Lewistown is a midsize borough with a pretty downtown peppered with historic buildings and architecture styles ranging from Greek Revival to Art Deco. Like most towns in this part of the country, it bears scars from the economic downturns of decades past. I see evidence of that as I make the turn onto Market Street and idle toward the square.
The Mifflin County Correctional Facility is located in a nondescript brick building at the corner of Market and Wayne. It took half a dozen calls and a bit of cajoling to get approved for a visit. That I’m a member of law enforcement was my saving grace. I’ve still not been able to speak to Jonas. As I take the steps to the glass doors and head for the central desk, I’m hoping everything is in order and I’ll be able to meet with him.
The detention officer inside the glassed-in office gives me a quick once-over as I approach. I identify myself and drop my driver’s license and badge into the pass-through drawer.
“You here to see an inmate?” She taps a few keys on the keyboard in front of her.
I nod. “Jonas Bowman.”
“You’re not on the visitation list,” she informs me.
“I called ahead,” I tell her. “The deputy sheriff added me to the list over the weekend.”
She frowns. “Gotta check.”
It takes twenty minutes for me to get through security. I’m questioned about my service firearms, both of which are unloaded and locked in my vehicle. A male detention officer leads me to the visitation hall, where I’m taken to a row of plexiglass-encased booths, each containing a stool, a slab Formica desk, and a phone that doesn’t look quite clean.
“He’ll be out in a few,” he tells me. “Hang tight.”
I wait fifteen minutes. I’m thinking about flagging down a detention officer when the door to the visitation room opens. Jonas starts toward me, craning his neck to see who has come calling. Some prisons and county jails accommodate the religious needs of inmates. Not so with this one. He’s clad in a wrinkled orange jumpsuit. No hat. Rubber flip-flops on his feet. His hair is long and cut in the “Dutch boy” style that’s typical for Amish males. Some prisons won’t even allow their inmates to retain their facial hair, because it makes it more difficult for the officers to identify them. To my relief, they allowed him to keep his beard, which is of great significance for a married Amish man.
He recognizes me instantly and stops cold. A quiver moves through his body. He blinks, as if his eyes are playing tricks on him. I feel a similar quiver move through my own psyche. The urge to rise and go to him for a handshake or embrace is powerful. Of course, I can’t do either.
He looks much the same as he did last time I saw him, some twenty years ago. A few pounds heavier. Leaner face. Troubled eyes the color of dark roast coffee. When I was a kid, he’d seemed as big as a giant, but he’s only a few inches taller than me. His face has seen too much sun over the years, evidenced in the crow’s-feet at his eyes, the tanned-leather appearance of his neck. He didn’t wear glasses last time I saw him, but he does now. The frames are black and unadorned.
He holds my gaze as he slides onto the bench seat and picks up the phone. “You always did know how to surprise a guy,” he says matter-of-factly.
His voice is the same, too. Deep and melodic with a hint of the Amish-English accent I myself have been accused of having. Despite the reason for our meeting, I smile. “Not all of those surprises were pleasant.”
“This one is.”
“I guess we both wish it was under different circumstances.” I hear the words as if they were spoken by someone else. A person whose pulse isn’t pounding, whose emotions aren’t swelling and a little too close to the surface, and a gut that isn’t knotted into a ball of emotions I’m not sure I could unravel even if I tried.
“You look the same.” He leans back in his chair and studies me intently. “After all these years, you’re exactly as I remember.”
“Less the kapp.”
“I always knew you wouldn’t remain Amish. The signs were there. Even when you were twelve years old.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Inexplicably, I can’t meet his gaze. An awkward combination of self-consciousness and discomfort, neither of which I can reconcile, stirs uncomfortably in my chest. I pretend to look past him at the door from which he emerged, and I use that moment to shore up.
“English suits me,” I say.
“I can tell. You look happy.”
