Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

I've experienced my share of the bizarre and I'm no shrinking violet when it comes to dealing with hostile individuals. But I'm shaking when I reach the Explorer and slide behind the wheel, partly from anger, partly from the sheer disconcerting nature of the encounter. I sit there for a moment, trying to regain a sense of calm. What the hell am I supposed to make of Isaiah Hofer and the ominous if vague threats he's made to me?

I learned nothing substantive about the Schwertler Anabaptists, but I'm exponentially more curious. I rack my brain, trying to think of someone who might be able to fill in the blanks. It's a short list. Freda Troyer gave me just enough for me to find Hofer. Hofer left me with the uneasy impression that the group is, at the very least, worth looking into. I can't think of a soul I can turn to for information.

That's the thing about the Amish. Sure, they're good neighbors. They're hardworking. Family oriented. Generally speaking, they're quiet and cooperative and will go out of their way to help you if you need a roof on your house or a chicken coop or a new barn because yours burned to the ground. The Amish are a lot of good things, but they are not always forthcoming. There are certain subjects that are taboo, particularly when it concerns their brethren, and they will not speak of it, especially to the English and even if it means lying to the police.

Cursing the Amish aversion to cell phones, I jam the Explorer into gear and start for Painters Mill.

It's late afternoon when I pull into the lane of my brother's farm. I'm midway to the house when the back door opens. I look up to see Jacob trotting down the porch steps.

He stiffens upon spotting me, slows his stride. I can practically see the protective shield activate.

"I need your help," I say without preamble.

"About Milan Swanz?" His mouth turns down as if he's bitten into something sour. "I've told you everything I know."

"This is about… something else," I say.

"I won't talk to you about James, Katie. I mean it."

"This isn't about James."

We meet in the gravel next to my Explorer, two contenders about to face off, uncertain which of us will throw the first punch. We stand there, willing our defenses to relax, snow tapping the shoulders of our coats.

"All right." He looks out at the barn. "I need to feed the cows."

"I'll help you."

A quick look of surprise, and then he starts toward the barn. "You always were one for a lot of talk." But his expression softens. "Mamm used to call you her little shvetzah. " Her little talker.

"She might've been onto something." I fall into step beside him. "Not quite like old times, is it?"

"Let's just say the career you chose suits you." He gives me the side-eye. "Always asking too many questions."

In the barn, he strides directly to the raised wooden floor at the rear, which is directly above the livestock pens. There, he bends to a half-full burlap bag, picks it up, and hands it to me. I take it, my muscles recalling the weight, the routine of it, my olfactory nerves remembering the smell of the feed, even though I haven't fed cattle in years.

He hefts a fifty-pound bag onto his shoulder, and we carry the bags to the feeding cutouts in the floor. He removes the wood cover and I dump the contents of my bag into the trough below. I'm aware of the cattle coming in from outside, pushing and shoving, vying for position. Jacob goes to the second cutout, removes the cover, and dumps feed into the other end of the trough.

When he's finished, I fold the burlap bag in half and we walk back to where a dozen more bags are stored. "I spoke to Bishop Troyer and his wife this morning. Freda mentioned a group called the Schwertler Anabaptists. Have you heard of them? Do you know anything about them?"

Before he turns to stow the empty bags, I see a flicker of something I can't quite identify in his expression. "I don't know anything about them," he says.

"You've heard of them?"

He concentrates on the bags, not looking at me. "That group, Katie… it's nothing but a shtoahri. " Story. "The kind parents tell their teenagers when they've reached their rumspringa years. To keep them from doing things they shouldn't do. Keep them out of trouble."

"Tell me what you know," I say.

He gives me an annoyed look over his shoulder and then starts toward the stairs to the loft. "I told you; I don't know anything about them."

Only then does it strike me that my brother is lying. For whatever reason, he doesn't want to answer my question. It's an interesting development because Jacob is one of the most straightforward people I know, sometimes to a fault. If he doesn't want to talk about something, he says so. This time… he chose to lie.

