It’s true that cops don’t sleep much in the early stages of an investigation. At least during those first couple of days, when time is like sand slipping through fingers. I’m not exactly working in a law enforcement capacity, but the sense of urgency pulsing in my veins is the same.
After speaking to Tomasetti, I slept for a couple of hours. A quick shower and a fast-food breakfast and I was on the road by nine. Despite the lack of sleep, I’m clearheaded and focused as I make the turn into the lane of the Stoltzfus farm.
My best sources of information are Mia and Ananias’s grown children. Though both of them were born after the couple arrived in the Kishacoquillas Valley, they may know something that will confirm—or disprove—my theory about their father. They may have heard something in passing, have relatives I can call upon, or have kept mementos or documents.
Having worn out my welcome with Mary Elizabeth, I opt to try my luck with Henry first. I’m midway down the lane when I notice someone working at the base of the corn silo. I pull over and park. I’m midway there when I notice the red spray paint on the corrugated steel.
Like father. Like son. Both in hell.
I find Henry Stoltzfus standing in hip-high weeds on the other side of the silo. He’s dressed much the same way as last time I saw him. Gray trousers. A single suspender over a blue work shirt. Straw summer hat. Work boots.
I stop a few feet away from him and take in the bold red paint. The large letters. The slipshod writing. “Any idea who did it?” I ask.
He looks at me from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes shaded, expression guarded. “No.”
“It’s pretty high up.” I make a show of looking at the graffiti. “Must have used a stepladder.”
“Dogs were barking last night.” He motions behind him. “Grass is trampled.”
“Did you call the police?”
He frowns at me, doesn’t answer. “I figure I’ll just paint over it.” He motions to the cageless ladder that’s come loose from the silo. “Fix that ladder while I’m at it.”
A spray can of cold galvanizing compound lies on its side at his feet. Next to it, a wrench the size of a tire iron. A MIG welder and diesel generator sit on the ground a few feet away.
I recall Dorothy telling me about the fire at the old mill owned by Mary Elizabeth and her husband. The broken window I saw when I was there. Coincidence? Or has someone targeted them?
“Has anything like this happened before?” I ask.
He picks up the wrench, bends to pluck a bolt from the box at his feet. “A time or two.”
“Any idea why?” I ask. “Or who?”
He sets his shoulder against the ladder. “No.”
He’s trying to press the ladder against the corrugated tin and screw in the bolt at the same time—a task that requires more than just two hands. I go to the ladder, set my shoulder against the rungs, brace my legs, and push until the ladder is snug against the tin.
“Tight enough?” I ask.
An instant of hesitation and then he fits the mouth of the wrench over the bolt head and begins to tighten. “Ja.” He snugs the head down tight, grunting with the effort. “Need to put a nut inside, too.”
“I’ll hold it.”
He makes eye contact with me an instant before passing behind me and going through a trapdoor and disappearing into the interior of the silo. I hear the tap and scrape of his wrench beneath my shoulder as he screws in the nut on the other side.
He emerges through the trapdoor a minute later. “Got it,” he says.
I release the ladder. “Looks like it’s going to hold.”
“It better. I got corn to harvest and cattle to feed.”
I step back, survey his work. “Is someone upset with you?”
Using a drill, he deburrs the next bolt hole. “Upset with my datt, maybe. He was a firm-minded bishop. A weak man might not like that too much.”
“Someone has a long memory.”
“Finding the bones dredged up some old feelings, I reckon.” He removes the bit, sets down the drill, turns to face me. “What brings you here?”
I pick up the box of nuts and bolts and hand him three of each. “I talked to an old friend of your mamm’s. Mia told her she was from Germany. Bavaria. Her father, your grandfather, owned a bakery there. That’s where she learned to bake.”
He takes them, drops them into his pocket. “My parents were from Minnesota.”
“I talked to the bishop in Harmony. He’s never heard of Mia or Ananias Stoltzfus.”
He blinks, looks away, but his eyes swivel back to mine. “My parents left Minnesota over fifty years ago. Whoever you talked to either doesn’t remember or has forgotten.”
“I also talked to Pastor Zimmerman at the Lutheran church here in Belleville.”
He glowers at me, shakes his head. “Of course you did.”
“He said your mamm had a journal with her the day he found her,” I say. “The sheriff’s department returned it to the family.”
“I don’t know anything about a journal.”
He works in silence for a couple of minutes. He finishes with the second bolt and steps back to assess his workmanship. “You didn’t come here to help me with this silo,” he says.
“But it’s good to get help when you need it.”
He looks at me from beneath his hat, saying nothing.
“Henry,” I say slowly. “I think someone took that muzzleloader from Jonas Bowman’s mudroom, killed your father with it, and left it at the scene so the police would find it and Jonas would be blamed. I think that same person planted evidence in the old water well behind Jonas’s house.” I motion to the graffiti. “Maybe it’s the same person who did that.”
He looks down at the wrench in his hand. Uneasiness quivers between my shoulder blades, but he tosses it into the old toolbox a few feet away. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I think what happened to your father has something to do with his past. In Germany. I think he may have done some bad things—”
“Bad things?” He stops working and frowns at me. “My father was an Amish bishop. I’ll not have you stand on my land and speak ill of him.”
“Your parents came here to start a new life. I think someone knows about your father’s past in Germany and they killed him for it.”
“I have nothing to say to you about that. I don’t know who these people are you’ve been speaking to, but they’re wrong.”
“I know you loved and respected your datt. I understand that. But I need your help. I need Mary Elizabeth’s help. If there’s anything at all you’ve heard or know about, if there’s anything you have in your possession—”
“My father was a strong leader. Ezra Bowman nearly caused a schism with all his backtalk and complaining. When he died, Jonas blamed my father. He lost his mind and killed him. And now here you are, blaming my father—and defending the man who killed him.” He tightens his mouth and looks away. “I think we’ve talked enough.”
“Henry—”
“No more questions.” He raises a hand, cuts me off. “Get off my property and don’t come back. You’re not welcome here. You never were.”
Turning away, he scoops up the wrench and disappears inside the silo.