“I am.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did.” Settled now, I take his measure. He looks tired. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Humiliated. But like so many Amish I know, he has a serenity about him that transcends the negativity of the situation. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” He raises a hand to encompass the room, as if to dismiss any worry about his well-being. “The officers have been decent. You know, professional. Polite. Food isn’t too bad. They give me three meals a day.”
“You’re still not a very good liar.” They’re harsh words, but I soften them with a smile because it’s true.
He makes a sound of dismissal, but before he can look away, something darker peeks out at me from behind the mask of composure. It’s the first sign of a crack I’ve seen and I suspect it will grow the longer he’s incarcerated and as the reality of the situation hits home.
“I worry for my wife,” he tells me. “The children. They’re probably confused.”
“I’m happy to check on them for you,” I say.
He scrubs his hand over his face, but it’s not enough to wipe away the pain etched into his features. “Thank you.”
I recall the day my sister told me Jonas had married. I was sixteen, and though he’d been gone for a year, I still pined for him. I couldn’t believe he’d fallen in love with someone else and moved on so quickly. It wasn’t my first heartbreak, but it was the first time in my life I felt the fangs of that green-eyed beast Jealousy.
He hefts his gaze back in my direction. “The Diener came to you?” he asks. “In Painters Mill?”
“They thought I might be able to help.”
Frowning, he shakes his head, as if the three elders are misguided teenagers. “They’re good men and they meant well, but I asked them not to involve you.”
“They did the right thing, Jonas. I might be able to help.”
His mouth curves. “You never would take no for an answer.”
“Especially when I’m right.”
“Which is all the time, no?”
We share a smile.
Jonas sobers first. “The thing is, Katie. I know God has a plan. Sometimes we don’t know what that plan is. But it is divine and this is part of it. I’m in His hands, as are all of us. The one thing that I know for certain is that everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”
It is the quintessential Amish mindset—one of many reasons I didn’t fit in and left the fold. The impulse to point out that he’s been charged with murder and faces spending the rest of his life in prison is powerful, but I don’t succumb.
“I read a newspaper story about your being a police,” he tells me. “It said you’re good at what you do.”
“I’m good at digging.”
“You always were one for asking questions.” The hint of a smile touches his mouth. “Too many, according to some, eh?”
I smile back, but a hundred of those questions swirl in the forefront of my brain. The need for hard information is tempered by the knowledge that all visitor conversations, attorney-client exchanges aside, are recorded and may be used any way a prosecutor sees fit.
“Jonas.” Without consciously thinking about it, I switch to Deitsch. “Everything we say is being recorded.”
He takes the information in stride, as if it’s the last thing on his mind and he doesn’t care one way or another. “You think I’m going to admit to something that will put the nail in my coffin, Katie?”
“Just so you’re aware.” I don’t smile this time. “I need to know what happened.”
He leans back in the chair and shakes his head. “I didn’t kill Ananias Stoltzfus, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“They arrested you,” I say.
He heaves a sigh, as if the thought of wading into the explanation of how he ended up here exhausts him. “It’s a long story that goes back a few years.”
I motion to our surroundings. “I think we have time.”
He ducks his head, sheepish. The exhale that follows is a disconsolate sound that goes through me as wrenchingly as a sob.
“I was nineteen when we left Painters Mill and moved here to Big Valley,” he tells me.
I stare at him, wait, surprised because even after all these years I have to steel myself against the punch of remembrance. The pain of the fifteen-year-old girl I’d been and the dark days that followed his departure was excruciating and real. I’d never felt so lost. So betrayed. I was broken in so many ways I didn’t think I’d ever be able to put all the pieces of me back together.
“Ananias Stoltzfus was our bishop,” he tells me. “A year or so after we arrived, Datt was struck by the lot.”
Being “struck by the lot” is an Amish term for the process of electing a new member of the Diener—a bishop, deacon, or minister—by the congregation.
“Ezra was a minister?” I ask.
“A good one,” he tells me.
