In the Land of Milk and Honey (19 page)

“Did you discuss it with any of your friends? Talk about how cool that would have been? Or maybe you shared your paper with someone?”

James blinked. A spark appeared in his eyes, as if something had occurred to him. But he shifted his gaze to the floor. “Nah. I dunno. I don't remember. It wasn't a major deal at the time. Just one more paper. Like, who would give a shit? We had other stuff to talk about.”

I studied James's downturned face and the way he was examining the toe of one grubby tennis shoe. He was wearing beat-up Nike running shoes, not Converses like the ones that left the print at the Troyer farm. He turned the tip of the shoe this way and that as if suddenly finding it fascinating. I'd bet anything he was lying. But about what, and whether or not it was relevant—that was another question.

“James?” I waited until he looked up at me, his eyes wary. I took a steadying breath and tried to appeal to his humanity. “People are dying. Children are dying. They're drinking poisoned milk and dying a very painful death. Do you understand that?”

James shrugged, uncomfortable. “That sucks. But there's nothing I can do about it.” He raised a hand to his mouth and began biting at a nail.

I studied him a moment longer, then sighed. I nodded at Glen, who brought out the form the CDC had put together. It listed the days and hours in which the known and suspected poisonings had taken place. “Please fill out this paperwork and write down what you were doing for the times noted, in detail. And if you remember anything at all, will you call me?” I took out a card and held it out.

“Sure,” James said, but he didn't meet my eyes as he took the
card.

When Glen and I arrived back at the Lancaster police station, it was midafternoon. I wasn't surprised to see most of the Violent Crimes team at their desks. Everyone, even the detectives who normally worked drug and gang crime, was putting in extra hours on the raw-milk case. They were on the phones and the Internet following up leads for Hernandez—tracing anyone who had bought white snakeroot seeds from the suppliers he'd found and running down library patrons. I was grateful. Everyone cared about this case. A lot. Surely it was just a matter of time before we got a break.

I'd barely put down my things when Grady pulled me into his office along with Hernandez and Glen Turner. He paced behind his desk.

“The chief called me this morning after
he'd
talked to the
mayor, who'd been called by the governor. They're looking at introducing a bill on Monday in the state house, an emergency measure that will make it illegal for anyone to give children under eighteen raw milk. We banned selling it, but this would mean no one who owns a cow could give the milk even to their own kids. I don't care if we get lawyered up the ass. If we can't stop the Amish adults from drinking the damn stuff, we can at least make them think twice before giving it to their children. I don't want to find any more dead kids!”

I sympathized with Grady's anger. We'd all been devastated at the Troyer house, knowing we should have been able to prevent the tragedy and had failed. But I also felt pretty clear that being more heavy-handed wasn't the way to go.

“Hang on a minute,” I said, putting a hand on Grady's arm as he passed. He paused instead of shaking me off, which was a good sign that he would at least listen. “What we have is a lone poisoner targeting vulnerable-looking Amish farms. There's only so much damage he can do.”

Grady looked incredulous. “We just found a dead family of eleven! That's plenty enough damage as far as I'm concerned.”

“Sorry. That's not what I mean.” I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “I mean, we have an intimate situation—one killer.”

“And literally thousands of Amish farms,” Grady pointed out roughly.

“Yes. But.” I sighed again. “What we need to do is not go after
all
milk or
all
Amish farms. What we need to do is catch
one killer
.”

Grady huffed. “I thought that's what we were trying to do.”

“We don't need to blow up this conflict with the Amish any more. The more we try to tell them what they can't do on their own farms, the more they're going to feel like outside authority is coming down on them, trying to force them to go against their beliefs. That's not going to help.”

Glen nodded. “She's right, Grady. We need to be working
with
the Amish on this. We have another press conference Monday morning. What if we release the news about the poisoner? Ask the Amish to be on the lookout for him?”

Grady grunted. “That would mean the killer would also know we've figured it out. But at this point—”

“No,” I said firmly. “He's targeting Amish farms, and the Amish won't watch the press conference anyway. All that will accomplish is to tell everyone
else
what we're looking for—including the killer. He'll just get harder to find. Yes, we should warn the Amish about him, but not through the press.” I started pacing myself. I met Hernandez's gaze.

“We need to catch him in the act,” Hernandez said.

“Right. We need to lure him out somehow,” I agreed.

