Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

"Do you have any earthly idea what the hell she was talking about?" It is the ten-thousand-dollar question and Tomasetti is the one to pose it.

We're in the Explorer, parked on the street outside the police station. We didn't talk much after leaving the Troyer farm earlier. Neither of us has a clue what to think of Freda Troyer's assertion that there's a group of Anabaptist men who do away with fellow evildoers.

"She is elderly," he says slowly, "is it possible—"

"This is going to sound odd, but I think I've heard of them."

He makes a sound of incredulity. "Are you saying you believe this group actually exists?"

"I'm saying I remember a story like that from when I was a kid. Like a ghost story that gets repeated and yet no one really believes it."

He looks dubious.

"I don't blame you for being skeptical. I'm right there with you."

I consider the scene back at the Troyer farm for a moment. "I think it's noteworthy that the bishop stayed inside while Freda talked to us. If he'd objected, you can bet he would have stopped her."

"So, she did it with his blessing."

"If I didn't know better, I might think he wanted us to have the information."

"If we can even refer to that as ‘information' at this point."

I frown at him. "I'm going to dig around. See what I can find. Run the name. See if anything pops."

"In the meantime, if I were to plug a few signature aspects into ViCAP, what the hell would they be?"

ViCAP is a database administered by the FBI that's used to match connections between cases. I shrug. "Amish. Homicide. Suicide. Religious. Fire. Burning. Wooded area. Barn. Ritualistic." I feel my brows furrow as my memory stirs. "Tomasetti, I do recall reading about a Hutterite community opening a business in Tuscarawas County. They've been around a few years."

"If you don't mind my asking, what exactly is a Hutterite community?"

"The Hutterites are Anabaptist, as are the Amish, but the similarities end there. The Hutterites use more technology—like vehicles and electricity—and seem to have more industrial-type businesses. Probably the biggest difference is that they live in a commune-type colony."

"Haight-Ashbury meets the Amish?"

I can't help it; I smile. "Sans the peace signs and dope."

His cell hums from its place on his belt. He reaches for it, growls his name. I try not to notice when he frowns. "I'll be there in a few minutes," he tells the caller.

A short silence ensues, and then he sighs, ends the call without responding, and turns his attention to me. "Guess we knew that was coming."

"You've been summoned?"

He nods. "Chambers wants me gone."

"He say that?"

"Just reading between the lines."

We watch Glock pull into his parking space. Spotting the Explorer, he raises his hand and waves. I wave back.

I put the Explorer in gear. "I'll take you back to your vehicle so you can go get your ass kicked."

He sighs. "What are you going to do about Hofer?"

"I'm going to dig," I say. "I think that's the one thing I can still manage on my own."

I drop Tomasetti at the farm. It's still early. Ordinarily, I'd swing by the station to touch base with my team before beginning my day. Because I've been placed on administrative duty, I skip the station and call Dispatch on my way to Dundee. To my relief, Mona is still there after working graveyard shift.

"I need a favor," I tell her.

"Lay it on me."

"Dig up everything you can find on the last name Hofer out of Dundee in Tuscarawas County." I spell the name.

"First name?"

"No go."

"Male? Female? White? Black?"

"White male. I think."

"That'll get me started," she says. "How quick do you need it?"

"An hour ago?"

She snickers but I can hear the click of her keyboard in the background. "Firing up my time machine now." A moment of silence and then, "Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"Thought you should know… it's kind of weird around here."

I take a breath, brace. "How so?"

"It's almost as if the sheriff's office has, you know, taken over the investigation."

The last thing I want to do is involve her in the politics that run hand in hand with my position as chief. That said, Mona is tight lipped when she needs to be. I need her in my corner, so I give her the lowdown on the situation with my brother and my being asked to step aside.

"My inquiry into Hofer is kind of unofficial, okay?" I say.

"Unofficial is my specialty, Chief. I'll call you as soon as I know something."

Dundee is a pretty little hamlet half an hour northeast of Painters Mill. I called the Tuscarawas County Sheriff's Office on the way and spoke to one of the deputies who patrols the area. He was able to give me the address of the Hutterite community, which I plugged into my GPS. Mona came through, and to my relief, there aren't many Hofers in the county. She narrowed it down by age, race, and sex, and came up with the name Isaiah Hofer, forty-six years old. Clean record. No outstanding warrants. The address matches the one given to me by the deputy. Bingo.

