Information is a priceless commodity during an investigation. The more you know, the closer you are to the big solve. Unfortunately for me, information is the one thing the sheriff’s department won’t share. I’m no stranger to being stonewalled. When you’re a cop, there’s always someone with an agenda who’s willing to lie, cheat, and steal to keep you in the dark.
Being shut out of an investigation by fellow cops is different. I’m involved in this case as a civilian; no one is obliged to work with me. They don’t have to share information or answer my questions or even return my calls. I’m an outsider with a personal connection to the suspect which places me squarely on the opposing team.
Frustration sizzles like acid on skin as I toss my cell onto the passenger seat and pull onto the highway. All I can do at this point is push forward, keep digging, and add as much information to my arsenal as I can. As hopeless as it seems at the moment, things will eventually come together. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
The key to working a cold case is to treat every piece of information as if it’s fresh. Start at the beginning and retrace every step. Go through the motions and don’t make the rookie mistake of taking shortcuts because you know it’s already been done. If the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus had just happened, I’d start by looking at anyone who’d had a disagreement with him. While Jonas would be at the top of that list, Roman Miller wouldn’t be far behind.
He lives west of Menno, several miles outside of Belleville proper. It’s a nice-looking spread with a redbrick ranch house surrounded by a split-rail fence, and a pretty horse barn at the rear. I pull into the gravel drive and park next to a rusty two-horse trailer hitched to an old pickup truck. Two blue heelers rush from the barn, hackles up, barking.
I’m trying to decide whether to get back into the Explorer or try to make it to the house without getting bitten when a voice calls out.
“Girls! That’s enough!”
I look over the hood of the Explorer to see a woman on a big paint horse trotting toward me. Leather saddle squeaking. Buckles jangling. Shod hooves clanking against gravel.
The dogs back off, wagging their tails now, but keeping eyes on me nonetheless. The woman stops the horse a few feet away. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Roman Miller,” I tell her.
“You and me both,” she says with a huff. “The man disappears every time there’s an inkling of work to be done around here.” She makes the statement good-naturedly, but I can tell by her expression there’s a thread of truth to it.
I cross to the horse and run my hand over its neck. The animal’s nostrils are flared. Its coat is sleek and damp with sweat. A bit of lather where the saddle pad meets shoulder. “He’s a beauty,” I tell her.
“She,” the woman corrects. “And she’s the biggest bitch I’ve had since that Appaloosa gave me two broken ribs and a concussion last summer. If I didn’t love ’em so much, I swear I’d ship them off to the glue factory.”
I make a noncommittal sound as I run my fingertips over the animal’s muzzle, liking the velvety feel of it, the smell of the horse.
The woman is a talker and just getting warmed up. “If I had a steady income, I’d do the same to that no-good husband of mine.” Somehow, she makes the statement with affection. “He knows it, too.”
She looks down at me, tilts her head. “What do you want with Roman?”
I introduce myself. “I’m a family friend of Jonas Bowman and I’m looking into the Stoltzfus case.”
“Heard they found his bones.” She blows out a breath. “That’s some creepy stuff.”
I nod, aware that the horse is nuzzling me, and I get the impression that despite this woman’s tough talk, the animal gets its fair share of carrots.
“I suspect Roman’s in the barn.” Making a sound of supreme irritation, she motions. “He goes in there, makes all sorts of noise so I’ll think he’s working. Saw. Hammer. Whatever. I go in to check and he’s sitting on his ass with a beer in his hand. I swear I’m going to cut him loose one of these days.”
I clear my throat, reach down to pat one of the dogs, pleased when the animal wags its tail.
She gathers the reins. “Go on in,” she tells me. “I suspect he’ll give you an earful about Stoltzfus. I’m going to finish my ride.”
The dogs follow her. I start toward the barn. It’s a newish structure with a wide center aisle and horse stalls on both sides. I see the silhouette of a horse cross-tied at the far end, a man in a Western hat bent over, working on the animal’s hoof. A floor fan blows warm air on both of them.
“Mr. Miller?”
He lowers the horse’s hoof and straightens, looks at me over his shoulder. “You found him.”
The smells of horses and wood and fresh-cut hay play at my olfactory nerves as I approach him. “Nice place you have here.”
