I have no idea if the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus is related in any way to the death of her husband, but the story follows me as I pull onto the road and head east. The suicide rate among the Amish is slightly lower than the general population. But, of course, it happens. Depression and despair are human conditions and the Amish are not immune. What sets Mia Stoltzfus’s suicide apart is that she chose to do it in a Lutheran church. Why would an Amish woman, an Anabaptist, choose to take her life in a Lutheran church?
The question nags me as I glance at my GPS and head toward the address for Henry Stoltzfus, Ananias’s son. He lives on a postcard-perfect farm nestled between two hills with a small creek running through the dale between. A grain silo overlooks the field to my left. A massive red barn and three smaller structures are connected by a jigsaw of wood fences dressed in fresh white paint. On the right, a windmill nearly as tall as the two-story farmhouse dominates the side yard, green vines snaking toward the bladed topper.
I idle past the barns and stop in the gravel area at the side of the house. It’s a frame structure with a green composite roof, a redbrick chimney, and a porch that stretches across the front elevation. I’m midway to the door when I notice the midsize barn behind the house. It’s a workshop of sorts and the door is open. Seeing light and movement inside, I head that way.
There’s a picnic table in front of the building. A giant stockpot simmers atop a homemade tripod set over an open fire. An Amish boy of about twelve emerges from the interior. He’s wearing blue trousers and a work shirt. Straw, flat-brimmed hat. Single suspender crossed over his chest. He’s carrying a headless chicken by its feet. Butchering day, I realize.
“Hello there,” I say.
The boy nods a greeting, holding the dead chicken far enough away to keep blood off his shoes.
“I’m looking for Henry Stoltzfus,” I say. “Is he around?”
The boy points toward the open door.
I enter the dimly lit interior to the sound of clucking chickens. Two headless creatures hang by their feet from the low-slung rafter overhead. Three roosters await their fate from wood crates stacked on the floor.
“What do you want?”
At the sound of the voice, I turn to see a stern-faced Amish man approach from a darkened corridor. He’s blond-haired and blue-eyed with a coarse-looking beard the color of straw. He’s dressed similarly to the boy. His expression tells me he’s not thrilled to see an Englischer standing in his barn.
I go to him, extend my hand for a shake, and introduce myself. “I’m looking into what happened to your father. The Diener asked me to help.”
He doesn’t accept the handshake. “Help who?”
“Anyone interested in the truth,” I say.
“Why you?” He gives my clothes a pointed look. “You’re hohch.”
It’s a slightly derogatory term for a non-Amish person. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it; I don’t take it personally. Sensing my time is limited, I make my point in Deitsch. “Any information you can share will be very much appreciated.”
Unimpressed, he bends and pulls a chicken from one of the crates. The animal’s wings flap as he lays it on the bench in front of him. With deft hands, he wraps baling twine around the bird’s feet and draws it tight. “The police said he’d been shot. They found Bowman’s muzzleloader next to him. That is the only truth I need.”
He picks up the ax. I brace an instant before he brings it down on the chicken’s neck.
I glance away, give him a moment to hang the bird to drain. “I know it was a terrible time,” I say. “Mr. Stoltzfus, I just want to make sure the right person is found and brought to trial.”
The boy I saw earlier enters, his eyes flicking from his datt to me and back to his datt. He knows something’s afoot and wants no part of it. Stoltzfus and I fall silent and watch as the boy picks up the headless chicken and takes it outside to scald and pluck.
Stoltzfus sets down the ax. “Tell me this, Kate Burkholder. What kind of man hates an eighty-six-year-old bishop so much that he strikes him down with a gun? What kind of man buries the body so that the family will never know what happened? Perhaps you should consider those questions before you come to my home and ask for my help.”
“Whoever did that to your father deserves to be punished,” I tell him.
A knowing light enters his eyes. He gives a satisfied nod. “You’ve strayed far since leaving the church, no?”
“This has nothing to do with me.”
“If you were Amish, you would know it is God who makes the final judgment. Not the police or judge or jury. Certainly not a backslider like you.”
I take the insult in stride, keep going. “That may be true, Mr. Stoltzfus, but what if Jonas Bowman didn’t do it? He’s Amish. With a wife and children. The truth matters.”
