I’ve closed my share of cases over the years. A few were major crimes that required in-depth investigation, dogged determination, and gobbled up hundreds of hours—everything I had to give. Most were lesser offenses that entailed the same only on a smaller scale. No matter the type of case, the one thing I always appreciate at the end is the sense of closure. The satisfaction of knowing a bad guy is off the street. The gratification that comes with a solid resolution and the knowledge that you did your job.
While this wasn’t an official “case,” a murderer was taken off the street. An innocent man was cleared of wrongdoing. Though I didn’t participate in a law enforcement capacity, I played a major role. Despite all it, there’s little in the way of closure. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many loose ends. Who was Ananias Stoltzfus really? Where was he from and what did he do? How much did Mia know? And how did Henry discover his identity?
They are questions that will likely take weeks or months to answer—if they’re answered at all. The only thing I have at this point is conjecture. The one thing I am certain of is that Ananias Stoltzfus was not a good man and may have very well been an evil man. That his son took matters into his own hands and destroyed his own life in the process is a far cry from justice.
I’m standing at the entrance of the old mill, watching the paramedics heft the bag containing Henry Stoltzfus’s body into the rear of an ambulance. It’s nearly noon now. Jonas and I gave our statements. Henry’s family has been notified. The crime scene unit pulled out twenty minutes ago. I should have left hours ago. I could have been showered, packed, and on my way to Painters Mill by now.
So why are you still here, Kate?
“Chief Burkholder!”
I turn to see Deputy Kris Vance stride toward me. The wariness is gone from his expression. Now that the case has been solved, he isn’t concerned about associating with me or my pressing him with questions he shouldn’t be answering.
“You need a ride back to your vehicle?” he asks.
We shake hands. “I’m parked at the Hershberger place just through the trees,” I tell him.
“It’s on my way. Save you a walk up that hill.” He motions to his vehicle and we start down the steps. “It’ll give me a chance to apologize.”
“Your superiors didn’t exactly make it easy for you to share information,” I say.
“There is that. But I was a jackass. I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful. You were right. We were wrong.” His smile is contrite. “Lesson learned.”
I smile at him over the top of his cruiser as we get in. “I won’t hold my breath waiting for a call from the sheriff.”
“Just between us, he’s a bigger jackass than me.” Grinning, he puts the vehicle in gear and starts down the muddy lane. “I thought you’d want to know: The state police will be sending the remains to the forensic lab for DNA testing.”
“Positive ID would go a long way toward tying up a lot of loose ends.”
“No one figured Henry Stoltzfus for the crime,” he says. “All these years and he was right under our noses. Nice guy. Family man. Spotless record. He was never on the radar.”
“At some point, Henry must have figured out who or what his father was.” I shrug, trying to work through the logistics of it, coming up short. “He didn’t like what he found and just … lost it.”
“I suppose even the Amish have their limit.” He makes the turn into the Hershberger place and parks behind my Explorer.
“In any case, Chief Burkholder, I mainly wanted to apologize for shutting you out of the investigation. You’re a damn good cop and with your knowledge of the Amish, you would have been a good resource had we given you the chance.”
I open the door, get out, and bend to look at him. “Keep me posted on that DNA?”
“You bet.”
I slam the door, give a wave, and then he’s gone.
I stand in the driveway, vaguely troubled, and watch him pull out. I fish the fob out of my pocket, walk to the Explorer, and open the door. But I don’t get in.
I expect the Amish will be arriving shortly, to support Mary Elizabeth and her husband in their time of grief, to keep the farm up and running, and the household chores done. I’m probably the last person she wants to see, but I’d like to keep a line of communication open between us. In the coming weeks, much more information about her father will be forthcoming. At the very least, I can offer my condolences—and leave the rest to her.
I close the door of the Explorer and walk to the house, take the steps to the door, and knock. I wait, getting my words in order, but no one comes. I’m on my way back to the Explorer when I notice the barn door standing ajar, so I head that way.
I pause at the doorway, stare into the dimly lit interior. The smell of smoke lingers. I hear the cattle bawling at the rear. Dim light filters in through the windows ahead. To my right, stairs lead up to the hayloft. Gardening tools hang on the wall—a shovel, pitchfork, and hoe. Livestock stalls line the aisle on my left. I keep going, stop a few yards in, give my eyes a chance to adjust to the murky light.