I remember Jonas’s father well. Ezra Bowman was a respected member of the Amish community in Painters Mill. He had a booming voice, a big laugh, and a demeanor that made no bones about what he believed or where he stood. He was charismatic and unfailingly adherent to his Anabaptist beliefs. I was too young at the time to fully comprehend the complexities of the adult relationships around me. But even as a kid, I sensed some of his views weren’t popular among some of the Amish. My own datt used to call him druvvel-machah. Troublemaker.
“Everyone in the church district agreed to the ordination,” he explains, “though we’d only lived in Belleville for a year. Datt was born in Belleville, you know. Grew up here.” Jonas pauses as if to get his words in order. “My father served well for months. He was a good preacher. In full fellowship. Preached in other church districts on the off Sundays.”
Jonas grimaces. “He’d been minister for about year when the mess with the tractor happened. It was diesel powered, you know. Datt had been pushing for more relaxed rules. But Ananias wasn’t happy with him, even though he allowed those who own dairy farms to use diesel machinery to milk. After a lot of discussion and arguments, Ananias put Datt under the bann. When Datt still refused to get rid of the tractor, the bishop silenced him.”
To be placed under the bann is emotionally traumatic for any Amish person. None of your fellow Amish will do business with you. Friends, and even family, will not share a meal with you. Some Amish won’t speak to you. Contrary to popular belief, it is not done to punish, but to bring the fallen back into the parish. For a minister to be “silenced” is worse. The minister’s voice is taken away; he is no longer allowed to preach. It’s a harsh punishment for a man who has been charged with preaching to his congregation.
Seemingly lost in the memory, Jonas shakes his head. “Datt was distraught. He was a good minister. Some of the families in our church district rallied and supported him. People took sides and, in the end, several families rebelled. They chose Datt over the bishop. It was a painful time.”
Church disagreements aren’t unheard of among the Amish. Over the last hundred years, several factions of Amish and Mennonite groups have broken off to begin new settlements with different rules. The reasons for the splits range from clothing types to the rules surrounding excommunication to the types of buggies allowed.
“There were a lot of hard feelings. On both sides.” He runs his fingers over his beard, his expression troubled. “Two weeks later, Datt passed. They said it was a heart attack.” Jonas’s expression hardens. “Maybe it was the stress. But he was gone.”
I nod, wincing against the stab of guilt that follows. I’d heard about Ezra’s passing and yet I didn’t write a note or send condolences to Jonas or his family.
“I’m sorry about your datt,” I tell him.
“He’s with God now.” He waves off the condolence and for the first time I catch a glimpse of anger. I’m surprised because his datt has been gone eighteen years. Too long for him to still hold a grudge.
“A couple weeks later, church Sunday, I got into an argument with Ananias,” he tells me. “I lost my temper. I shouted. Said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“No.”
“What about the vandalism incident?”
“Ah.” He gives a wry smile. “The old men didn’t leave anything out, did they?”
I say nothing, wait.
“I was young and stupid. Not to mention angry. I went out with a sledgehammer and wrecked his buggy.” He looks down, shakes his head as if in self-disgust. “I’m not proud of it.”
“You got caught?”
“Paid a fine.”
A documented indictment of character that likely played a role in his being arrested.…
He sighs. “Two months later, Ananias disappeared. No one knew where he’d gone or what happened. But there was talk. Too much talk.”
“About you?”
He nods. “The police questioned me, but I wasn’t too worried. I had the truth on my side. Even so, the suspicion was there.”
“Do you have any idea what happened?” I purposefully leave the question open ended.
“You mean who killed him?”
I nod.
“All I know is that he was a hard man, Katie. If someone took offense to being treated harshly…” He lets the words trail.
“Tell me about the muzzleloader.”
“The police found it in the field where the bones were discovered. It was mine. An old thing I hadn’t seen for years.”
“How did it get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jonas, how can you not know? The gun must have been missing from your house, right? Did you give it to someone? Or let someone borrow it? Was it stolen?”
He scoffs. “No. I just … lost track of it, I guess. The muzzleloader belonged to my dawdi.” Grandfather. “He passed it down to my datt. My datt to me. I’d had it for years. Kept it in the mudroom.” He gives another shrug. “I didn’t hunt much, you know. I don’t know when it went missing.”