“But how would we know where he's going to strike?” Grady asked, his tone more thoughtful now. “There're way too many vulnerable farms out there. We can't watch them all.”

No,
we
can't
. I tapped my chin as my mind worked it over. “Look, can you give me a few hours?” I glanced at my watch. “We can reconvene at five. I'd like to talk to Ezra and a few of the other Amish I know. I have an idea, but I need to make sure it's solid.”

Grady rubbed his jaw doubtfully. “Five is too late. I'm sure the chief and the mayor are going to want to hear a plan today.”

“Four then.” I was already reaching for the office door.

Glen stepped forward. “Do you want company?” He clearly wanted to go along.

“No. Sorry. I need to do this alone. See you at four.”

—

The beautiful farm on Lynwood Road in Bird-in-Hand glowed in the Sunday morning light, its house and large barn a gleaming white. Ezra and I pulled into the driveway. The center area between the house and barn was crammed tight with sleek black buggies and horses. An Amish boy motioned for Ezra to park on the lawn, and he did, rolling slowly to avoid damaging the grass.

I took a nervous breath, wondering if I was really ready for the plan we'd agreed to yesterday afternoon in Grady's office.

I'd dressed as conservatively as my closet allowed this morning—a full black skirt that reached the middle of my calves, boots, and a white silk high-necked blouse under a black suit jacket. My hair was back in the bun I normally wore for work, and I had even less makeup on than usual.

Beside me, Ezra was tense.

“You don't have to go inside,” I said, offering him an out for the third time that morning.

He shook his head, as if there were no point in discussing it, and opened the driver's door.

Ezra had helped me devise the plan I'd presented to Grady.
And he felt strongly about it and wanted to be there, even though, in his words, “It may do you more harm than good to be seen with me.” I didn't agree. Even if the Amish shunned Ezra because he'd turned his back on the Amish way of life, they still knew he was one of their own. I most certainly was not. Besides, I wanted Ezra's read on how this went this morning. He could understand the German dialect the Amish spoke, and knew how to interpret their body language and expressions better than I ever would.

The Amish don't believe in spending a lot of money on church buildings. They hold services in a different congregant's home each Sunday. This farmhouse had been built recently, no more than twenty years ago. And it appeared to have been built with this kind of gathering in mind. Just inside the front door was a small foyer that opened to a large room that was probably a living room and dining room most of the time. The furniture had been moved out to provide room for rows of portable wooden benches. There was no podium in the front, but different Amish men got up to speak to the crowd.

I couldn't understand a word of the thick German, but I glanced at Ezra occasionally and he didn't seem particularly bothered by the sermons. I was glad the elders hadn't taken the opportunity to preach at Ezra in a veiled fashion, to try to make him feel guilty. But really, other than some curious glances, no one paid much attention to Ezra and me as we stood in the back of the room.

After the interminable sermons came more singing. There was no musical accompaniment, and the hymns were sonorous
and slow, more solemn than joyous. But the raised voices and harmonies were beautiful, and I found my chest growing tight.

How strange it was to be here, witnessing a life so foreign to my own, to what I'd seen in my years in Manhattan. It was hard to believe that such pockets existed, relatively unchanged from the way they'd been several hundred years ago. There was a peace in it that I would never be able to access. But I knew now that there was no such thing as an idyllic way of life or a place where cruelty didn't exist. And I knew too that I was too independent, too questioning to ever have a place in a regimented world like this one.

Finally, when I was beginning to wonder if the service would ever end, an elder got up and spoke in English.

“We have someone here today to speak with us. It is Detective Elizabeth Harris with the Lancaster Police. She helped last year in that sad business with the murder of Katie Yoder and her English friend Jessica Travis. So please listen up to what she has to say now.”

It was a warmer introduction than I'd expected, and I was grateful. I made my way up to the front of the room feeling all eyes upon me. I hadn't brought along muti-media materials because I knew they'd only distance me from this audience. But without them I felt a bit at sea.

“I'm sure you have all heard about the poisoned milk that's killed a number of Amish in the area, sickened others, and has created a lot of fear in the public and bad press for farmers.”

Dozens of blank Amish faces stared at me. The men, with their
long beards, were intimidating. And the women were hard to understand. At least I'd gotten to know Hannah well enough to know there was no malice behind those women's eyes, only reserve. I represented a world they didn't want their children to know.

