In the Land of Milk and Honey (17 page)

I c
ouldn't find the poisoner.

The police and the CDC had pored over the Troyer farm and had little to show for it. We discovered a few leaves under the trough that were positively identified as white snakeroot. And the crime-scene team found shoe prints from Converse tennis shoes in the woods across from the Troyers' land. But the shoes were a popular variety and also not found in the thick matted grass of the Troyers' pasture or the cement floor of their barn. He was careful. And smart.

The death of another large Amish family had the press in a frenzy. And now the protesters at the state capitol building in Harrisburg and Penn Square in Lancaster had been joined by a new faction—one that demanded action from the police and state government, one that pointed the finger of blame at the
police and thus, essentially, at me, since I was in charge of the investigation.

No, I wasn't the only one second-guessing my leadership, but the voice of my own internal critic was the loudest.

I was poring over my files again on Friday afternoon.

Someone who knows the history of milk sickness and how to cause it.

Someone who hates the Amish.

Someone who wants public fame, who fancies himself a poisoner on a historic level.

Henry Stoltzfus would not have left the graffiti. The FBI profiler I'd talked to said our perp was male, likely under thirty. Single. Bright. He could have a political agenda about the raw milk or the Amish, but even if he did, it was a thin veil for an ultimately sociopathic and megalomaniacal wish for fame and notoriety, a notoriety he believed he deserved because he was smarter and more ruthless than most people.

I went through my list of all persons of interest but was only able to eliminate an unfortunately small number of them with certainty.

Someone hovered over my desk. I raised my head to see Hernandez. His expression was sympathetic. “Hey. I'm gonna run out and pick up some sandwiches. You wanna go? Get some fresh air?”

I glanced at the time stamp on my monitor. It was after one
P.M.
“No thanks. I'm in the middle of this. But I'll take a sandwich if you're buying.”

“No way, Harris. You gotta go along. I need to fill you in on
some stuff. You can stretch your legs and work at the same time. How's that? Anyway, I'm always happy for your company, ma'am.”

I gave him a dubious look. “Are you ordering me around or sucking up? You seem confused, Hernandez.”

“Yes to both, ma'am.” Hernandez grinned.

I rolled my eyes, but I grabbed my wallet without further thought and we headed out. He was right. I did need some air. I'd been looking at the same damn data until I was cross-eyed.

It was a very warm April day, and the sunlight made me feel like a mole emerging from hibernation. At a crosswalk, we stopped behind a handsome young blond father holding an adorable baby in his arms. The baby stared at me curiously.

And suddenly, my mind shifted tracks.

Who am I? I'm not a father. I'm not a husband.

Ezra's words came back to me, low and frustrated. He wasn't happy. It was like he was anchorless, and I . . . I was not enough to anchor him. Would he feel less adrift if we were married? If we had a child? Or would he feel trapped in a life he didn't want? With my job, the bulk of the child-rearing would be on his shoulders. Would that make him feel more needed? Or just resentful?

Then I wondered: Why
hadn't
he asked me to marry him?

We'd been together for just over a year. It was a lifetime in one sense, a heartbeat in another. It wasn't like I had dreams of a white dress and a church wedding. I was a widow, after all. I thought I had a realistic view of marriage. I was in no hurry to make it official. But Ezra was a traditional man. In the world he came from, you didn't just shack up with your sweetheart. So
why hadn't he asked? Was he unsure if he wanted to be shackled to a modern woman? One who was not only rarely home but couldn't even return his phone call when he needed her?

I still bore guilt over my marriage with Terry. I'd worked so many late nights and weekends, and Terry was—mostly—understanding. He'd been considerably older than me, and he'd had his own life. And then he'd been the victim of a random shooting. And any chance to make up all those lost hours with him was abruptly gone.

My work wasn't like this all the time. Months would go by with only routine cases and almost normal hours. But something like this . . . I couldn't bring myself to regret my ability to focus so intensely. It was that obsessive focus that enabled me to solve cases. And my work wasn't just about me. I
avenged the dead
. I put people away so they couldn't hurt anyone else. It was something I could do, something I contributed, that went beyond the narrow twists and turns of my own life. I didn't want to give it up.