I enter Dundee's main thoroughfare from the south, pass by a Methodist church, a post office, and a restaurant with a big sign out front advertising their Thursday Big Meal. I'm through town before realizing I missed my turn. I'm searching for a place to hang a U-turn when my GPS instructs me to take a left on Walnut Creek Bottom Road.

The road lives up to its name. Walnut trees and various native hardwoods tower over the narrow stretch of asphalt. There's a shallow swamp on both sides of the road with patches of winter-dead cattail reeds. Four miles in I pass over a creek and then drive past an ancient-looking German bank barn. The barely-there gravel track on my left comes up quick and I brake, make the turn, and start down a lane that's more dirt than gravel. The Explorer bumps over rough ground and deep ruts. Trees and brush scrape at my doors like fingers seeking the warmth inside. A quarter mile in and I begin to wonder if I made a wrong turn. I'm second-guessing my GPS and looking for a place to turn around when the trees part.

"Destination ahead," comes the mechanical GPS voice.

I enter a large gravel lot, its borders demarked with massive cut stones. To my right, a billboard with a stop-sign graphic warns:

SUGARCREEK COLONY DO NOT ENTER

I roll past the sign. Farther in, a row of six identical structures, each about the size of a double-wide trailer, backs up to the woods. The fa?ades are the same, the doors and windows in exactly the same place, along with duplicate sapling trees in each front yard. Ahead, I see a larger two-story building with a portico entrance and a dozen or so windows. To my left, a steel barn is set back a few yards from the gravel area. Behind it, I see livestock pens and a small herd of Black Angus cattle gathered at a round bale of hay, their backs dusted with snow.

I watch for movement all around, but there's not a soul in sight, and I wonder if this is what it would feel like to be the last person on earth. I park in front of the two-story building. The snow is coming down in earnest now. Thanks to a cold front that slipped through earlier, the temperature has dropped and the white stuff is beginning to stick.

A brisk wind cuffs me as I get out and start toward the building. The aromas of woodsmoke, manure, and snow lace the air. I'm not sure where to go, so I continue toward the largest building. Midway there, I spot a sign on the fa?ade telling me the social hall is to my right. I follow the covered sidewalk to an official-looking building with paned windows and board-and-batten siding. A sign next to the door reads QUARRY OFFICE . I notice lights inside, so I go to the front door and enter.

A woman sits at the reception desk. She's wearing a navy-and-black jumper over a white blouse with a high neckline. I guess her to be about thirty years old. Dark hair parted in the middle and covered with a black-and-white polka-dot scarf. Hutterite, I realize, or some version thereof.

"Hi." I have my shield at the ready. "I'm the chief of police in Painters Mill," I tell her. "I'm looking for Mr. Hofer."

Her eyes widen as she inspects my badge. "Um." Tilting her head, she looks at me quizzically. "Is there a problem?"

"No, ma'am," I tell her. "I just have a few questions for him."

"Whatever she's selling, we're not buying!" comes a jovial male voice from somewhere in the back. "Unless they're Girl Scout cookies in which case I'll take two!"

The woman and I share a smile.

A man appears at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the rear of the building. He does a double take upon spotting the Painters Mill PD insignia on my parka, his stride slowing. He sets his hand against his chest as if I've startled him. According to Mona, Isaiah Hofer is forty-six years old. White male. Six feet tall. One hundred and ninety pounds. Brown. Brown. The man standing ten feet away from me fits the bill to a T.

"Isaiah Hofer?" I ask.

He takes my measure, his expression inscrutable. "At your service."

I start toward him. "Had I known you're a fan of Girl Scout cookies, I would have brought some with me."

"Thin Mints'll do just fine." He holds his ground, his gaze flicking to the police insignia on my parka. "You're a long way from Painters Mill."

He looks closer to fifty. Not because of any physical frailty, but because his persona emanates the polish of a more mature man. He's got a muscular physique, angular and lean. He's clad almost entirely in black. Jacket with no collar. Plaid shirt. Suspenders. A tidy beard that's thick and shot with gray.

"I'm working on a case in Painters Mill," I tell him. "If you have a few minutes, I'd like to ask you some questions."

He's got an interesting face. Classically handsome features, direct eyes, and a mouth that seems to smile easily. His is a poker face, too, and though I'm standing close enough to discern the pine and leather scent of his aftershave, I can't tell if my presence is welcome or if it will be rebuffed.

"Of course," he says. "Though I must admit I'm curious as to what case you're referring to."

"The Milan Swanz case in Painters Mill," I tell him.

"The murder?" His brows go up as if I've surprised him. "I read about it. Heinous to say the least, especially for a small town in Amish country. Have you made an arrest?"

