My earliest memory of Jonas Bowman was an ice-skating outing on a cold and windy day on the farm where I lived with my family. I was eleven years old and I’d sneaked out of the house to join my brother and some other Amish boys for a game of hockey. They were older than me and when I arrived with my stick—borrowed from my brother, Jacob—and my ice skates, the other boys promptly excluded me from the game.
Undeterred, while two boys shoveled snow from the ice, I sat alone on the stump next to the bonfire and laced up, hoping they’d change their minds once they realized how good I was. When there was a good-size patch of ice cleared, I took my stick and skated out to warm up. I whizzed across bumpy ice, swatting at a make-believe puck, concentrating on my form, keeping an eye on the boys, hoping someone would notice me. At the far end of the pond, Marvin Beachy, whom I went to school with and was only a year older than me, was skating toward me, slapping his puck from side to side. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I stole the puck right out from under him. I zipped across the ice fast, skates digging in and spraying ice, looking for an ally to pass it to. I was midway across the pond when someone whistled. I heard a cheer, and my heart surged. I heard Marvin yelling, too, but I was so busy stealing his puck I couldn’t look.
“Hey! Look at her go!”
“She’s faster than Marvin!”
My chest swelled with pride. I heard myself laugh. Twenty feet from shore, Eddie Weaver stuck out his foot and tripped me. No chance to break my fall. I tumbled headlong into a pile of crushed ice and snow, cutting my palms right through my mittens and my knees despite two pair of tights.
“That’s what you get for stealing my puck!” Marvin yelled.
I extricated myself from the snow, rolled off the pile, and turned to see Marvin retake his puck. Next to him, Eddie Weaver leered, pleased he’d been the one to stop the female interloper. “Girls don’t play hockey,” he said.
“I do!” I shot back as I got to my feet.
Marvin pointed at me. “Yeah, look at those scrawny legs!”
Eddie snickered. “Bet her arms are just as scrawny.”
“Probably got a flat top, too,” muttered another boy, one I didn’t recognize.
The boys cracked up as if it was the funniest joke they’d ever heard.
My knees hurt, almost as much as my pride, but I wouldn’t have cried even if my leg was hanging by a thread of skin. Not in front of them. No, I was just stubborn enough to wait for the walk home.
I looked past them for my brother, but he was standing on the other side of the pond, leaning on the shovel he’d been using, watching. I’d hoped he would come to my defense; he knew I could play as well as these boys, at least the ones my age. And yet he said nothing.
As I stood on the frozen bank and watched them warm up, my knees aching, my eleven-year-old heart burning with outrage, Jonas skated over, frowning, his eyes on my knees. “Not bad for a half-pint,” he said.
Rolling my eyes, I brushed snow from my dress. “I’m not a half-pint.”
We watched the boys play for a moment; then he motioned at my knees. “You’re bleeding.”
I wanted to see the carnage, but I didn’t look. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”
“I’m a good hockey player is what I am.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a kerchief. “Here. Tie it on.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Yeah, you do.” His face split into a grin. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he whistled. “I want Half-Pint on my team!” he called out.
I became the girl who could play hockey that winter. The one who—despite my size and gender—was never last when it came time to choose teams.
Jonas made one hell of an impression on my nonconformist psyche that day. The part of me that was still a child was dazzled that an older boy would stand up for me. The part of me that was edging into my preteen years had her breath taken away. I had no way of knowing I’d been swept off my feet and the breathlessness that made my chest swell was only a sampling of what lay ahead.
I’m thinking about that day on the ice when I pull into the lane of the farm Tomasetti and I share. After the three Amish elders left the station, I called the Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department, which is the law enforcement agency for Belleville, Pennsylvania. The deputy I spoke to didn’t know much about the case, but was able to confirm most of what the three men told me. Eighteen years ago, Bishop Ananias Stoltzfus and Jonas Bowman were involved in some type of dispute. Two months later, Stoltzfus disappeared. Jonas was questioned by the police, but there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him and the DA refused to pursue a case based on circumstantial evidence alone.
The skeletal remains were discovered two months ago in a farmer’s field. The sheriff’s department searched the area and unearthed an old muzzleloader and a .50 caliber ball at the scene. Because the gun was an antique, it didn’t have a serial number. But when they took it to Jonas Bowman, he admitted the rifle was his and the arrest was made without incident.
Jonas was formally charged with second-degree murder and is being held at the Mifflin County Correctional Facility in Lewistown. Bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars. No trial date has been set. So far, he hasn’t posted bail. A quick internet search revealed that in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, second-degree murder carries with it the possibility of life in prison.
