A cop never knows when a seemingly mundane parcel of information will turn out to be important. Chances are the rumor about Ananias Stoltzfus taking a cane to Levi Schmucker is just that: a rumor that’s grown with time and been embellished upon over the years. An Amish bishop would never resort to violence to discipline a member of the church district. The Amish are pacifistic; submission and nonviolence are key tenets. The Amish will not defend themselves even if they are physically assaulted. Nor will they protect their property. During times of war, they are conscientious objectors.
In light of the myriad anomalies surrounding Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus, the allegation merits follow-up. The Amish are human, after all. We human beings are fallible, vulnerable to our imperfections, weaknesses, and emotions. That includes even the most ardent believers.
After leaving the Bowman place last night, I went back to the motel and spent a couple of hours with my laptop. I located Levi Schmucker at the Mennonite Faith Home for the Elderly in Lock Haven, which is about an hour northeast of Belleville. I should have slept well, but after the incident the previous night—and despite being in a different room with a functioning lock and security chain—I couldn’t sleep. I ended up propping a chair against the door and kept my .38 unholstered, my .22 mini Magnum in easy reach. This morning, I’m running on coffee.
Faith Home for the Elderly is located on the west side of town just south of the university. It’s a three-story, midcentury-modern-style building with mullioned windows and mud-colored brick. The grounds and landscaping are well tended. As I walk inside, I pass a bench where an elderly woman carries on a lively conversation with herself.
The interior falls somewhere between a public school and hospital. A brightly lit nurses’ station and set of elevators face the entrance. Beyond, two long corridors lined with doors sweep toward the rear. I head toward the nurses’ station, where a middle-aged woman in pink scrubs finger-pecks a keyboard.
“I’m looking for Levi Schmucker,” I tell her.
She hits a final key and turns a smile on me. “Are you family?”
I’m not sure what the guidelines are with regard to visitation. Hoping there won’t be a problem, I remove my driver’s license and shield and lay both on the counter. “I’m visiting from Ohio and working on a case in Belleville,” I tell her.
“Oh.” She seems intrigued. “We don’t get many police officers visiting our residents.”
“I won’t take up too much of his time,” I say, keeping it vague and light. “I just need to ask him a few quick questions.”
“Mr. Schmucker is in his room this morning.” She squints at her computer screen, clicks the mouse. “I’ll ask one of the NAs to take you in.” She gestures toward a sitting area. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
They don’t keep me waiting. I’ve just checked in with my dispatcher when an African American man in blue scrubs calls my name. The badge clipped to his shirt tells me he’s a nursing assistant and his name is Brent.
“You’re here to see Mr. Schmucker?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re in luck. He just finished with his PT and had breakfast.” He gestures toward one of the corridors. “I’ll take you.”
According to the information I found online, Levi Schmucker was born in 1938, which would make him eighty-four years old. As we walk along the tiled hall, its walls affixed with chrome handrails, we pass half a dozen rooms, the occasional wheelchair, and I find myself hoping his memory is still intact.
“Here we are.” The nursing assistant pushes open one of the doors and gestures me inside. “Good morning, Mr. Schmucker!” he says cheerily. “You’ve got a visitor.”
I walk into a hospital-like room that smells of disinfectant, menthol analgesic, and urine. Two twin-size beds with safety rails and dual wheeled dinner trays take up most of the space. In the corner, an orange Naugahyde recliner squats next to a laminate coffee table and lamp. Someone tried to make the room feel cozy but didn’t quite manage.
My heart sinks at the sight of the man sitting in the wheelchair next to the window. He’s neatly dressed in navy trousers, a blue shirt, and stocking feet. The sunshine streaming in reveals a bald scalp mottled with age spots, a yellowed beard that hangs off his chin like a sock, and talonlike hands that rest on a towel in his lap.
Eyes set into a face that’s creased like saddle leather take my measure. “Who is it?” the old man grumbles.
“Kate Burkholder,” I tell him.
“Don’t know no one by that name.”
The nursing assistant touches my arm. “I’ve got to get back to work. If you need anything, just ask whoever’s at the nurses’ station.”
I thank him and then he’s gone.
The old man stares at me. “Who are you?”
I tell him. “I’m working on a case, Mr. Schmucker. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ananias Stoltzfus.”
The flash of shock on his face tells me his memory is intact. “Ananias Stoltzfus?” He whispers the name with trepidation, his eyes flicking to the door as if he’s expecting the man to burst into the room and accost him. “He’s here?”
“He’s not here,” I assure him. “Just me. I need a little information from you.”
The old man’s mouth opens, his lips quivering. “I don’t want to talk to him. He’s not welcome here.”
I can’t tell if he’s hard of hearing or if his memory is muddled. I press forward. “I understand you and Bishop Stoltzfus had a disagreement. There was an incident between you. Can you tell me what happened?”
“He’s not my bishop. I ain’t Amish no more. Washed my hands of it.” The old man angles his head, his eyes seeking the call button, but it’s too far away for him to reach.
Sensing that I’m not getting through—that I’m about to lose him—I switch to Deitsch. “Can you tell me what happened when Ananias Stoltzfus came to your house to talk to you about your daughter?”
Schmucker opens his mouth, his lips slick with saliva. “See leekt.” She lied.
“You’re not in any trouble,” I assure him. “I just want to know what happened between you and the bishop.”
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.”