"Still working on it."

"Do you mind if we walk?" For the first time I notice the coat beneath his arm. He glances down at my feet. "Unfortunately for those clean boots of yours, I was on my way out to the equipment yard."

"No problem."

Holding my gaze, he slips on the coat, and addresses the woman at the desk. "I'm going to get the VIN number off that dump truck in the back, Elisabeth. We'll be right back."

"Thank you, Mr. Hofer." Her eyes slide to me and then she goes back to her computer work.

He strides to the door, opens it for me, and we go through. "Getting cold," he says conversationally.

"Snow on the way," I tell him.

On the porch, we take a moment to slip on scarves and gloves. Now that I'm closer to him, I notice that one of his eyes is blue, the other brown.

"Have you ever been to Painters Mill?" I ask.

"I think I've been through there a couple of times. Bought some nice Amish cheese there last summer. Some eggs."

"Have you ever met Milan Swanz?"

"Never heard the name until I read that awful piece in The Budget this morning."

We've reached the end of the sidewalk that wraps around the building. "Ground's a little messy but we've just a short distance to go. Is that all right?"

"Sure."

We leave the sidewalk and start toward a wooded area where a well-used path cuts through the trees.

"I understand you're Hutterite," I say.

"I am. This is a Hutterite community. Sixteen people live and work here. We've been running the quarry for nearly eight years now."

He eyes me intently. "Burkholder is an Amish name."

"I was born Amish," I tell him. "Left when I was eighteen."

"Ah." He nods, thoughtful. "Some would see pacifism as being incompatible with law enforcement."

I'm not here to talk about my Amish roots, so I don't respond. "And the Hutterites?"

The hint of a smile. "We're defenseless Christians, too, of course."

The trail is wide enough for us to walk side by side now. I'm keenly aware of his proximity to me. His size and strength. The .38 in the shoulder holster beneath my coat. I hear the rise and fall of heavy equipment ahead. Through the trees I can see the silhouette of a large truck. Hofer sets an easy pace. He seems as comfortable with the cold and mud as he is with the chitchat and talk of murder.

The tremolo of a loon sounds in the distance. He stops, looks over at me, and smiles. "On his way to Canada, no doubt."

"It's unusual to hear them this far south."

"Especially so late in the year. One more reason why the beauty of the call is so appreciated by those of us who pay attention. We understand the worth of rarity."

We pass a sign that reads SUGARCREEK SAND AND GRAVEL , and the path opens to a large area of excavated ground. Dozens of trees have been felled, the trunks piled high. On the far end of the clearing, two men work in tandem, dragging branches to form a second pile. A dump truck and John Deere backhoe sit several yards from a mound of freshly excavated earth. Beyond, the scarred land sweeps down to a pit so deep I can't see the base.

"This is our main gravel pit here at Sugarcreek." He leaves the path and starts toward the dump truck. "We've a defunct quarry a quarter mile or so to the north. Unfortunately for us, this one is just about spent, too."

I follow him, trying to avoid the mud as best I can. "Seems like a good business to have in this part of Ohio."

"It was," he tells me. "But with our second quarry nearly depleted, we'll likely be closing up shop inside a year."

We reach an old Kenworth truck with a green cab and beat-up dump body. Hofer wades through mud to the driver's-side door, opens it, and bends to look at the forward doorframe. I watch as he pulls out a pad, and writes down the VIN.

"Mr. Hofer, what can you tell me about the Schwertler Anabaptists?" I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder. "Not many people have heard of them."

"Do they exist?" I ask. "Have they ever existed?"

He pulls reading glasses from his pocket, slips them onto his nose, and goes back to the VIN. "Depends on who you ask. Where you look."

"Is it possible there's some connection between this group and what happened to Milan Swanz?"

Taking his time, he double-checks the number, straightens, and drops the notebook into his coat pocket. "Is it true what the newspapers said, Chief Burkholder? That Milan Swanz was burned at the stake?"

"I believe that's what happened to him."

"I'm sure you're aware that during the Reformation, the Anabaptists were persecuted, and many of them were burned at the stake." For a split second the kindly persona vanishes and I see the flash of something feral beneath the carefully tended surface.

" Martyrs Mirror, " I say.

Approval whispers across his features. "Is that the kind of connection you're looking for?"

"No."

"Let me ask you this, Chief Burkholder. What kind of man was Milan Swanz?"

"I didn't know him personally," I hedge, purposefully keeping it vague. "According to some, he was troubled."

"He was Amish?"

"Excommunicated."

