Pray for Silence (25 page)

“It pained me greatly to hear about the passing of Amos and Bonnie Plank and their children.” The bishop has the slow, thick accent characteristic to many Midwestern Amish. “But I know they believed in the divine order of things and the will of God.”

“Did you know them well?”

“Yes. I conducted their wedding ceremony. I spoke to them many times over the years.”

“Do you know why they left Lancaster County?”

For the first time, he pauses. “There were some problems a few years back with their son, Aaron. An
Englischer
was involved. Problems developed between Bonnie and Amos. Some members of the community could not condone Aaron’s . . . relationship with this outsider, nor the way Amos and Bonnie handled it. In the end, Amos decided a fresh start in a new church district would be best, so he moved the family.”

“What can you tell me about the problems?”

“Bonnie loved her son very much. She was a very tolerant woman. Willing to abide by almost anything to keep her son. Amos was not as tolerant. Neither was the community as a whole.”

“So it caused a rift between them?”

“Between Bonnie and Amos as well as the Plank family and some of the community. Aaron was not repentant and refused to confess his sins. The
Ordnung
prohibited this relationship, particularly with an outsider.”

“The community objected to a gay relationship?”

“There was a lot of talk.” The old man’s sigh is tired.
“Wer lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.”
If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard the old adage. If the Amish as a whole have a fault, it is that at times they can be judgmental. “So the Planks left for a fresh start?”

“A fresh start in a new church district in Ohio.”

“What can you tell me about Aaron’s relationship with his family?”

“It was a stormy union. Troubled. Amos was a good father, a hard worker who provided well for his family. But he was not a patient man. Aaron was headstrong.”

“Did they argue?”

“Often.”

“Did either of them ever become violent?”

Another tired sigh. “There was a fight or two.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It happened about the time Aaron decided he would not be joining the church. Amos was upset and forbade Aaron to see the
Englischer
. One night, he caught the outsider in the barn with Aaron. I don’t know what happened, but Amos lost his temper and went after the
Englischer
with his fists.”

“And Aaron?”

“He picked up a pitchfork and used it against his
datt.
”

There’s no doubt in my mind why Aaron didn’t mention that part of his juvenile record. “How badly was Amos hurt?”

“The wounds required surgery.”

“Aaron was arrested?”

“The English police were called. He was arrested and taken to jail.”

“But tried as a juvenile.”

“I do not know the English laws, but I believe that was the case.”

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Bishop Fisher.”

“I will say a prayer for the Plank family.”

“I think they would like that very much.”

“Gott segen eich.”
God bless you.

I disconnect to find Tomasetti staring intently at me. “Sounded like an interesting conversation.”

“Aaron Plank attacked his father with a pitchfork when he was seventeen years old.”

“Must have been pretty pissed off to do something like that.”

“He didn’t mention it when I talked to him.”

“Maybe we ought to give him another chance to fess up.”

“If he’s still in town.”

“Since there’s only one motel, that ought to be pretty easy to figure out.”

Grabbing my keys, I rise. “Damn, you’re getting good at this cop stuff, Tomasetti.”

“I was just trying to impress you.”

“It’s working.”

The Willowdell Motel is located on Highway 83 a few miles out of town. During the summer months, the place caters to tourists visiting Amish Country. During deer season, the motel caters to the dozens of hunters that flock to the area to bag that purported eight-point buck. The motel’s one-size-suits-all décor doesn’t differentiate between the two groups of clientele.

Tomasetti pulls the Tahoe into the gravel lot and we begin looking for Aaron Plank’s Camry. “He might have gone back last night.”

“He’s still got the house to deal with,” I point out. “He’ll either need to hire a professional cleaner or do it himself. With so much blood, I’m betting he hires it out. At some point, he’ll need to get the place appraised. If he wants to sell it, anyway.”

“How much is a farm like that worth?”

“A hundred and sixty acres. Farmhouse. Barn. Outbuildings. It’s a valuable piece of land. Traditionally, in an Amish family the eldest male child will inherit the farm when the parents pass.”