“I leave the truth to God.”
“Even if the person who did it is still out there?” I say. “What if he kills again?”
He stops working and gives me his full attention. “You need proof that Jonas did this thing?”
“I’ll take any information you have.”
“Maybe you should ask my sister about the letter.”
I blink, confused. “What letter?”
A smirk slinks across his mouth. “Jonas Bowman threatened to kill my datt. Judging from the look on your face, I’d venture to say he forgot to mention it.”
It’s the first I’ve heard of the existence of a letter. “I talked to Mary Elizabeth yesterday. She didn’t mention it.”
“For having been Amish, you know little about our ways.” He bends and removes the last chicken from its crate. “Now leave me and my family in peace. Do not come back. I do not wish to talk to you or expose my children to your kind.”
“Well, that went swimmingly,” I mutter as I climb into the Explorer and start the engine.
I expected a certain level of mistrust, especially from the family of the victim. Forgiveness may be one of the most fundamental Amish tenets, but there are times when emotion transcends ideology. Evidently, if there’s any helpful information to be had, it’s not going to come from Henry Stoltzfus.
I’ve gone just a mile or so down the road when my cell phone chirps. I glance over, see a local number I don’t recognize.
“Chief Burkholder, this is Deputy Vance.”
“The deputy who didn’t write me a ticket for trespassing.” In the back of my mind, I wonder if Sergeant Gainer has relegated an underling to deal with me and my questions.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “Especially about the Stoltzfus investigation. But I’ve got something to say.”
I pull over and park. “Something bothering you about the case?”
“When we talked before, I told you I bought my kitchen cabinets from Jonas Bowman.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I spent some time with him and his kids the week they installed those cabinets and worked on my kitchen.”
“They’re a nice family,” I say.
“Yes, they are.” When he speaks again, his voice is so low I have to turn up the volume of my phone. “I shouldn’t be telling you what I’m about to tell you.”
“If you’re asking me if I’ll keep my mouth shut, the answer is yes.”
Another pregnant pause and then, “The investigator found human remains in that well. Bones.”
“They found another body?”
“Not a whole body. Just … hand bones.”
“Hand bones?” I mull the possibilities, come up short. “Who do they belong to?”
“We sent them to the lab up in Erie for DNA testing. It’s going to take a while, depending on how backed up the lab is.”
My cop’s antennae are cranked up and on high alert, my heart beginning to thrum. I know that even though the bones were sent to a police lab for identification, chances are the cops know more than they’re letting on or making public.
“You’re sure this is related to the Stoltzfus case?” I ask.
“You know it is.” The pause that follows is so long that for a second I think he hung up on me. Then he continues. “The detective in charge thinks those remains belong to Ananias Stoltzfus.”
“I thought his remains were found in the hayfield.”
“They were. Investigators never made it public, but the hands were missing.”
“Someone … ostensibly the killer … cut off his hands?”
“Both hands were severed at the wrists.”
I’m so gobsmacked that I can’t find my voice. I break the silence by posing the obvious question. “Why would someone do that?”
“No one has a clue,” he tells me. “I mean, usually when that sort of thing is done, it’s to hide the victim’s identity. You know, fingerprints or whatnot. But Stoltzfus was local and missing. With or without hands, he’d be identified the moment he was found. The whole thing’s a mystery.”
“What’s the theory on how the hands ended up in the well?” I ask.
“The general consensus is that Bowman panicked. He removed the hands thinking it would make the identification process more difficult.”
“But why would he hide the evidence on his own property?”
“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t make sense. Hence my call to you.”
“How did you guys know the bones were in the well?” I ask.
“I’m not privy to the details, but from what I understand an anonymous tip came in.”
“Kind of convenient, don’t you think?”
“I’m not calling you because I’m buying in to all of this, right?”
“Any idea who the tipster was?”
“No clue and no one’s talking.” He sighs. “The thing is, Chief Burkholder, the sheriff is up for reelection this year. Word has it, he wants a slam dunk on this case.”
“Whether he has the right man or not.”
“No comment. Look, I need my job. Word gets out that I called you and I’m done.”