“Mary Elizabeth?” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”
“What are you doing here?”
I glance left, see Mary Elizabeth in silhouette against the window behind her. Long dress and apron. The strings of her kapp hanging down. Black oxfords. Even with her face in shadow, I can see that she’s been crying.
“I didn’t want to leave without telling you how sorry I am about your brother,” I say.
She winces at the mention of her brother, hangs her head. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
“Matthew,” I say.
That I’m familiar with the Bible passage seems to please her. She raises her gaze to mine, scrubs her hands over her cheeks to wipe away the tears. “The deputy I talked to said you were there. When it happened.”
I nod.
“Did he say anything?” she asks. “Did he say why?”
I search my memory for something that will answer her question and yet won’t add to her misery. “He said he didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I tell her. “That he was sorry.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “How could he do what he did? To our datt? To Jonas. It’s beyond me.”
I don’t have the answers she needs. What little I know about her father will only add to her despair. I’m not exactly in a position to comfort her. “I know it must be difficult,” I say. “When you’re ready, you might see if you can find your mamm’s diary. There may be some answers there.”
She pulls a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose. “I don’t see how an old woman’s scribblings could drive a good man to kill.”
“Sometimes we write about the things that hurt us the most,” I tell her.
“My own brother.” The Amish woman presses her hand over her mouth, but she can’t suppress the sob that escapes. “He lured our datt to that old farm and shot him like an animal. Left him for the coyotes and vultures and God only knows what. He lied about it all these years.” She uses the tissue to wipe her eyes. “To cut off a man’s hands? How does anyone do such a thing? I can’t bear to think of it.”
The world around me grinds to a halt. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet. Something cold and sharp scrapes down my back. “Did Henry tell you that?” I ask.
She looks up at me, sniffs. “Tell me what?”
“That the hands had been removed?”
She shakes her head. “I must have read about it or heard it somewhere. Gossip probably. You know how the Amish are.”
I stare at her, an internal alarm shrilling. It was the one detail the police didn’t make public. Even if the information got out—which it did to me—hearing about the mutilation of a loved one isn’t the kind of news you forget where you heard it.
I’m aware of the sliding door standing open a few yards behind me. The loft above and to my right. Stalls on my left. The sound of the cattle bawling and moving around outside.
Mary Elizabeth stares at me. Tears are wet on her cheeks and yet something cold shifts in her eyes. “You should have left,” she tells me.
I lower my hand to the holster where my .38 usually rests. Of course, it’s not there. I’m aware of the mini Magnum against my ankle. Not easily accessed. I set my other hand against the key fob in my pocket. My cell is in the Explorer, drying out after being submerged. I don’t know if it’s operable. Shit.
“You have the journal,” I say.
“The police gave it to me after Mamm died,” she whispers. “Not Datt. Not Henry.” Her expression turns mournful. “I missed her so much. I wanted to understand why she did it.” She shakes her head. “Reading it was quite a shock. God in heaven I wish I hadn’t.”
I stare at her, focused on the .22 strapped to my ankle. I don’t know exactly what this woman knows or what she has done. I don’t know if she’s armed or what she’s capable of. I have no idea where her husband is. The one thing I do know is that I’m in danger. All I have to do is kneel, yank up the hem of my slacks, slide the revolver from its nest …
“How my mamm suffered,” she says. “The things he did. The horrors stuck in her head. Such ungodly things.”
Keeping my eyes on Mary Elizabeth, I back toward the sliding door. “Henry knew,” I say, buying time.
“He knew you’d figure it out.” She tilts her head, looks at me as if I’m something to be pitied, an injured animal about to be put down. “No one wanted you hurt. We’re not that way. We just wanted you gone.”
I drop to a kneeling position, yank up the hem of my slacks. A sound from above startles me. I glance up to see a wall of hay lean. I reach for the .22 but I’m not fast enough. Dozens of bales plummet. I lunge, try to get out of the way. A bale strikes my shoulder. Another slams into my back. I sprawl to the ground. A tremendous weight pummels me. I’m flat on my belly. The world falls silent.
And it’s just me and the dark and the knowledge that I’ve been buried alive and there’s no way out.