"Any idea why?"

"I suspect he broke the rules one too many times."

His eyes have a piercing countenance despite the crinkles on the outer corners. And while this man may look like some kindly father figure at first glance, the energy coming off him doesn't jibe.

"Was he violent?" he asks.

"On occasion."

"Did he ever hurt anyone?" he asks. "The people around him? Loved ones?"

"Mr. Hofer, why do you ask?"

He shrugs. "Troubled people do troubled things. Sometimes they do unsavory things. They make mistakes. They make enemies. No?"

When I don't respond, he studies my face for a moment. "Do you believe in fairy tales, Chief Burkholder? Legends? Folklore?"

The change of subjects annoys me, but I'm just curious enough to let him continue. "No, I don't."

"How well do you know your fairy tales?"

"Well enough to know they have absolutely nothing to do with my case or this conversation. No offense."

"None taken." He smiles, a parent amused by a precocious child.

"Mr. Hofer, do you know anything about the Schwertler Anabaptists? Do they exist? If so, are they still around?"

"If you'll indulge me?"

I stare at him, taking in the intensity in his eyes, the weird energy coming off him, and I realize he's going somewhere with this.

"Go ahead," I say, hoping it has something to do with the case.

"I'm sure you're aware that most fairy tales were originally very dark. Monstrous, even. Tales of cannibalism. Torture. Rape. Mutilation. Murder. Some of those fairy tales, or legends if you will, hold a thread of truth that has been lost over the years. We humans have become quite weak, you see. We've developed a fondness for euphemisms."

"Are you referring to a specific legend or fairy tale?" I ask.

The question elicits the shadow of a smile. "When I was a boy, my grandfather regaled me with tales of the Schwertler Anabaptists."

"Who are they?" I ask.

Another smile, this one darker, a cruel child exulting in tearing the wings off an insect, poking a needle into its center. "My mamm scolded him, of course. She assured me they didn't exist. And she forbade my grandfather from speaking of them."

"So the Schwertler Anabaptists are nothing more than a fairy tale," I say.

The kindly-father persona returns and he smiles at me, crow's-feet deepening, eyes sparkling. "You have remained Anabaptist, no?"

"For the most part," I say, aware that we've edged into an area that's too personal. "A Mennonite minister officiated my wedding."

He nods in approval. "I like you, Chief Burkholder. Yours is a face that has seen hardship. And despair, I think. You have courage and a lion's heart. When you trust, you trust deeply. You're smart, and yet here you are, out here in the snow and mud and cold, all alone with a man you don't know and probably shouldn't trust."

I think about telling him I have a .38 revolver beneath my coat, but I don't. "Tell me about the Schwertler Anabaptists."

"I'm afraid I've told you all I can." Stepping away, he closes the door of the dump truck. "If there's more to be learned, you'll have to do it on your own."

"How do I do that?" I ask.

He starts to turn away, ostensibly to return to the social hall, but I reach out and touch his arm. "Mr. Hofer, is there someone I can get in touch with who might—"

Touching his sleeve is an innocent gesture, not overly assertive, but he swivels to me. There is a fierceness to his expression. His eyes flash. Out of the corner of my eye I see his left hand clench. His right comes at me as if to reach for my throat. He stops short of touching me.

"Beware the monsters that are familiar to you, Kate Burkholder."

I blink at him, taken back. "I don't know what you mean."

"I've said my piece."

"Give me a name," I say. "Someone I can talk to."

Eyes blazing, he leans closer. So close I smell tobacco and menthol on his breath, the unpleasant redolence of coffee, and I resist the urge to step back. "You think you're tough. Strong. You trust your instincts implicitly. Perhaps this is the time for you to rethink all of that and go home."

"This isn't about me," I say, grasping for calm. "I have a job to do and I intend to do it with or without your help."

"Good luck with that."

"Mr. Hofer, I'm trying to find out who murdered Milan Swanz," I tell him. "I was told the Schwertler Anabaptists may have been involved and that you might be able to help me."

"All I can tell you about the Schwertlers, Chief Burkholder, is that if you draw their attention, you won't like the results. And you won't see them coming."

"Who are you talking about?" I snap.

He speaks over me. "If you cross them, they will come for you. They will find you. They will devour you. And they will spit out the residue. The pieces of you will never be found. There will be no resolution. No closure. Consider that the next time you look into the eyes of the people who love you."

At that, he turns away and slogs through the mud and snow to the mouth of the path. I listen to the snow pellets strike the dump truck, the shoulders of my coat, and I watch him go.