But Ezra . . . He was a gorgeous man—tall, broad, blond, and strong. He was funny and good-hearted, utterly honest and loyal, gentle and passionate in bed. He deserved a woman who could give him everything. It hurt knowing it wasn't me.

“Harris!”

The blond father and his precocious offspring were long gone, and I was still standing on the curb, blocking access to the crosswalk. Hernandez was looking at me funny. I stepped aside and let a group of protesters past. They were stocky-looking men,
probably farmers, and they had on black T-shirts with the slogan “Safe, Legal, PASTEURIZED Milk!” I gave Hernandez an unhappy glance, and he nodded his head, indicating we should abandon the crosswalk and continue on our current side of the street.

He led me on an out-of-the-way path down an alley to avoid the crowds. I was relieved. I knew the protesters were there and what they wanted—for me to solve the case, even if they didn't know it. I didn't need the reminder.

Fortunately, our usual deli wasn't too busy. Hernandez ordered a dozen sandwiches to go for the team, and I placed my own order. As we waited, we watched the passersby through the window.

“So, I was thinkin'. . . .” Hernandez began.

“Yeah? You mentioned you had something to tell me.” I perked up. When Hernandez had something to say, it was worth listening to.

“I've been doing a lot of research. You know, this milk sickness was a thing, back in the pioneer days. Lots of people died of it before they figured out it was caused by a plant their cows were eating.”

“Yeah, Glen—Dr. Turner told us that.”

“Glen, huh?” Hernandez raised one eyebrow knowingly.

I rolled my eyes. “That's what he asked me to call him. Anyway, what were you going to say?”

“Did you know that Lincoln's mother died of milk sickness?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. So, I was thinking. . . .” He paused.

“You're doing a lot of thinking,” I pointed out dryly.

“Aw, Harris. Don't bust my chops, man. No, listen. Most people alive now have never heard of milk sickness. So how'd our perp find out about it? What if it has to do with Lincoln's mother?”

“I don't think she's doing much talking these days,” I said, unable to help myself. It felt good to joke around with Hernandez for a few minutes and take a break from the gravity of the police station.

Hernandez made a
pfft
sound, the barest possible laugh. “No, seriously. Like, what if the perp read it in a biography on Lincoln, or maybe heard about it in school?”

“Yeah. I get it. Or even a TV documentary or something. Sounds like a pretty big haystack though.”

“What else is new? I called around to a bunch of libraries in the area. Got their research librarians to do a check for books that might have that tidbit about Lincoln's mother in it and send me a list of people who have checked them out.”

“That's really good.” I was impressed. It might not turn up anything, but it was worth a shot.

Hernandez smiled at the compliment. “Yeah, and I also contacted all the high schools around here and talked to history teachers. Asked if they ever talked about milk sickness or Lincoln's mother in class. 'Cause you discovered all that poisoner graffiti, and the profile says someone like that, he's probably young. So I figured, schools, you know?”

I'd been leaning one hip on the counter. I straightened up. That idea made the eddies in my mind stir in a new way.

“And? Have you heard back from the high school teachers yet?” I asked.

“Yup. Most of them said they don't cover that. The general complaint seems to be too much material, too few school days. In fact, most of 'em had never even heard about it, which kind of surprised me. Hey, Harris, do you think the public school system is doing its job?”

I could tell by the sparkle in his eye that Hernandez was yanking my chain. He must have something good to make me wait for it like this. I crossed my arms and gave him a glare. “But you did find a teacher
who . . .”
I prompted.

He grinned. “Yeah, I did find a history teacher who covers it. At Donegal High School in Mount Joy. Said she does a section on the dangers faced by the pioneers moving into lands they didn't know. She talks about milk sickness
and
Lincoln's mother dying of it. She's been teaching the section for a while too. Eleven years at that school.”

My heart beat a little faster. Holy shit, this felt like a good lead. “Can we get a list of all the students who have been in her class during that time?”

“Yeah. But I thought you might want to talk to her too.”

