Breaking Silence (8 page)

Vaguely, I’m aware of Glock stringing tape a few yards away, the wind hissing through the open door behind him, sleet tapping like delicate fingernails against the glass panes. I grew up on an Amish farm. Being here brings back a lot of memories of my own childhood. We raised cattle for beef, but we also had horses, chickens, and several goats. We farmed corn, soybeans, and wheat. Our barn was much like this one: old, but built to last. The manure pit was smaller, but the concept was the same. I was a tomboy and spent many hours exploring the barn with my brother, Jacob.
Datt
always left the grate over the pit. I made my sister, Sarah, cry once when I told her there were monsters living in the muck. I never thought of it as an instrument of murder.

I walk the perimeter of the pen. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Something that seems out of place. You never know when something that initially appears mundane will become a piece of evidence. Spotting a pair of leather work gloves on the windowsill, I remove the camera from my pocket and snap four shots from different angles. I do the same with a two-pound coffee can someone probably used to measure feed. I snap two more photos of a big pocketknife that was probably used to cut hay twine. Next, I take a dozen shots of the manure pit from different angles. This is the first step in documenting the scene. Once the CSU arrives, every movable object will be bagged and sent to the lab for examination.

Lowering the camera, I spot a snow shovel leaning against the far wall. The blade is caked with dried muck and I realize it was probably being used to shovel solids into the pit. I think of Solomon Slabaugh’s head wound and realize a shovel would make a pretty good weapon. Stepping back, I snap half a dozen photos. I put the camera in my pocket and squat next to the shovel to examine the blade. A quiver goes through me when I see hair on the back of the scoop. “Shit.”

“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

I nearly start at the sound of Glock’s voice. Rising, I glance over at him and motion toward the shovel. “There’s hair on the blade. Looks human.”

“Murder weapon?”

“Maybe.” I bend for a closer look at the hair. “Definitely not from a pig.”

He approaches and squats next to me. “Same color as Solomon Slabaugh’s.”

I’m tempted to put some of the hair in an evidence bag for safekeeping, then decide to let the CSU handle it—mostly for chain-of-evidence reasons. Straightening, I sigh, thinking of the children. As much as I hate the idea of subjecting them to another interview, they’re my best bet at getting my hands on some solid information. “I’ve got some garbage bags in my kit. Bag the shovel. See what else you can find and mark it.”

“You got it.”

Rising, I start toward the gate that will take me out of the pen. “I’m going to talk to the kids.”

“You want me to go with you?”

Snapping off my gloves, I toss them into a trash can, then stop and turn to him. If we weren’t dealing with Amish kids, I might take him up on the offer. But I don’t want to overwhelm or intimidate them. “The fewer non-Amish people present, the more likely they’ll be to open up.”

“Gotcha.”

“You want the bad news?”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’m going to need you to stay here and keep the scene secure until the CSU arrives.”

“No problem.” He pats the coat pocket where he keeps his cell phone. “Just give a call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Glock.”

I go through the door and into the cold. A strong west wind buffets me as I head up the sidewalk toward the house, and I huddle deeper into my coat, wishing I’d put on a few more layers. At the back door, I knock and wait. A moment later, a tall, thin Amish woman I’ve never met answers. She’s wearing a blue print dress with a black apron, the requisite
kapp,
opaque hose, and well-worn black shoes. I show her my badge. “I need to speak with the children.”

She doesn’t look happy to see me, even less happy with my request. I’m relieved when she opens the door and ushers me inside.
“Sitz dich anne.”
Sit down.

The smells of coffee and cinnamon titillate my olfactory nerves as I step inside. Heat from the kerosene stove warms my face. A second woman stands at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. She turns as I sit at the table, nods a greeting, then returns her attention to her task. Being here in this Amish kitchen brings back memories. Growing up, I spent countless hours sitting at a big table just like this one while my
mamm
fussed at the stove, and I feel an uncharacteristic jab of melancholy for things lost. Not because I want to be Amish, but because I know that once pieces of your past slip away, those pieces are gone forever, and there’s no going back.