“I'm speaking to you today in confidence. What I'm going to tell you is something we don't want the newspapers, or the general public, to know. The truth is, we need your help to put an end to this problem before more people die. You see, there's a person—we believe he is not Amish but an outsider—who is deliberately giving your cows this poisonous plant and causing the milk to become deadly.”

I had their attention now. There were murmurs in the crowd, and then men began talking to each other in harsh German words.

“Please!” I raised my voice to get their attention. “Please let me explain.”

When they were quiet again, I explained about what Mark Hershberger had seen: the man feeding the family cow at the fence the day before the family fell ill. I explained about finding traces of the plant in the trough at Levi Fisher's farm and the Troyers', and the shoe prints found in the woods across the road from the Troyer farm.

“We need your help. If anyone has seen any strangers lurking around their farms, parked cars in places where they shouldn't be, or especially anyone trying to feed or pet your animals, please come talk to me after the service. Any description of the person we're looking for will help. If you see someone suspicious
in the future, it's probably best not to try to detain them or let them know they've been seen. If someone in your family or neighborhood has a cell phone for work purposes, call me. We'll get there as soon as we can.”

I met the eyes of as many men as I could in the audience. They were definitely interested now, a few leaning forward and regarding me intently.

“Also, until we've caught this person, I'd like to ask you to be extra vigilant with your cows. Don't allow them to wander out in a pasture without supervision. And when they're in the barn, lock the barn doors. Make sure no one can get inside while the family is sleeping, or even post guards if you have the manpower. Watch closely for any signs that your animals have been infected—panting, trembling in the legs or flanks, mucus or foam around the nose or mouth. If you see this, call us immediately and we can have the animal tested.” I studied their faces, hoping they could sense my sincerity. “I'm not going to ask you not to drink your cows' milk. That's a decision each of you must make for yourselves and for your children. But please know that until we can catch this poisoner, this danger is out there. If anyone in your family becomes ill, this sickness
is
treatable, but only if you get to the hospital right away. At the first sign of muscle aches, weakness, vomiting, or diarrhea, please go to your closest emergency room. Are there any questions?”

A younger Amish man with a long dark beard stood up. “Can't youse tell the public about this outsider? So they know it's not a fault of our milk, or the way we're farmin'?”

There were murmurs of assent. I nodded. “I know this has been very hard on your livelihood. The public is afraid, and that probably has hurt your sales in any number of ways.”

“I've been selling my milk to Heinz Dairy for fifteen years. Now they won' take it,” another farmer said, shaking his head.

“We could tell the newspapers about the poisoner,” I agreed, “but I'm not sure that would make the public feel safer. In fact, it might make them more afraid, knowing there's someone out there putting poison in Amish foods. After all, if he can poison the milk, he could poison something else.”

A lot of unhappy faces seemed to agree with me.

“What we want to do is put an end to this once and for all and catch this person. And that will be easier for us to do if he doesn't realize we know what he's up to. If he hears that we're looking for him, he may stop targeting your farms. And while that's good for your families, it won't put the public's mind at rest, because he could start up again at any time. That's why we need to catch him and put him in jail and then let people know exactly what happened.

“And please, you can help by passing this word along to all your Amish friends and relatives. We need to get the word out there to the entire Amish community.”

Glen Turner was speaking at another worship service today, and Isaac Yoder at his congregant's service in Paradise. Hopefully that would be enough to disseminate the message.

“I believe what she said makes gut sense.” The elder who'd introduced me stepped forward. He stroked his white beard with a
weathered hand. “We should pray that God grants us the wisdom and strength to face this person who is intent on doing so much evil. We are lucky to have gut friends to help us. Let us pray.”

—

O
n the way home, Ezra was quiet, but it was an easy stillness. His face was relaxed, and he looked at peace.

“Thank you for helping to arrange that and for going with me. Are you all right?” I asked.

“I am.”

Ezra had one hand on the steering wheel; the other relaxed on the center console. I took that hand and he didn't pull away. I threaded our fingers together.

“Half a dozen people nodded at me,” Ezra said. “Men I came up with. Two ladies who'd known my wife, Mary.”

“I'm glad.” I really was relieved this morning hadn't been a disaster for Ezra. He'd been so low lately. I didn't want him to be unhappy, and I didn't want to lose him either.