“Can we go over there right after lunch?”

Hernandez's eyes twinkled at my eagerness. “Yes, ma'am. I thought you'd never ask.”

We made it to Donegal High School just as the last bell of the day rang. I was with Hernandez. When we'd gotten back from the deli, Glen was on his cell phone in one of the police station's conference rooms, and I decided not to disturb him. He'd been eager to be involved in every step of our investigation, but for now, this was a long shot.

Except I hoped it really wasn't.

Besides, Hernandez was chomping at the bit to get away from the desk research and out on the street. I couldn't blame him. Glen had been hogging shotgun on this case since it started.

The lady at the school office told us where to find Mrs. Roberts, the history teacher. She was upstairs in room 203. Hernandez and I navigated the hallways, which were noisy with chatter and the clang of lockers and crowded with very animated teenagers. It felt bizarre to be in a high school again. At that age, I'd been quiet, focused on classes and my after-school job, and focused on getting the hell out of Pennsylvania. I hadn't been unpopular or picked on. I was pretty enough to escape bullying. But I hadn't been part of a big social circle either.

“Dang, this place is gonna give me nightmares,” Hernandez muttered.

“Worse than curry,” I agreed. I hoped I didn't have one of those dreams where I went to class in a see-through Disney princess nightie.

Hernandez looked around in awe. “Man, I thought my high school was nice.”

It was a brand-new school building. Everything was fresh and new and of excellent quality. The classroom doors were heavy wood and had honest-to-God signs on them. It was certainly nicer than Solanco High School in Quarryville, where I'd graduated.

“Where did you go to high school, Hernandez?”

“McCaskey in Lancaster.”

“Seriously? Didn't realize you were such a homeboy.”

“Been here all my life, 'cept when I was in the Marines,” Hernandez said proudly.

We reached room 203. The door was closed. I knocked lightly and got a quick “Come in!”

Mrs. Roberts looked every inch the schoolteacher. She appeared to be in her forties and had a thick pageboy haircut that was dyed a deep brown. She wore glasses and had on a knitted Fair Isle vest over a striped button-down shirt and gray wool-blend trousers.

“You must be the detectives!” she said with a big smile, like she was thrilled.

“Hello, Mrs. Roberts. I'm Detective Harris and this is Detective Hernandez, Lancaster Police.” I reached out a hand and the teacher shook it, and then Hernandez's, with vigor.

“Wonderful! Well, as I told Detective Hernandez on the phone, I'm happy to help in any way I can. I've always been interested in criminal justice. Even sat on a murder trial jury once. That was really something!”

“Good. Well, thank you for serving.”

Mrs. Robert's enthusiasm was a nice change. Most people I talked to were not happy to meet me. But the teacher's high energy was a bit like a steamroller.

“Now, you mentioned milk sickness on the phone,” Mrs. Roberts said briskly to Hernandez. “It's so odd, you know. When I first heard about this recent outbreak on the news, that it was caused by tremetol, I could hardly believe it! I've been teaching about that in my history of the American West section for years! And here it is happening right in Lancaster County. My students have been very curious about it, I must say. And of course the whole school's gone off milk!”

“Mrs. Roberts,” I said, trying to get ahold of the conversation, “do you mind if I record this?”

“Of course not! Be my guest.”

I brought out my phone and started the recorder. “This is Detective Harris. I'm interviewing Mrs. Roberts, a history teacher at Donegal High School. With me is Detective Hernandez.”

Mrs. Roberts was still smiling eagerly.

“Mrs. Roberts, can you describe in more detail what you teach your students about milk sickness?”

“Certainly. I have a section on the pioneer movement into the American West, the logistics of it, the Oregon Trail, the Mormon migration, all of that. Then the next section is about the difficulties the pioneers faced in their new homes. Now, that section ends with the dust bowl, which of course you know was caused by the fac
t that the farmers who moved into those plains
states didn't understand the land. They plowed up all that buffalo grass, which nature had put there for a good reason, and disturbed the natural ecosystem. That's why the winds were able to just pick up all that freshly turned top soil and—”