I think of my brother, Jacob, and my sister, Sarah, and for an instant I miss them so much, my chest aches. As children, we’d been close. Now they’re strangers; it’s been weeks since I’ve seen either of them. I have two nephews I barely know and a brand-new niece I’ve never met, mostly due to my own evasion. I don’t know why I avoid them the way I do. To say it’s complicated would be an understatement. As I sit at the table with the smells of an Amish house all around, I wonder if they’re part of my lost past, or if they’re part of a future I simply haven’t been able to reach for yet.

“I’m Ellen.”

I’m pulled from my thoughts to see the thin woman who’d answered the door eyeing me suspiciously as she dries her hands on a towel. “Would you like coffee and pie?” she asks.

I wonder if she’d be offering these if she knew I’d once been Amish and that I’d been excommunicated for going on fourteen years now. “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”

She pours from an ancient-looking enamel pot and carries the cup to me. “The younger children are in their room, sleeping,” she says. “They have had a very trying day.”

I pick up the cup and sip. “What about Mose?”

“Wait.” She disappears into the living room. A moment later, Bishop Troyer appears. He’s a short man with bowed legs, a round belly, and thick gray hair that’s blunt-cut above heavy brows. A salt-and-pepper beard hangs from his chin, reaching nearly to the waistband of his trousers. He’s looked much the same since I was a child: old, but never seeming to age further.

He doesn’t look happy to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”

“I need to speak with the children,” I say without preamble. “It’s important.”

He sighs as he crosses to the table and takes the chair across from me. “Katie, the children are grieving. They have been through much already this day.”

“Solomon Slabaugh may have been murdered.”

“
Murdered?
” The bishop recoils as if I’d splashed hot coffee in his face. “Solly? But I thought he fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”

I tell him about the head trauma. “I need to talk to the kids, Bishop Troyer. Right now.”

The old man looks uncertain as he rises, as if he doesn’t know what to make of this new information I’ve just thrown at him. “The three youngsters are in their rooms, sleeping. Mose is outside in the workshop with the men.”

“Gather the younger kids for me.” I take a reluctant last sip of coffee, then rise. “I’ll speak to Mose first.”

The bishop bows his head slightly, then disappears into the living room.

Leaving my coffee and the warmth of the kitchen, I go back outside. The wind penetrates my parka as I make my way down the sidewalk. Midway to the barn, I turn left toward a newish steel building, noticing for the first time the dull glow of lantern light in the windows. The sky is even darker now, the gray clouds to the west approaching like some vast army. There’s no snow yet, but I can smell it—that cold, thick scent that tells me we’re about to get dumped on.

I open the steel door of the workshop and find a single lantern burning atop a workbench. The air smells of kerosene and freshly sawed wood. Two Amish men sporting insulated coveralls and full beards stand in the circle of golden light, talking to Mose. The three males eye me with unconcealed suspicion as I approach.

“Hello,” I say, but my focus is on Mose. Even in the poor lighting, he looks pale and troubled and unbearably sad.

Looking away, he mumbles something I don’t quite hear.

I nod a greeting at the two men. I’ve met them both at some point, but I don’t recall their names. “Bishop Troyer said I’d find you here,” I say to Mose. “I need to ask you a few questions about what happened this morning.”

The boy glances at the other two men, as if hoping they’ll intervene and send me packing. Of course, neither man does. Looking at Mose, I realize that the reality of everything he and his siblings face in the coming days and weeks and months is starting to hit home. He’s apprehensive, sad, maybe a little scared.

“I know this is a tough time for you and your sister and brothers,” I begin, trying to put him at ease. “But I need to go over some things with you that we didn’t cover this morning.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Okay.”

I want to speak with him away from the men. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I know the Amish are as bad about spreading gossip as the English.

The workshop isn’t large. Looking around, I see a dozen or so unfinished cabinet doors stacked neatly against the wall, and it strikes me that Solomon Slabaugh was also a cabinetmaker.