“It’s a stretch, but maybe he felt entitled. Kill the people who pissed you off and get a farm worth several hundred thousand dollars in the process. Maybe he decided to speed things up.”

I shake my head. “I don’t like Aaron Plank for this. James Payne, yes. But not Aaron.”

“People have done worse for less.” But I can tell by his lack of enthusiasm he’s not buying it either.

We’re midway through the lot; no sign of the Camry. “He’s not here,” I say.

Tomasetti stops outside the motel office. “Let’s see if he checked out.”

The heavy-set woman behind the counter tells us Plank checked out a couple of hours ago.

“He didn’t happen to say where he was going, did he?” I ask.

“Sure didn’t. But I can tell you he’d been drinking. I could smell it on his breath when he signed his receipt.”

Back in the Tahoe, I’m feeling frustrated and tense. “Kind of early in the day for a nightcap.”

“Especially if he’s driving back to Philly.” Tomasetti shrugs. “When in doubt, turn to alcohol.”

I frown at him, then a thought strikes me. “Maybe he’s at the farm.”

“Tough place to stay if it hasn’t been cleaned up.”

“Maybe he decided to do it himself.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tomasetti hangs a U-turn. “Worth a shot.”

Five minutes later we park next to the Plank buggy—right behind Aaron’s Camry.

“Good hunch, Chief,” Tomasetti says.

I glance toward the farmhouse. I see the kitchen curtains blowing outward, snapping in the stiff breeze. A nifty little gas generator sputters outside the window, the cord snaking inside. “Looks like he’s airing the place out.”

“Or cleaning up.”

“Let’s go find out.”

We disembark and head toward the door. In the periphery of my consciousness, I’m aware of the birds singing all around. The crisp leaves rattling in the wind. A dozen or so cows hanging out in the paddock near the barn. Everything seems so benign. Except for the fact that a family of seven was wiped out in this very place just three days ago.

I ascend the steps and knock. Music floats through the open window. Classical guitar with a dash of Madrid. Several minutes pass. I’m in the process of raising my hand to knock again when the lock rattles.

Aaron Plank opens the door several inches and peers out at me. Even through that small space, my cop’s eyes take in details. The first thing I notice
about him is that he looks inordinately out of place in the big Amish kitchen wearing a paisley silk robe. His hair is mussed. His cheeks are flushed. His feet are bare.

“Can I help you?” No smile. No warmth. His voice tells me we’ve interrupted something he didn’t want interrupted. The cop in me wants to know what that is.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.

Plank’s eyes go from me to Tomasetti, who is standing slightly behind me. He makes no move to open the door. “This is kind of a bad time.”

“I understand,” I say. “But we only need a few minutes.”

His gaze flicks sideways. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“So are we,” Tomasetti cuts in. “A murder case. Now open the door and talk to us.”

Aaron’s mouth tightens into a thin, hard line. The door swings open as if by its own accord. Stepping back, he tugs at the belt of his robe. “I would have come down to the station.”

“I’m afraid this won’t wait.” I step into the kitchen. The aromas of candle wax and coffee mingles with the fresh air gusting through the window. I see a high-tech coffeemaker on the counter. Dishes draining in the sink. A bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses sit on the counter. That’s when I realize Aaron isn’t alone, and I get a prickly sensation at the back of my neck. The kind you get when you know someone is watching and you don’t know who or why. There were no other cars in the driveway, but I know he’s got company.

“Who’s here with you?”

Leave it to Tomasetti to cut to the chase. Listening, I cross to the living room. A dozen candles sit on the table, their tiny flames flickering in the breeze. Classical guitar streams from a cool little sound system on the floor.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Both Tomasetti and I look up to see a dark-haired young man trotting down the stairs. He’s got eyes the color of whiskey and just enough scruff of a beard to look en vogue. I know even before he introduces himself that the man is Aaron Plank’s lover.

“I’m Rob Lane.” Crossing to us, he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. I just wish it were under different circumstances.”

Tomasetti shakes the man’s hand and introduces himself.

I step forward and do the same. “We spoke on the phone,” I say.

“Of course.” Rob’s expression turns appropriately sober. “I couldn’t believe it when Aaron told me what happened to his family, especially with their being Amish and in a town this size.”

“You didn’t mention you would be traveling to Painters Mill,” I say.

“I hadn’t planned to at the time.” He grimaces. “But Aaron’s been understandably upset. He asked me to fly out for the weekend.”

I spot Aaron in the kitchen, pouring red wine into two glasses and start toward him. “Is there some place we can talk?” I ask him. “Alone?”

Frowning at me, he brushes past and hands Rob one of the glasses. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Rob.”

I nod, wondering about the attitude change. Last time I talked to him, he was cooperative and forthright. Now, he’s petulant. Why the turnaround? Is the grief over losing his family settling in? Did I come down on him too hard the last time we spoke? Or is there another reason for his abrupt turnaround?

“Why didn’t you tell us you attacked your father with a pitchfork when you were seventeen?” I ask.

Aaron takes a swig of wine. “It’s not the kind of thing you want to reveal to the cops when they’re investigating the murders of your estranged family.”

“Surely you knew we’d find out sooner or later.”

He shrugs.

Tomasetti steps closer, crowding Aaron. “It’s called lying by omission. In case you missed that episode of
Law and Order,
Einstein, that’s the kind of thing that usually makes the cops suspicious.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Aaron says.

“You attacked your father and put him in the hospital,” I say. “You didn’t tell us. Now he’s dead. It could appear as if you do have something to hide.”

“I didn’t kill my family. It’s absurd of you to think so.”

“Lying to the police doesn’t exactly bolster our confidence in your ability to tell the truth,” Tomasetti says.

Aaron glares at him, swigs more wine. “I’m not capable of that kind of violence.”

“You stuck your old man with a pitchfork,” Tomasetti mutters. “That’s pretty violent.”

“I had no reason to kill them.”

“They condemned you for being different. They thought you were perverted. Maybe you wanted to pay them back for the hell they put you through when you were seventeen.”

“All I wanted was to live my own life.”

“They wouldn’t let you do that, though, would they?” Tomasetti is goading him now.

“I forgave them a long time ago.” Aaron’s voice turns defensive.

“Did they forgive you?”

“I had no control over what they thought of me or my lifestyle,” he says.

“This is a nice house, Aaron,” I break in. “Are you going to keep it?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Tomasetti picks up an empty bottle of wine, makes a show of looking at the label, then sets it down. “Nice little love nest. Private. Roomy. Kind of ironic that the two of you are holed up in here now, drinking wine, hanging out, while the rest of your family is buried just down the road.”

Rob steps forward. “You’re out of line.”

Tomasetti shows his teeth, but his eyes are focused on Aaron. “They put you through hell, Aaron. Especially your old man. He thought you were sick. Maybe this is your way of paying him back.” He makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “Maybe you and lover boy are celebrating. Rubbing all that intolerance in their self-righteous faces.”

“That’s not how it is,” Aaron retorts, his voice rising.

“Then tell us how it is.”

Aaron divides his attention between Tomasetti and me. “I told you. I forgave them. I moved on.”

“Is that why you’re so upset?” Tomasetti asks.

“I was alone here! I needed . . . a friend. I called Rob.”

“You haven’t even cleaned up their blood yet, and here you are dancing and drinking wine and having veal parmesan for lunch. That’s cold.”

“W-we were going to hire a professional c-cleaner.” Aaron stutters the words. “They can’t come out until tomorrow.”

“How much did you hate your father?” Tomasetti asks.

“I didn’t hate him. He hated
me.
His
son.
He couldn’t stand what I was.” He turns his gaze to mine. Through the anger, his eyes plead for understanding, and for the first time I see the shimmer of tears. “I loved him. I loved all of them.”

“Is that why you stabbed him with a pitchfork?” Tomasetti asks.

“I was a teenager. He was . . . ignorant. He didn’t . . .
wouldn’t
understand. I lost my temper!”

“I think you still have a temper,” Tomasetti says. “I’ll bet you’d like to stick a pitchfork in me right now, wouldn’t you?”