I think about my conversation with Henry Stoltzfus. My mind trying to connect dots that simply don’t connect. “I understand Ananias Stoltzfus received a threatening letter from Jonas Bowman. Do you know anything about that?”
“Don’t know anything about a letter.”
Which makes me wonder if Henry Stoltzfus was just blowing smoke.
Vance heaves an unhappy sigh. “Look, you didn’t hear any of this from me.”
“Kris who?”
His laugh is short-lived. “I don’t like what’s going on. I sure don’t feel good about calling you. But I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“I’ll keep this between us,” I tell him.
He ends the call without responding.
One of the most difficult aspects of investigating any crime is not knowing if you’re on the right track. Early on, there’s always a certain amount of wheel spinning, false leads, and incorrect assumptions, all of which leads to hours and days and sometimes weeks of wasted time and energy. It’s part of the process. When I arrived in Belleville, I had my doubts about Jonas’s innocence. There is, after all, a fair amount of physical evidence against him, namely the muzzleloader. He had motive, means, and opportunity. Add the circumstantial evidence—bad blood between Jonas and the victim—and the police had just cause to make the arrest.
One of the most telling things I look for is motivation. The presence of bones in the well doesn’t make sense on any level. For one thing, Jonas had no reason to remove the hands; he would have known that any body discovered would be assumed to be that of Ananias Stoltzfus. Even if, in a state of panic, he did remove the hands, why would he dispose of them on his own property? And who called in the anonymous tip? The discovery raises a hell of a lot more questions than it answers.
It’s ten P.M. now. I’m sitting at the table in my motel room, my laptop humming, a yellow legal pad open and scribbled upon. I’m tired, but too wired to sleep. The only thing I’ve managed to accomplish so far is a stiff neck.
One of the most troubling questions raised is the source of the anonymous tip. Who called the sheriff’s department? How did the caller know the bones were in the well? And why now? After eighteen years?
I pick up the pen and write: Who knew the bones were there?
The killer.
An accomplice?
“Why cut off the hands?” I whisper.
The killer would have known that removing the hands would do nothing to slow the identification process. Any human remains would be assumed to be that of a missing person. Furthermore, if Jonas had murdered Ananias Stoltzfus, why would he bury the body in a shallow grave in one location and then transport the victim’s hands to his own property and toss them in a well?
The short answer is, he wouldn’t.
Knowing I’m not going to figure it out tonight, I swivel to my laptop and type “MIA STOLTZFUS SUICIDE” into the search engine. Her death doesn’t produce many hits. I click on the first link—a newspaper out of Lewistown—and read.
WIFE OF AMISH BISHOP COMMITS SUICIDE IN LOCAL CHURCH
A spokesman with the Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department said the woman whose body was found at Big Valley Lutheran Church appears to be the victim of a suicide. Pastor Russell Zimmerman stumbled across the woman sprawled on the floor a few feet from the altar at 6 this morning.
The sheriff’s department spokesman said the death appears to be suicide, but left the final determination up to the county coroner.
Repeated calls for comment were not returned from the coroner’s office.
The woman, said to be Amish and in her 70s, was not named pending notification of family.
“Nothing like this has ever happened in Big Valley Lutheran Church before,” the pastor said. “Whatever problems she suffered with, she is now in the loving arms of our Lord and Savior.”
I go back to my search engine, but there’s no mention of the official cause or manner of death or if there was an investigation. Normally, a seemingly unrelated story wouldn’t be important in terms of the case I’m working on. But the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus is an anomaly in a growing list of anomalies. Not just her suicide, but that she did it in a Lutheran church and she was married to an Amish bishop who was later murdered. I’ve been around long enough to know that when those kinds of irregularities begin to stack up, it’s time to dig deeper.
I write down the address of the church and jot the name of the minister on my legal pad.
It’s midnight when I close my laptop. As I climb into bed and pull up the blankets, I decide to swing by the church in the morning, on my way to Lewistown. As Tomasetti likes to tell me: Sometimes it’s those seemingly random pieces of information that lead to something usable.
I sit bolt upright, disoriented, a gasp in my throat. For an instant, I’m not sure where I am. I reach for Tomasetti, find the place next to me vacant and cool. Then my mind clicks into place. I’m in Belleville. The motel.