“We like it.” He tips his head, looks at me from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. “I’m not taking on any new clients right now.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about Ananias Stoltzfus.”
He pushes up the brim of his hat, gives me a once-over. “You some kind of cop?”
I introduce myself. “I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill, Ohio, but I’m here as a friend of the Bowman family.”
“Burkholder, huh? You Amish or what?”
“I was.”
“Huh.” He sets down the rasp he’d been using and gives me his full attention. “Wouldn’t want to be in Jonas Bowman’s shoes. Dude’s in a shitload of trouble.”
I nod. “I hear you had some problems with Ananias Stoltzfus yourself.”
“Word gets around, don’t it?” He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “You’d think after all these years those Amish pricks would find something else to talk about besides me.”
“I was probably asking pointed questions,” I tell him.
“At least you’re honest about it.”
“I understand you were excommunicated.” I make the statement in Deitsch. I’m not above using whatever connection I share with this man to gain his trust and get him to talk to me.
He blinks in surprise, but takes the question in stride. “Broke my parents’ hearts, but there was no going back. No one to blame but Ananias Stoltzfus. Not to speak ill of the dead, but that sumbitch was mean as a damn snake.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t like me dating a Mennonite girl.” His eyes sweep to the doorway to indicate the woman on the horse. “Ananias found out and tried to warn me away from her. When I didn’t give her up, he put me under the bann. When I didn’t come around, he lowered the boom.” He levels a knowing gaze on me. “If you were Amish, you know what that means.”
“I do.”
“Not only was it tough on my family, but it ruined me financially. I’m a farrier, you know. My clients were Amish. They refused to let me shoe their horses. I’d just bought some equipment so I could hot-shoe, and then there goes my business. My equipment got repossessed. Credit got ruined.” He spits out the last word as if it’s gone rotten in his mouth. “So, yeah, I wasn’t real happy with the bishop.”
The level of animosity after so much time surprises me. “Did you argue with him?”
“He was trying to run my life and when I didn’t let him, he ruined me. So, yeah, we had a go of it a few times. He was too strict and he wasn’t very nice about it. I wasn’t the only one who thought so.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“It was kind of a general consensus kind of thing. The Amish don’t go around complaining about their bishop, if you know what I mean.”
“Did the police talk to you when Ananias disappeared?”
“Oh, yeah. They came pounding on my door first thing, pointing their fingers and asking questions. Had me on their radar for years. No offense, but I’m not a big fan of cops.”
“None taken.”
“Lucky for me, Bowman left that old muzzleloader at the scene.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Or else it might’ve been me stuck in jail instead of him.”
“What do you think happened to Ananias Stoltzfus?” I ask.
“As far as I’m concerned, Bowman did all of us a big favor.”
When I don’t respond, he shakes his head. “Look, I have no clue who offed the old man. All I’m saying is people have their limits.”
“You think someone reached their limit and decided to do something about it?”
“I think a lot of the Amish didn’t care for his heavy-handed ways. Ananias Stoltzfus bullied people in the name of the Ordnung. If you were Amish, you know what that means and it ain’t right.”
I think about the thoughtful and careful process the Amish use for the selection of their Diener—the bishop, deacon, and ministers—which is by lot. They eschew any notion of power as being worldly.
“If Ananias Stoltzfus was a tyrant, how is it that he was elected bishop?” I ask.
His brows knit as if he’s trying to recall. “I don’t think he was overbearing from the start. From what I hear, it got worse after his wife passed away.”
“How so?”
“I think that’s when he started cracking down on people. Especially the backsliders. Like me.” He offers a self-deprecating smile. “Guess you can’t blame him for being a crotchety old bastard. The way his wife died and all.”
“How did she die?”
He looks at me as if he’s surprised I don’t already know. “She walked into the Lutheran church in Belleville and slit her wrists right there by the altar. Pastor found her. She died before they could get her to the hospital.”
“Any idea why she did it?” I ask.
“Everyone was pretty tight-lipped about it. Even the newspaper didn’t go into much detail.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“A few years before Ananias disappeared.” He uses a kerchief to blot sweat from his temple. “But, damn, cutting your wrists in a Lutheran church when you’re Amish? Who does something like that?”