“So the muzzleloader disappeared from your home and you didn’t notice?”
“I know that sounds odd, but it’s true.”
“Did you file a police report?”
He gives me an are-you-kidding look. “I did not want to speak to the police, especially about a gun. I knew they suspected me of wrongdoing. I forgot about it.”
The muzzleloader found at the scene is damning, particularly since, according to the newspaper stories I read online, the victim sustained two gunshot wounds. Only one large-caliber round ball—the kind of ammo used in a black-powder rifle—was found at the scene.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve taken the gun?” I ask.
“No.”
“Who knew it was there?”
“It was in plain sight, I think.” He shrugs. “We kept it in the corner, out in the mudroom. Anyone who visited would walk right by it.”
I think about that a moment. “Jonas, do you have any idea who might’ve killed Stoltzfus? Did he have any disagreements with anyone else? Amish or English?”
“All I can tell you about the bishop is that he was strict. Some Amish were okay with that. Others…” He ends the statement with a shrug.
Another pause ensues while I mentally file away everything that’s been said. “Is there anyone who might want to see you get into trouble?”
“There is no one who would do such a thing.”
The statement is naïve. But I’ve been around the Amish enough to realize he likely believes it. The problem is that while the Amish are nonviolent and generally make good neighbors, they’re subject to all the same frailties as the rest of us.
“Do you have an attorney?” I ask.
“I’m innocent, Katie. I don’t need one. Lawyers charge a lot of money and I’m capable of speaking for myself.”
“The legal system is complicated,” I tell him.
“The truth is simple.”
“They’re going to assign you a public defender,” I tell him. “Will you at least work with him? Let him help you?”
“If you think it’s important, I’ll do it.” He studies me a moment. “I would like to go home. With my family. I’ve got a woodworking business to run. Customers who’ll be expecting their cabinets or whatnot.”
I don’t point out that his woodworking business is the least of his worries. “What about bail?” I ask. “Are you trying to raise bail?”
“I don’t know anything about bail.”
I think about the teenager I knew a lifetime ago. I think about everything I know regarding the case and I’m a hell of a lot more troubled now than when I walked into this room.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell him.
“All right.”
“Jonas, is there anything else you can tell me that might help me find out what happened to Ananias Stoltzfus?”
He considers the question, then shakes his head. “Most of the Amish thought he was a good bishop, Katie. But like I said, he was heavy-handed and set in his Old Order ways. He wasn’t open to change. Sometimes he took things too far. Like with Datt. Ananias wasn’t always fair, but no one wished him ill.”
Someone did, a little voice whispers.
I think about my own experiences growing up Amish. “What about excommunications?” I ask.
“You know as well as I do that most Amish straighten up when the bishop gets involved.” His thoughts seem to turn inward. “There were two I can think of that didn’t end well. Roman Miller and Duane Mullet. Neither man could change their ways and left.”
“Do you know what happened?” I ask.
“Roman is Mennonite now. Mullet … he’s English. Lives up in the hills doing God only knows what.”
“Did things get ugly?” I ask. “When Ananias put them under the bann?”
“They didn’t like it much. I don’t know the details. Dorothy probably knows more than I do.”
The sound of a door opening behind Jonas draws my attention. I look beyond him to see a corrections officer peek out at us, give me five fingers to let me know my time is almost up.
I nod at him and turn my attention back to Jonas. “Do you need anything?”
“No, I am fine.” His eyes skate away from mine, but he quickly forces them back. “If you could let Dorothy know I’m all right. She worries, you know.”
“I will.” I rise, anxious to get started, but there’s another part of me that’s hesitant to leave.
I want to say more. To reminisce about the past. To reassure him, bolster him, but there are no words. Instead, I set my hand against the plexiglass divider. He does the same and we stare at each other for the span of several seconds.
“I’ll let you know about bail,” I tell him.
His hand is still pressed against the glass when I walk away.