What woke me so abruptly?
I stare into the darkness, listening. I’m aware of the symphony of crickets outside. The rumble of thunder from a distant storm. Sweat damp on the back of my neck. My heart beating too fast. That’s when I realize the room is humid and hot, despite the air conditioner rattling beneath the window. I glance at the door, see the dim column of light, and realize it’s standing open about a foot. I’d locked it before turning in.…
Adrenaline zips through me. I roll, reach for my .38 on the night table. I sense movement scant feet away. The rustle of clothes. The thud of feet against carpet. Someone rushing toward me …
Before I can grab the gun, a fist slams down on my arm. I swivel toward my attacker, sit up. Using the heel of my hand, I cuff him hard, make contact with a hard body, heavy clothing.
“I’m a cop!” I shout. “I’m armed! Stop!”
In the strobe of lightning that follows, I see the silhouette of a man. Tall and broad. Too close. Coming at me. My training kicks in. Leaning back, I raise both legs and kick him in the chest. He grunts, reels backward. His back strikes the wall.
I twist, lunge for my weapon, slap my hand down on it, fingers grappling. Not enough time to find my grip before his fist crashes down on my biceps. Electric pain zings up my arm. He sweeps my gun off the table. I hear it clatter to the floor. My .22 mini Mag is on the table, out of reach. I grab the lamp with both hands, draw back, swing it. He reaches for me, growling like an animal. A roar tears from my throat with the effort. But my position is bad. My aim is off. The shade crunches against the side of his head.
“Police officer!” I shout. “Get off!”
I barely get the words out when gloved hands snake toward me. I scramble back, but I’m not fast enough. Fingers close around my neck, the clamp of a vise, cutting off my air. I wrap my hands around his forearms, dig in with my fingers, try to pry them off. Simultaneously, he yanks me to my feet as if I weigh nothing. His strength stuns me. He wheels me around, thumbs digging into my throat, and shoves me to the ground. My back strikes the floor hard enough to send the breath from my lungs. He comes down on top of me, the weight of him crushing my chest, pinning me. I release his arms, punch his face with my fists. He doesn’t relent. I slap and claw at his face. Find an eye with my thumb, shove it into the socket.
Howling, he rears back.
“Get off, you son of a bitch!” I snarl.
A sharp slap against my temple sends stars flying in my peripheral vision. He clinches his hand to my throat, cutting off the blood flow to my head.
“Go back where you came from,” whispers a harsh voice.
I see the silhouette of his head against the light slanting in through the door. It’s too dark to make out details. He’s close enough for me to smell wet hair and stale breath and a body that isn’t quite clean.
Stars pinwheel before my eyes. I writhe beneath him, bring up my knees and ram them against his back. I slap and scratch at his arms, his face. My hand tangles in his shirt and I yank hard, tearing fabric. I seek his eyes with my thumbs. My efforts are futile. He’s stronger than me with the benefit of weight. I wonder if he’s going to kill me. If I pass out, will he keep squeezing? I think of Tomasetti and panic leaps in my chest.
I pry at his fingers as they dig into my throat, peel one off, bend it back hard, try to break it. Snarling, he straightens, pulls my head and shoulders off the floor, then bangs me down hard. Once. Twice. The back of my head thumps against the carpet, jarring my brain, scattering my thoughts. My vision blurs, dims.
“Leave town,” he growls.
Let go of me.
I open my mouth, try to speak, but nothing comes.
“Next time you won’t walk away.”
He releases me. I fall back against the floor, sucking in breaths, choking, my head spinning. Vaguely, I’m aware of him getting to his feet. I turn my head, seeking my .38, only to see him kick it beneath the bed.
“Don’t make me come back,” he says in a gruff voice.
I roll, try to get my feet under me, but my legs aren’t strong enough. Instead, I scrabble toward the bed, aware that he could come back before I reach my weapon.
A sound at the door draws my attention. I look over my shoulder in time to see him disappear into the night.
Every investigation has a defining moment. A piece of evidence or snippet of information or middle-of-the-night epiphany that convinces a cop he’s on the right track. Someone trying to warn me away qualifies and for the first time since arriving in Pennsylvania, I’m certain of two things: Jonas Bowman didn’t murder Ananias Stoltzfus and the person who did doesn’t want me poking around.