… Word got around that Levi was acting improper with his oldest girl.
Looking at the old man, I bank a hard rise of disgust, and I have to remind myself the story could be gossip. I’m here about Stoltzfus, not to revisit an event that may or may not have taken place.
“The bishop came to you…” I let the sentence trail, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks.
“Her mamm lied. Lied. The bishop came. Brought that big cane with him.”
“What did he do?” I ask.
The old man stares at me, his face contorted as if he’s watching some horror unfold right before his eyes, and he knows the monster is coming for him.
“I didn’t do the things she said,” he tells me.
“What did the bishop do to you?”
“He didn’t believe me.”
I’m aware of the old man’s hands shaking on the towel in his lap. His left foot starting to jiggle. “Tell me what he did.”
“He took me out to the barn. So we could talk man-to-man, he said. When we was alone, he … came after me. With that cane. Beat me with it. Busted my teeth.” He looks down, lifts his right hand. “Broke my arm. Laid open my head. That old man beat me silly for something I didn’t do.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He told me to pack a bag and leave. Said if I came back, he’d kill me.” His lips tremble. “I believed him.”
I stare hard at him. “Did you ever go back to Belleville?”
“No! I swear! I didn’t go back!”
“When’s the last time you were there?”
“That night.”
“Did the bishop hurt anyone else that you know of?” I ask.
The old man doesn’t answer. His eyes drift to the window, and he stares at something unseen.
“Mr. Schmucker, did you go to the police?” I ask.
No response.
“Did you tell anyone what happened? Your wife? A friend? Anyone?”
He looks at me, but his eyes are blank, his mind seeming to disconnect. It’s as if he doesn’t hear me.
“Were there any witnesses?” I ask. “Did anyone see what happened?”
Nothing.
I spend a few more minutes posing the same questions in different ways, but Levi Schmucker doesn’t respond. The old man sags in his chair, his chin against his chest, hands quavering, and ignores me. It’s as if recalling his experience with Ananias Stoltzfus exhausted him.
I’m back on the road in less than an hour and on my way to Belleville. My conversation with Schmucker replays in my head and I pick apart the exchange word by word. The idea of a bishop beating a member of the congregation is so outrageous I can’t even get my head around it. No bishop would resort to violence. Ever. The notion of the Amish meting out street justice is a Hollywood fable. Even if the story of the beating is true, is it related in any way to the murder of Ananias Stoltzfus?
If Schmucker was telling the truth I have to wonder: Did Ananias mistreat any other members of the congregation? Did one of them reach a breaking point? Did they snap, go to the bishop’s home or lure him to the woods, and shoot him to death? Or am I wrong about all of this and his murder is about something else I’m not seeing?
I’m so preoccupied, I barely notice the verdant hills to the north or the postcard-perfect valley laid out before me. I find myself thinking about anomalies and it occurs to me almost all of them revolve around not only Ananias Stoltzfus, but his wife, Mia, too.
Said he was from Minnesota, but I have a cousin lives up there and they don’t talk that way.
I can’t speak for Ananias, but Mia was from Germany.
… Lutherans practice confession … We put much emphasis on the holy absolution.
Midway between Lock Haven and Belleville, I pull over at a scenic overlook, google Harmony, Minnesota, and learn it’s located in Fillmore County. I locate the county assessor’s office and make the call. I’m transferred a couple of times and end up speaking to a clerk who, after some back-and-forth and a lot of key tapping, informs me that neither Ananias nor Mia Stoltzfus owned property at any time in Fillmore County.
“Are you sure?” I ask, but the woman has already ended the call.
I puzzle over the information, wondering if the property was in the name of another family member. It would be unusual for an established Amish couple to rent. Or maybe they lived in a neighboring county or the clerk wasn’t thorough and overlooked the information.
Next, I call the Fillmore County Sheriff’s Office. I reach an investigator with the Criminal Investigations Division, but she tells me my request will be handled more expeditiously if I talk to someone in Patrol. I’m transferred to Deputy Lina Leonard. I identify myself and after some polite chitchat, I get to the point.
“I’m working on a cold case and looking into the background of the victim,” I tell her.
“Happy to help, Chief Burkholder.”
She sounds young. Judging by the background noise, she’s in her cruiser, on patrol. I give her the fundamentals of the case. “Stoltzfus claimed he and his wife, Mia, were from Harmony. I need to speak with anyone in the Amish community who can confirm that.”
“Not to throw a monkey wrench at you, Chief, but most of the Amish up here don’t use phones, so it’s not like I can call someone.”
“I was hoping a deputy could get a message to the bishop or deacon or one of the ministers and have one of them call me back on one of their pay phones if they have them.”
“I’m your man. And they do.” She laughs. “I patrol the area that’s mostly Amish. I’ve gotten to know a few of them.”
“Do you know who the bishop is?”
“I think that’s Elmer Hostetler. I’ve met him a couple times over the years. He’s one of the elders.”
I pause, thinking. “Do you happen to know how old he is?” I ask. “Stoltzfus would have lived in Harmony in the early to mid-sixties. It would be beneficial for me to speak to someone who was around at that time.”
“Not sure. He’s gray-haired. Maybe seventy or so?”
“He’ll probably do.”
“Okay, Chief, I’ll ask around and get back to you. How soon do you need this information?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Yesterday?”
“Gotcha. Give me a couple days. I’ll see what I can do.”