I also called the Mifflin County Correctional Facility, only to learn they don’t allow incoming calls to inmates unless the call is from an attorney or an official involved in the case. I was able to locate Jonas’s attorney, but today is Saturday and, evidently, he doesn’t return calls on the weekend.
I park behind Tomasetti’s Tahoe, snatch the birdhouse from the rear of the Explorer, and head toward the house. I’m nearly to the back door when I hear music coming from the barn. One of the front sliding doors stands open a few feet. Hefting the shopping bag, I head that way.
Our barn is an old German-style bank barn that shows every one of its hundred or so years. I take the earthen ramp to the door and walk inside. I find Tomasetti standing next to a beat-up solid wood door that’s propped against the wall. He’s built a wood frame against that wall. It’s the height of a kitchen counter, and he’s clipped a work light to a shelf he added at some point. I haven’t seen any of the improvements he’s spent the last week or so making, and I’m reminded that I work too much.
I set the bag on the ground and take a moment to simply watch. He’s wearing faded jeans with scuffed work boots. There’s a tape measure in his right hand. Worn leather gloves. A box cutter sticking out of his back pocket. His shirtsleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. His elbow peeks through a small hole in the fabric.
“Looks like an interesting project,” I say.
He glances at me over his shoulder. He doesn’t quite smile, but I see pleasure in his eyes. I grin because he’s happy to see me and he can’t quite hide it.
“You’re just in time,” he says smoothly.
“For what?”
He tosses me a pair of gloves, which I catch; then he moves around to the top portion of the door. “Meet my new workbench.”
“Looks solid.” I go to the opposite end of the door.
“Found it at the junk shop out by the feed store.”
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”
“Think we can lift it onto the frame?” He bends.
I do the same. “Never met a door I couldn’t handle.”
On the count of three we lift. The door is heavy, with a smooth top and a smattering of nicks. Grunting with effort, we shuffle right and lower it onto the frame.
I run my hand over the top. “Good find, Tomasetti.”
“That’s what I was thinking when I saw you walk in.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “You’re so full of it.”
He crosses to me, puts his arms around my waist, and presses a kiss to my mouth. He smells of sawdust and man sweat and this morning’s aftershave.
“What’s in the bag, Chief?”
“And I thought I was going to get it inside before you noticed.” I pluck the pencil from behind his ear and tuck it into his breast pocket.
“No such luck.”
I lift the bag and hand it to him, knowing fully I’m grinning like a fool. Feeling too serious because it’s suddenly vastly important that I get this right, and that he like the gift.
“Happy birthday,” I tell him, uncomfortable because my cheeks are hot. “A few days early.”
Arching a brow, wondering about the premature giving of the gift, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the birdhouse. It’s a rustic work of art made with repurposed barn wood, rusty tin shingles, and cedar perches, all of it constructed in the shape of an old German round barn.
“Nice workmanship.” He carries it to the newly installed bench, sets it down, and steps back to admire it.
“Took me a week to make it,” I tell him, deadpan.
His mouth twitches, but he’s looking at me a little too closely. Tomasetti is an astute man; he knows I’ve got something on my mind. But he’s also got a sense for timing and he knows this isn’t the right moment to query.
“Going to look nice in the backyard,” he says.
“Or out by the firepit,” I tell him.
He nods. “I’ve got some steel pipe around here somewhere. I’ll need to pick up a couple bags of concrete at the hardware store. If you dig the posthole, I’ll mount it.”
Suddenly unable to hold his gaze, I go to the birdhouse and run my hand over the roof. “It’s a purple martin house,” I tell him. “They like to nest in open areas, away from trees, with the birdhouse at least twenty feet off the ground.” I’m not a habitual blatherer, but I can’t seem to stop.
Noticing my discomfort, he approaches me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and tilts his head to snag my gaze. “Something on your mind, Chief?”
My eyes meet his and in that instant the floor beneath my feet seems to crumble so that I don’t feel as if I’m standing on solid ground. I’m keenly aware of the warmth of his hands coming through the fabric of my shirt. My pulse throbbing at my throat. We’ve come a long way since we met. We’ve learned to trust. We’ve learned to love. To appreciate. Still, there are times when I feel as if I don’t deserve this. To be this happy. To love this profoundly.
“I think I have to go to Pennsylvania,” I say.
His brows go up in surprise. “A case?”
“Not an official case.”
I tell him about the three Amish men I met with earlier and lay out everything they told me about the discovery of human remains and Jonas Bowman. “I called the sheriff’s department in Mifflin County. They’ve charged him with second-degree homicide.”
“Serious charge.” He thinks about that a moment. “Bowman is from Painters Mill?”
I nod. “His family. I knew them when I was young.”