It takes twenty minutes for the sheriff’s department to arrive. It took me nearly that long to pull myself together. Once my head cleared, I got dressed, found my gun beneath the bed, my cell on the floor behind the night table. All the while I tried to get my head around what just happened and who might be responsible. When I first wakened and realized someone was in my room, I’d assumed it was a random break-in. Some junkie or thief looking for cash. It didn’t take long for me to realize this was a targeted attack with a specific goal.
Go back where you came from.
This was not random. It was a clear message, intended to intimidate and scare me off. The messenger has no way of knowing his efforts did nothing but strengthen my resolve. The question now is this: Who wants me gone desperately enough to risk breaking into my motel room and attacking me in the middle of the night?
Someone with a lot to lose, a little voice replies.
I’m standing outside my cottage, looking at the smashed windshield and slashed tires on the Explorer, when the deputy pulls up, lights flashing. It’s after four A.M. now. A family in one of the other cabins has ventured onto their porch to see what riffraff has brought the police to this peaceful little paradise.
The deputy gets out of his vehicle and starts toward me, the beam of his flashlight blinding me.
I raise my hand to shield my eyes and identify myself.
“Ten-twenty-three,” he says into his shoulder mike, letting his dispatcher know he’s arrived on scene. “We got a call about a break-in.”
He’s around thirty years old and built like a tank. Dark hair shorn to the scalp. Thick neck corded with muscle. The tattoo of an eagle and shield peek out at me from the sleeve of his uniform.
I tell him what happened.
He asks a few basic questions as he looks around the room. “Did you see where he went?”
“I saw him go through the door and that was it.”
“Ten-eighty-eight.” Suspicious activity found. “I need a unit.” He turns his attention to me, lifts the beam of his flashlight to my neck. “You need an ambulance?”
“I’m fine.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“No clue.”
“You here alone?”
“Yep. It’s just me.”
He looks at me closely, as if he doesn’t quite believe me, and I get the sense he’s wondering if this is some kind of domestic dispute I don’t want to talk about.
“What are you doing here in Belleville?” He asks the question in a friendly way, but he’s curious about me, wondering why I’m here.
I tell him.
“I heard there was a cop from out of town asking questions.” He nods as if his curiosity has been sated. “You think what happened here tonight is related to that?”
“He didn’t ask for money or my purse. He did, however, suggest I leave town.”
His eyes sharpen on mine. “You get a look at him?”
I give the best description I can. Male. Six feet. Two hundred pounds. It probably describes half the men in the county.
The deputy relays the description to his dispatcher, then leaves the room and walks to my Explorer. “Damn.” He whistles. “Did a number on your vehicle.”
I wince at the sight of the smashed windshield and four flat tires. “He must have done this before he broke in,” I say.
“Must have been a pretty sharp instrument.” He shines the beam on me again, this time keeping it out of my eyes. “Lucky he didn’t use it on you.”
It’s a telling statement. If the intruder wanted to kill me, he could easily have done so.
“Is there an auto repair shop in town?” I ask.
“There’s a good one over in Lewistown,” he tells me. “They’ll tow you. You can pick up a rental car there, too, if you need it.”
He saunters to the door of my room and kneels to examine the lock. “Looks jimmied.”
I follow, study the jamb over his shoulder. Sure enough, the paint is scuffed, the wood gouged. “Looks like he popped the latch bolt out of the bore,” I say.
“This motel is pretty old.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Of course, we don’t get much crime around here.”
He rises and looks at me a little more closely. “You sure you don’t have any idea who might’ve done this?” he asks. “Maybe you ticked someone off and they followed you back here?”
A cast of names scrolls through my brain. The people I’ve come into contact with. The ones who weren’t exactly happy to learn I was looking into a cold case that apparently isn’t that cold.
“The only person I know who didn’t do it, is Jonas Bowman,” I tell him.
Frowning, he motions toward the office in the main building. “I’ll make a report, Chief Burkholder. We’ll step up patrols in the area. In the interim, I suggest you watch your back.”