“Did your
datt
make these cabinets?” I ask.

Mose ventures closer to me, eyeing the cabinets. “
Ja.
”

“He was very good.”

“He liked to work with his hands.”

“Did you help him?”

“I made the one on the left. It’s red oak.”

“It’s nice. I like the wood grain.” I walk to a half dozen intricately made Victorian-style birdhouses. “He make these, too?”

The boy glances uncertainly at the men, then follows me. “
Ja.
The mailboxes, too.”

“They’re really lovely.”

We’re standing about ten feet from the men now. It’s the farthest away I can get him without being too obvious about getting him alone. “Are you doing okay?” I ask, lifting the roof of a birdhouse and peeking inside.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he mumbles something that sounds like
yeah.

“You feel up to answering a few questions?”

He fixes his gaze on me and I see him resign himself to dealing with me, dealing with whatever reason I’m here. “What is this about?” he asks.

“Did your
datt
and uncle Adam get along okay?” I say the words easily, but I’m watching Mose carefully now—his eyes, his body language, his hands.

He looks confused by the question for a moment, then shrugs. “They used to.”

“What about recently?”

He shakes his head. “
Datt
wouldn’t let Uncle Adam come over to see us.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t keep the faith.”

“Did they ever argue?”

“Once or twice.”

“What about?”

Mose doesn’t want to answer; I see it in his eyes. Amish roots run deep. Though his uncle has been excommunicated, Mose still wants to protect him. But the boy was raised Amish and taught from an early age to respect and obey his elders. “Us kids.”

“Did Adam ever get angry?”

A lengthy pause ensues, then a reluctant “Sometimes.”

“Did he ever threaten your
mamm
or
datt
?”

“No,” he snaps.

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know. A long time, I think.”

I move on to my next question. “What about your uncle Abel? Did he get along with your
datt
?”

“Sure. They got along. They were brothers. They loved each other.”

“Did they ever argue?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any recent disagreements?”

“No.” His brows go together. “Why are you asking me these things?”

I don’t want to unjustly accuse the dead. But I know the possibility exists that the two brothers had some kind of confrontation before Rachael and the kids got to the barn. Abel could have struck Solomon with the shovel. They could have struggled and fallen to their deaths. Or maybe Abel pushed Solomon into the pit, realized what he’d done, and then attempted a rescue, only to succumb to the methane gas and become a victim himself. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been a cop long enough to know it’s an avenue that needs exploring.

Ignoring Mose’s question, I move to the next. “What about your
mamm
and
datt
? Were they having any kind of disagreement?”

He tosses me an indignant glare. “No.”

“Did they argue?”

“
Mamm
and
Datt
never argued.”

The Amish are a patriarchal society. Even so, at some point in their marriage, husbands and wives have disagreements. Generally speaking, Amish women have a strong voice when it comes to decision making, but males have the final say. “You sure about that? No disagreements at all?”

Shaking his head, he turns away and starts toward the two men. I snag his coat sleeve and stop him. In my peripheral vision, I see the two Amish men shift restlessly and exchange glances. “Did you see anyone else in or near the barn this morning?” I ask.

“I told you before. I din see no one.”

The two Amish men are within earshot and stare at us with rapt attention. Turning my back to them, I pull my notebook from my coat. “Mose, I need for you to start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, okay?”

He takes me through the same turn of events as he did this morning. “After Samuel came in screaming,
Mamm
and the rest of us ran to the barn. We were scared, because we knew something bad had happened. The first thing I noticed was that the barn door was open. I remember thinking
Datt
wouldn’t leave the door open, because it was cold and he was always trying to keep the barn warm so the water wouldn’t freeze.”

Frustrated by the lack of new information, I sigh. “Is there anything else?”

His brows go together again, as if I’ve posed some complex math equation. “I don’t think so.” He looks at me, his brows knitting. “Do you think someone killed my
datt
?”