I can tell by the way he’s looking at me he knows there’s more to the story. That there’s something I’m not telling him. That it’s important. He also knows I’m holding back and he’s not quite sure how to get me to talk. Timing, I think, and I’m glad Tomasetti has it down pat.
“You were close?” he asks.
I stare at him, feeling like an idiot because my heart is beating too fast. My face feels hot. The weight of an uncomfortable emotion I can’t pinpoint lies like a stone in my gut. It’s all an overreaction. What happened between Jonas and me was a lifetime ago. We were kids. Reckless teenagers. I was still recovering from the ordeal I went through at the hands of Daniel Lapp, the Amish neighbor who raped me when I was fourteen. Despite all of it, the months I spent with Jonas were profound. They meant something. I can tell by the way Tomasetti is looking at me that he’s taken note.
“Yes,” I say.
It’s as if he can’t look away now, and his gaze is burning me from the inside out. Wondering why I didn’t elaborate when I should have. In that moment, I know he’s not going to take the conversation to the next level—or ask the question zinging between us.
How close?
“Do you think he did it?” he asks.
“The boy I knew growing up? No. He was a good kid. Amish. Still is.” I shrug. “That said, you and I know people can change over time. So, I don’t know.”
“How long has it been since you saw him?”
“He left Painters Mill three years before I did. His family moved and he went with them.” I don’t mention that it was the bishop who asked them to leave. And that I was the reason.
Tomasetti is a complex man. He’s a thinker, honest to a fault, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Despite his many strengths, he’s also human. He’s still healing from the murder of his wife and children six years ago—losses that would have destroyed a lesser man. The one thing Tomasetti is not is insecure.
“Sounds like he could use your help,” he says after a moment.
“I think so.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A few days.” I shrug. “A week tops.”
He looks at the birdhouse sitting on the workbench, then at me, and sighs. “I guess that means I’m going to have to put up this birdhouse all by myself.”
I reach out, touch the side of his face with my hand. “I’m sorry I’m going to miss your birthday.”
“I thought I might skip this year anyway. Give you a chance to catch up with me.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”
He sobers, gives me a long, thoughtful look. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?”
“You know it.” I take his hand. “I’m not leaving until Monday, so we have the rest of the weekend. What do you say we find that pipe and get started on the birdhouse?”
“You’re offering to dig the posthole?”
“Not a chance.”
It’s not often that I call for an unscheduled meeting with my team of officers. Painters Mill is a small, quiet town, after all. We operate on a skeleton crew, dealing with neighbor disputes or bar fights, domestic violence and speeders, and, of course, the rite of rounding up wayward livestock. Not exactly life on the edge for a cop, but my officers are professional and well trained. This morning, I’m compelled to let everyone know I’ll be gone for a few days and ensure the department runs smoothly while I’m gone. My most experienced full-time officer, Rupert “Glock” Maddox, will be in charge while I’m away.
I spent most of last evening packing and digging around the internet and various law enforcement databases for information on the disappearance of Ananias Stoltzfus eighteen years ago. The case is ice-cold and there isn’t much out there. The Mifflin County sheriff’s deputy I spoke with wasn’t much help. Neither the sheriff nor the district attorney returned my calls—it was the weekend, after all—but the lack of response reminded me that I’ll be looking into the case not only as a civilian, but as an outsider. I have no law enforcement contacts in Pennsylvania, few resources, and zero in terms of backup. Not that I expect to need it. Belleville is smaller than Painters Mill, with an extremely low crime rate. In fact, there hasn’t been a murder since Stoltzfus went missing.
Tomasetti and I got the birdhouse mounted and the pole sunk into the ground. We put it near the firepit, between the house and pond, and I have to admit it looks nice. We spent every minute together, but I was distracted. I spent too much time thinking about Jonas, the boy I’d once known, mulling the kind of man he’s become, and wondering if he’s the same person I remember.
It’s just after seven on Monday morning now and I’m sitting at my desk in my cubbyhole office, putting together my notes for what will likely be a fifteen-minute meeting. My suitcase is in the back of the Explorer and I hope to hit the road inside the hour. Already, I miss Tomasetti.
“Chief?”
I glance up to see Mona Kurtz standing in the doorway. Though she worked the graveyard shift last night, she looks ready-to-take-on-the-day fresh. She was my dispatcher for several years. During that time, she earned a degree in criminal justice, devoured everything law enforcement, and garnered a good bit of training and experience from the rest of the team. She now graces the ranks of the department as Painters Mill’s first female patrol officer.
“Team is wrangled and penned,” she tells me.
“I’ll grab the branding iron.” Rising, I snag my coffee mug, round my desk, and walk with her to the closet-size meeting room.
