close enough to see what they’re doing. Someone brought in a generator. The roar of the engine makes it difficult to hear. Despite the work lights, there’s not enough light to see. I talk to a couple of deputies, one of whom tells me they sent someone into the hole and that he’s encountered water. They’re being tight-lipped about what they’re looking for. Whatever it is, it’s got them wound up. It chafes to be left in the dark.
Dawn spreads pink and gray across the eastern horizon when I spot the deputy I met yesterday at the old Stoltzfus place. I search my memory for his name. Kris Vance. He’s brought coffee for his peers, and both arms are laden with cardboard trays containing to-go cups. An underling relegated to providing the creature comforts of his higher-ups.
“Need a hand with that?” I ask.
“Ah … better not since you’re…”
“The opposition.”
He laughs. “Right.”
I give him a few minutes to distribute the coffee, then approach him, not getting too close. “You been on duty all night?” I ask.
He nods, sips from his cup. “Pulled a double.”
“Coffee helps.” For the span of several minutes, we watch the deputies mill about.
“I think they sent someone down the well,” I tell him.
“Huh.” Noncommittal, then, “Interesting.”
“Any idea what they’re looking for?” I ask.
He looks around to see if anyone has noticed him talking to me. “Not sure,” he says, without looking at me. “I was on patrol when Sarge called and asked me to bring coffee.”
The tempo of the men’s voices rises. Deputy Vance makes eye contact with me then saunters over to the well for a look. I stick with him in time to see a man in a Tyvek suit being raised from the depths. He’s wearing a headlamp. Gloves. A face mask. Shoe covers. As if he’s expecting to encounter some kind of biological contaminant or evidence. Even more interesting is the fact that he’s carrying two small cardboard boxes.
What the hell is in the boxes and what does it have to do with Jonas? Does it have anything to do with the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus? More importantly, how did the sheriff’s department know to find it in the well?
I try to get closer, but I’m stopped by a deputy. I’ve lost track of Vance. I hang around a few more minutes, but the deputies and crime scene investigators are starting to break down the lights and generator. Whatever they were looking for, they found.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting at the big table in the kitchen, working on my second cup of coffee. Junior and Effie sit across from me, eating scrambled eggs and toast without enjoyment or enthusiasm, staring into their plates, unspeaking. Dorothy pours herself a cup of coffee from the old-fashioned percolator and joins me.
“Do you have any idea what the police were looking for?” I ask the question of no one in particular, knowing any one of them might have an answer.
Dorothy shakes her head. “No one would say.”
Reuben enters the kitchen. He’s fully dressed in trousers and a blue work shirt, single suspender looped over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at anyone as he goes to the counter and pulls a plate from the cupboard.
Dorothy starts to rise, but he raises his hand. “I’ll get it, Mamm.”
The Amish woman settles back into her chair, worried eyes moving from Reuben to me and back to her son. “Es is dunk-oiyah,” she tells him. There are eggs.
Without responding, he goes to the stove and shovels two eggs onto his plate. I can tell by his body language he’s still angry. That he’d prefer not to deal with any of us this morning. Likely, that he’s not proud of getting himself handcuffed and nearly arrested.
“I was just asking your mamm if she had any idea what the police were looking for,” I say to him.
He glances at me over his shoulder, sets down the spatula, and joins us at the table. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he mumbles. Still not making eye contact with anyone.
For the first time I notice the abrasion on his cheekbone. The burgeoning bruise beneath his eye. And I wonder how much those deputies roughed him up. If they had cause.
Dorothy scoots a small bowl toward her son. “Es is gebacht brot un abbel budder zu.” There’s toast and apple butter, too. “Now eat.”
Reuben raises his gaze to his mother. “That deputy pushed you,” he said.
Dorothy waves off the statement. “I got in the way is all.”
Mouth tight, he snags toast and slathers it with apple butter. “They’re not supposed to do that.”
Junior sets down his fork. “I-I threw r-rocks into the well,” he blurts.
All eyes turn to Junior. The boy has stopped chewing. He sits stone-still, his eyes moving from me to his mamm to Reuben. “Melvin M-Mast said you can c-c-count the seconds between when you let go and it hits the water and f-figure out how deep it is. We w-wanted to know.”
Dorothy gives him a sympathetic look and pats his hand. “I don’t think the police are looking for rocks.”
“They were looking for bones,” Reuben says.
That gets my attention. “What bones?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know, but I heard the deputy say something about bones. When they lowered that light and camera. He was talking on the radio. To the guy down in the well.”
“Are you sure they weren’t talking about the bones in the field?” I’m keenly aware that Junior and Effie have stopped eating and that this isn’t the kind of conversation to have in the company of young children, especially when they know their father is in jail.
Reuben raises his gaze to mine. “He said the bones in the well.”
“Any idea who they belong to?” I ask. “Or who put them there?”
He shakes his head. “That’s what I was trying to find out when the deputy jumped me.”
Effie sets down her fork, blinks at her mamm. “Do the police think Datt did something bad to someone else?”
“Those police don’t know what they think.” Dorothy gets to her feet. “Pounding on the door at five o’clock in the morning like they did.” She brings her hands together. “If you kids are going to get those cabinets finished today, I suspect you ought to get started.”
I’m barely aware of the youngsters taking their dishes to the sink and clattering out the back door. Is Reuben mistaken about what the sheriff’s deputies were talking about? Human remains are the last thing I’d expect them to be looking for. Even so, it would explain the predawn raid, the crime scene unit, and the Tyvek-clad investigator.
Such a discovery would raise a lot more questions than it solved. Who do the remains belong to? Is there a second murder victim I’m not aware of? How did the bones get in the well? And how did the sheriff’s department know they were there? Most importantly, what do the bones have to do with Jonas and the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus?