Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

I give Britney a ride to the police station with the assurance that I will also make sure she gets a ride home. I call Tomasetti on the way.

"Any chance you can get me a sketch artist?" I say by way of greeting.

"That's an interesting request," he says. "I take it you have a witness?"

I tell him about my trip to McNarie's bar. "It's a long shot, but I thought it might be worth pursuing."

"I think that's a good call." A beat of silence, and then he adds, "I got a guy who owes me a favor. Let me see what I can do."

I'd known walking into this that Britney Gaines wasn't going to give us much in terms of identifying the man who'd been talking to Swanz. Not because she was intoxicated or didn't try hard enough, but because she simply didn't notice enough details to make a sketch a viable tool. Unfortunately for me, it takes nearly three hours to go through the motions. By the time I drop her at her apartment in Painters Mill, it's seven thirty, fully dark, and aside from my brother—and Noah Stutzman, whom I'd spoken to before I found the list—I've yet to speak with the remaining individuals whose addresses are on the list.

That said, the list itself isn't much of a lead; if I wanted to be perfectly honest, it's not a lead at all. But at this point in this lackluster investigation, it's the best I've got, and desperation obliges me to follow up.

It's too late in the evening for me to visit the bishop and his wife. Not only are they known to rise early, but they're elderly—well into their eighties. They've likely already called it a night. Of course, I'm going to buck conventional decorum and talk to them anyway. With the clock ticking and not a single solid lead, it won't wait until morning.

I haven't seen the bishop since my wedding just over two months ago. He didn't officiate at the ceremony. While we've had our differences over the years, and will never see eye to eye on my belief system or the way I live my life, his being there meant the world to me. As I pull into the gravel lane of the Troyer farm, I find myself hoping that milestone meant something to him as well and might grease the wheels of cooperation.

As I park in the gravel area at the back of the house, I notice there's no light in the windows. Snow brushes against my face as I take the walkway to the porch. Opening the screen door, I knock, knowing it may take him a while to answer. As I wait, I listen to the yip of coyotes in the field behind me. The whisper of wind through the treetops. The hushed tap of snow against the siding. I'm thinking about knocking a second time when the door creaks open.

The wrinkled face of the bishop's wife, Freda, peers out at me through the gap. "Katie Burkholder? What on earth are you doing here at this hour?" she asks in Deitsch.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, Mrs. Troyer," I respond in kind. "This is an official visit. I need to speak with the bishop. Is he around?"

"This is about Milan Swanz." It's not a question.

"Yes, it is."

She stares at me, unspeaking, for a beat too long, then opens the door the rest of the way. " Kumma inseid. " Come inside.

Freda Troyer may be a scant five feet tall, but despite her diminutive stature, she's formidable, a woman who is comfortable in her skin, knows her mind and doesn't hesitate to speak it. She makes no effort to engage in small talk as I follow her through the mudroom to a large kitchen. The room is dark, the only light coming from the lantern in her hand. I'm thankful when she lights a second one on the counter. As a kid, having grown up without electricity, I wouldn't have noticed the lack of light. Now that I'm English, I'm aware of how much I've come to rely on it.

The Amish woman motions to the table and chairs. " Sitz dich anne. " Set yourself there. She goes through the doorway and disappears.

I slide into a chair at the table, glad for the warmth, taking in the smells of lantern oil and something that was baked earlier in the day. To my relief, the bishop doesn't keep me waiting. He's dressed in black—shirt, suspenders, jacket, and a flat-brimmed felt hat. He leans heavily on a four-prong walker as he enters the kitchen.

"Now that you're a married woman, I thought you might set all of this police business aside," he says.

No matter how many years of life experience I have under my belt—that I'm now a grown woman and the chief of police—invariably the nerves of the Amish girl I'd once been tense at the low timbre of his voice, and I find myself sitting up a little straighter.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, Bishop, but there's been a homicide and I need to ask you a few questions."

His hair is mostly silver with a few black strands throughout, and unevenly cropped. His beard is white, unkempt, and dangles to the waistband of his trousers. He seems smaller than when I last saw him, his posture stooped, his legs bowed. The frailty doesn't detract from the steel in his eyes.

"I heard about Milan Swanz." He shakes his head. "It's a terrible thing."

"I'm trying to find the person responsible." I pull out the copy I made of the list of addresses. "I went to Milan's house and found this." I slide the sheet in front of him. "Do you have any idea why he might've had your address written down?"

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out wire-rimmed glasses, looks down at the paper, and shrugs. "I have no way of knowing such a thing."

"Did he ever do any work for you?" I ask. "Cabinets? Odd jobs? Anything like that?"

"No."

"Do you see any connection between these other addresses, your own, and Milan Swanz?"

"No."

"Has Swanz been to see you here at the house?" I ask.

"No."

"Bishop, I know he was excommunicated. Was he upset about that?"

"He wasn't happy about it, of course. No one would be. But Milan knew the rules and he broke them."

"What about before he was excommunicated?" I ask. "When you initially placed him under the bann ?"

"That was a long time ago." The old man shrugs. "More than a year now."

"Anger can fester over time," I say.

The bishop says nothing, his eyes holding mine, his expression impassive.

In the Painters Mill church district, an Amish person who has been placed under the bann can make things right by changing his or her behavior and confessing to the congregation, in which case he or she will be reinstated. If they refuse to change the offending behavior or confess, however, they will be permanently excommunicated, a status from which there is no return.

I rephrase the question. "How angry was Milan when you excommunicated him?"

"He did not wish to be excommunicated. He was upset. But he broke the rules not just once, but many times."

An adroit skirt of the question. "Did he lose his temper?"

"I don't recall that."

"Did he threaten you?"

He holds my gaze, silent and unapologetic.

"What about Monroe Hershberger?" I say, referring to the Amish elder whose address also appears on the list.

A quiver moves through the bishop's gaze. A nerve, I think, and I set my index finger to Hershberger's address. "Why would Swanz make a list of addresses that contains both yours and Monroe Hershberger's?"

"Monroe is one of our Diener, " he says, using the proper Amish term for "servant" and referring to the elected officials who oversee the church district, usually the bishop, the deacon, and one or two ministers or preachers. "He is our deacon," he finishes.

Again, he's avoiding the question, so I give another push. "The deacon sometimes conveys messages of excommunication."

"Perhaps."

"Was Monroe Hershberger involved in the bann or excommunication of Milan Swanz?"

The old man gives a curt nod. "He was there."

"Was he upset with Monroe?"

"If he was, he didn't say."

"Did Milan become angry with the deacon?"

Nothing but a deadpan stare.

Impatiently, I tap my index finger against the sheet on the tabletop between us. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't bring up the names of other individuals who may or may not be involved in the case. But Painters Mill is a small town and the Amish community is close-knit. This man is the bishop, which means he knows most of his congregation personally. He has his finger on the happenings inside the community. I broach that invisible line without regret.

"Has Lester Yoder ever had any kind of disagreement with Swanz?" I ask.

"Maybe you should ask Yoder about that," he says.

"I'm asking you."

He doesn't respond, but I think I see a hint of temper in his eyes.

"When's the last time you spoke to Milan Swanz?" I ask.

"I've only spoken to him a couple of times since the excommunication. I don't recall the date. A time ago."

"Did you argue?"

The old man tightens his mouth, glances toward the living room, where I think I hear the whisper of his wife moving around in the darkness.

"I'll not discuss my personal business with you," he snaps. "Not this."

I curb my own anger and press on. "Bishop, if you know—"

His eyes home in on mine like lasers, knowing and hard. "There's another address on that list you didn't ask about, Katie."

He says my name as if I'm fifteen years old and in trouble because I didn't follow some rule that nobody gives a damn about.

I reach for the list and tuck it into an inside pocket of my coat. "Has my brother had any disputes with Swanz that you know about?"

"I think you should ask him about that. That's all I can tell you."

I stare at him, wondering what he knows and why he won't reveal it. "Bishop, if you had information that might help me find out who's responsible for the death of Milan Swanz, you'd share it with me, wouldn't you?"

The old man stares at me for a long time before answering. "Talk to your brother," he says. "That's all I have to say to you."

"You know something and you're withholding it from me," I say. "Why is that?"

"No more questions." Grunting, the old man sets his arthritic hands on the walker and heaves himself to his feet. Instead of turning away, he faces me, looks down at me. "I think we may be in for some bad weather, Kate Burkholder. You should be careful out there, on the road. Do you understand?"

I look past him to see Freda standing in the doorway, watching us from the shadows of the living room, and for the first time in my life, I feel as if the bishop isn't being completely truthful with me.

"Who are you protecting?" I ask quietly.

"Give your brother my best," the old man says, and then he's gone.

There are times in the course of an interrogation when an individual's evading a question is as telling as an outright lie. Had my conversation with Bishop Troyer gone differently, I would have waited until morning before approaching Monroe Hershberger. When I initially discovered the list of addresses at Swanz's home, I honestly didn't feel it was important or relevant to the case. Now, I'm not so sure.

Monroe Hershberger and his wife live on a small farm off of Township Road 102 between Painters Mill and Millersburg. The clock on my dash tells me it's after 8 P.M. when I make the turn into the rutted lane. As I near the house, I discern the golden light in the windows, and I'm relieved at least one of the elderly couple is still awake.

I park in a circular turnaround in front and wade through snow to the porch. Before I can knock, the door squeaks open and I find myself looking at a tall, rail-thin man wearing typical Amish garb sans the hat. I recognize him as Monroe Hershberger, though I don't recall the circumstances of our meeting. Such is the way of small-town life.

"Mr. Hershberger?" I have my badge at the ready and introduce myself.

"Yes?" He looks past me as if expecting a horde of cops to converge.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I'm working on the Milan Swanz case and I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Oh. Milan." His eyes widen and for a moment he seems tongue-tied. "Just heard about what happened this afternoon. Awful thing."

"I thought I heard voices down here." A female voice interrupts.

I look past him to see a short Amish woman push past her husband. Ada Hershberger is as rotund as her husband is tall, with ruddy cheeks, and her green eyes look at me with suspicion.

"Katie Burkholder. I thought that was you." She slants a sideways look at her husband and frowns. "I see you've rendered him speechless already and he hasn't even invited you inside."

"Hi, Ada." I know her from the gift shop in town where she works. I bought a knitted afghan from her a couple of months ago. She's a talker. Amicable. And funny. She's also a little on the ornery side when she gets riled up. She's one of the reasons I go to that particular shop when I need a gift.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late," I tell her.

"Think nothing of it." She nudges Monroe with her elbow. "Where are your manners, Old Man?" She uses the nickname fondly and then motions me in. "I reckon we know why you're here." Taking her husband's arm, she ushers me into the living room. "Come on now. I just made tea. Let's drink it while it's still hot."

A few minutes later, the three of us are settled in the small, dimly lit living room. Ada and Monroe sit on a love seat–size sofa, the backrest of which is draped with a quilted throw. I settle into an overstuffed chair across from them, trying not to notice the broken spring poking my backside. An old gas lamp hisses at us from its place in the corner.

" Da tay is goot, " I say, unable to place the unusual flavors. The tea is good.

She waves away the compliment. "It's an old recipe my mamm used to make for my datt. Chamomile for sleep. Heregraut for the things that worry you." St. John's wort. "And hollerbier for that nice flavor." Elderberry.

I sip again, let my eyes slide to Monroe. "I understand you were involved in Milan's excommunication."

The couple exchanges a look. Ada pats her husband's hand, which seems to relax him, and he speaks. "Well, we took the vote and it was done. Milan was excommunicated."

"How did he react?" I ask.

"As you can imagine, he was none too pleased." The old man picks up his mug and takes a long drink, as if for fortification. "He was a troubled man, you know, constantly struggling with one problem or another. If it wasn't his wife, it was his employer. If not his employer, then the children or maybe fate. It was a sad thing to witness, time and time again. And as is always the case, the excommunication made everything worse for him."

"Tell me about the excommunication," I say.

Monroe heaves a sigh. "Milan had been under the bann on and off for years. He was making cabinets at the time, and doing woodworking on the side. Course, once he was put under the bann, no one would do business with him and he lost his Amish customers. His relationships suffered, especially with his wife. His reputation suffered, too, and Milan became angry."

"How do you know that?"

"A few weeks after he was excommunicated, he came to me. He was upset… drinking, you know. Said he would change. Begged me to let him come back. Of course, by then it was too late. He'd been given many opportunities to make things right so he could come back. But he'd taken things too far, too many times, and the decision had been made. When I told him that, he fell to grisha. " Shouting. "And fluch-vadda. " Curse words.

"Did he threaten you in any way?" I ask.

The old man shifts in his chair. "He said all sorts of crazy things. But that's the way Milan was. Said things he didn't mean."

"Mr. Hershberger, what did he say exactly?"

"He tossed around some blame. Blamed everyone but himself, I think." The old man's eyes flash to his wife, to the cup of tea in his hands, then back to me. "Milan said he'd get back at us. For what we'd done to him, you know. That we didn't understand. That we'd ruined his life. It was a sad thing to behold, really."

"Did he say how he would get back at you?" I ask.

"No. I don't think he even realized what he was saying. Just a sad man talking." But his eyes skate away from mine, a small tell that niggles the back of my brain. "I don't think he meant anything by it."

He falls silent and for the span of several heartbeats the only sound comes from the hushed patter of snow against the window and the hiss of the lamp. Watching them, I get the sinking suspicion that there's more. That they're struggling with it because they don't want to speak ill of a dead Amishman. Not to me, whom they consider an Englischer despite my birthright.

Finally, Ada heaves a sigh and speaks up for the first time. "Tell her the rest, Monny."

The old man tosses her a sour look. "I don't see how that will help anything," he snaps. "Milan is gone to God now. It's over."

"Mr. Hershberger, this isn't really about Milan; it's about finding the person who murdered him. This is about keeping them from hurting anyone else." I pause. "If something happened, I need to know about it."

The silence that follows stretches on for so long that I think they're not going to open up. Finally, Monroe looks down at his cup and shakes his head. "We had some problems here at the farm a few months back."

"What kind of problems?" I ask.

"Someone drove a vehicle through our cornfield," he says. "Took a joyride. Circles, you know. It was after a big rain and there was a lot of mud. Tore that field up something awful. I only had about thirteen acres and whoever done it ruined most of the crop."

"It was a total loss," Ada adds. "Did the soybean field, too."

"Was it Milan?" I ask.

"We don't know for sure," the deacon replies. "No one saw him."

"We have our suspicions," Ada puts in.

I would have remembered a vandalism incident of that magnitude. "You didn't call the police?"

"Well." Sheepish, the Amish man looks down at his hands. "No."

Ada sets her hand on her husband's arm. "Tell her about the pigs."

"Pigs?" I look at him and raise my brows.

He frowns, his expression stubborn and pained, as if he knows there's no escaping the inevitable. "We raise hogs, you know. Do a pretty good business." He sighs. "A few weeks after the fields were torn up, someone came in the night and let the hogs out of their pen. Twenty-two of them. They got into the garden."

Ada presses her lips together. "Someone opened the gate," she said. "Herded them in. Then shut them in. The pigs destroyed everything."

"You believe Milan Swanz was responsible?" I ask.

Monroe looks down at his hands.

"Oh for goodness' sake." The Amish woman jerks her head. "I was upstairs, reading, when I heard the ruckus. I looked out the window and I'm pretty sure it was Milan Swanz getting into that English car of his and pulling away."

"The Mustang?"

" Ja, " Monroe replies.

"Was there anyone with him?" I ask.

"Didn't see anyone else," she replies. "Man didn't have many friends left. In fact, I don't know a soul who'd want to spend any time with him. Milan Swanz was one of those people you steer clear of if you've got a brain in your head."