I pause at the doorway, take in the sight of my team, and do my best not to acknowledge the quiver of pleasure. My relationship with the men and women who work for me is strictly professional. Aside from the occasional baby shower or celebratory meal, I don’t socialize with them. As chief, I’ve always felt that it’s important not to get too chummy. That philosophy in no way lessens my affection or respect for them. We’re part of a brotherhood, and when you work together as closely as we do, that familiarity doesn’t need to be shouted out, because we feel it where it counts and we know the officer standing next to us has our back.
Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is my oldest officer. He’s nearing eighty years of age now, but he’ll be the last to admit it. If you ask, you’re rewarded with a bald-faced lie or terse reply or maybe a robust cussing out. His law enforcement career spans fifty years. His glory days include an undercover narcotics gig that netted the biggest drug bust in the history of Holmes County and put a lot of bad guys behind bars. Pickles is my only part-time officer. He works fifteen hours a week, usually at the school crosswalk and the occasional football game. He’s been known to nap in his cruiser and sneak a smoke when no one is looking. He took a fall last year and spent a month hiding a limp. While he may be getting older, only the unwise would underestimate Pickles. He is a sheepdog of the first order; he will guard his flock with his life, and fight any wolf that threatens them to his last breath.
Sitting next to Pickles, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore nurses a to-go cup of coffee from Mocha Joe’s. He’s the department’s resident smartass. He upholds the honor with pride, but it’s an unspoken reality that the rest of us appreciate his humor a little too much. He’s a good cop with a laid-back personality and a unique ability to defuse even the most tumultuous of situations.
Glock sits at the head of the table, showing phone pics to Mona. Probably of his children judging by the smile on his face. He’s a family man, a former Marine who spent several years in Afghanistan, and the first African American patrol officer to serve the citizens of Painters Mill. He’s a good man and it gave me great personal satisfaction to hire him shortly after I became chief.
T.J. Banks is just twenty-eight years old. He’s a single guy with an active love life and high-drama relationships that garner him some razzing from his peers. He was the rookie until Mona came on board. He’s come a long way since his early days and has accumulated some good experience in the years he’s been on patrol. He’s a dependable cop with a bright future ahead of him.
I tap my pen against my mug to call the meeting to order. “I appreciate everyone coming in early for a last-minute meeting,” I say.
Skid raises his coffee cup. “No problem, Chief. T.J. was the only one complaining about not getting his beauty sleep.”
“That’s because he was out all night,” Pickles mutters.
T.J. sits up straighter, paying attention now.
I glance at him. “We appreciate your sacrifice, T.J.”
He hefts a sound of faux disgust and the room erupts with chuckles.
“I have to go out of town for a few days and wanted to touch base before I leave,” I say. “Reports.”
“Chief?”
I glance toward the door to see my newest dispatcher, Margaret, standing in the doorway, her hand raised, a student with an urgent question. Next to her, Lois, my first-shift dispatcher, has the headset clamped over her head, listening for incoming calls.
“I’d like to recommend our department invest in a new coffeemaker,” Margaret tells me. “I can’t tell you how many visitors come in and comment on how awful the coffee is.”
A few chuckles ripple around the table.
Glock raises his brows and looks at me. “I say we serve some of that coffee to Auggie,” he says, referring to the mayor. “Might work to our advantage budgetwise.”
“What are we going to complain about if not the coffee?” Skid puts in.
“I think the coffee’s just fine the way it is,” Pickles grumbles.
I give Margaret my full attention. “Put together a request. Get prices on three coffeemakers. I’ll get it done.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glance at my notes. “The mayor says we’ve got vandals with paint out at the Tuscarawas Bridge. We need to step up patrols.” I look at Pickles. “We could use you a few extra hours a week, if you can spare the time.”
The old man takes his time answering, puffs out his chest a little. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to bust those paint-huffing little shits.”
“Clarice will be happy to hear it,” Skid mutters, referring to Pickles’s wife, who’s been known to complain if he’s home too much.
Another round of laughter ensues.
I turn my attention to Glock. “You’re in charge while I’m gone.”
He gives me a salute. “Roger that.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, dude,” Skid mutters.
“Business or vacation, Chief?” This from Mona. She’s not being nosy, just curious.
“A little bit of both.” I outline the case in Belleville, mostly to quell further questions and deter any potential rumors. “If anyone asks, it’s vacation.” I scan the group, and for the first time I’m cognizant of the fact that I don’t want to leave. That the trip is born of a sense of responsibility that doesn’t fit quite right.
“My cell is on twenty-four seven,” I tell my team. “Any problem, large or small, give me a call. Day or night.”
At that, I adjourn the meeting.