I follow him to the stairs and then up the steps. "To your credit, you're not a very good liar."

"I'm just telling you I don't know much about them. What little I've heard is probably wrong. By all accounts, I doubt they even exist. That's all."

"Some Amish are very much under the impression that they do exist."

"Then you should talk to them and leave me to my work."

My temper stirs, but I push it back. "I'm asking you."

He bends to pick up a bale of hay, glares at me over the top of it. "Why are you so interested in this group?"

"Jacob, I think they may somehow be involved with what happened to Milan Swanz."

"You've always had an active imagination." Without looking at me, he grabs another bale and carries it to the door that looks out over the cattle pens below. "The Schwertler Anabaptists are a tall tale, Katie. Folklore. They don't exist. You should leave it at that and move on to something else."

"You've never lied to me, Jacob. But you are now, and that tells me your reluctance to talk about this group is more important than any morals you have about lying."

He makes a sound that's part laugh, part annoyance. "Think what you will."

I reach for a bale of hay, heft it onto my hip, carry it to the door, and set it on the floor next to the door. "At least tell me what you think you know. Or what you've heard. I need a starting point. Something to work with."

He drops the bale of hay he'd lifted and gives me a deadpan look. "If you want to know about the Anabaptists, do what the English tourists do and go to the Heritage Center. Talk to the man who runs it. I've had enough of your questions."

He's referring to the Amish and Mennonite Heritage Center in Berlin. "Damn it, why won't you help me?"

"I've got to feed the hogs now." He lifts the bale, sets it atop the others near the loft door. "We're finished here."

I finally lose my temper. "What happened to you, Jacob? What happened to your honor? Your integrity? Your courage?"

He swings to face me, sets his hands on his hips. "I could ask you the same questions. I'm not the only one who thinks so."

"I'm doing my job."

"You always are." Turning away, he starts toward the stairs.

I call out his name. The only sound that greets me is the slamming of the door.

The Amish and Mennonite Heritage Center is located on a quiet county road, a short distance from Painters Mill. The museum is a Holmes County fixture that appeals to tourists as well as locals, and informs all visitors of the Amish, Mennonite, and Hutterite cultures. Though I've lived in the area most of my life, I've only visited once. It was a few years ago, and I found it pleasant and surprisingly enlightening.

Unfortunately for me, the center closes at four thirty in the wintertime, and I make it by the skin of my teeth. I enter to the smells of lemon oil and old paper. An Amish woman stands behind the counter, in front of a large display of devotional head coverings mounted on the wall, a set of keys in her hand.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

I remove my shield as I cross to the counter and identify myself. "Is the curator around?"

Her eyes flick to the wall clock. "We're getting ready to close. We open at nine thirty tomorrow morning—"

"This is actually an official visit." I soften the statement with a smile. "I'd appreciate it if I could speak to someone now. This won't take long."

"Let me call him for you."

I peruse the gift shop while she speaks in low tones into her phone. A minute later, a man dressed in dark trousers, a white button-down shirt, and an elbow-patch blazer appears in the doorway of the next room and looks at me quizzically. "Can I help you?"

I go to him and identify myself. "You're the curator?"

"Director and all-around jack-of-all-trades mainly." He offers a smile and his hand. "Daniel Neufeld. Call me Dan. What can I do for you?"

He wears a nattily cut beard, no mustache, and suspenders beneath the jacket. I suspect he's Mennonite or one of the more liberal factions of Amish. "I understand you're an expert on the Anabaptist culture," I say.

"My wife will tell you I'm not an expert on anything." He grins. "I am, however, a lover of history, especially when it comes to the Anabaptists."

"I'm looking for information on the Schwertler Anabaptists."

His brows shoot up. "Wow. Now there's an interesting topic for you, not to mention unusual." He looks at me a little more carefully. "And here I thought this was about that parking ticket I didn't pay last time I was in Painters Mill."

I smile. "I'm working on a case, actually. Any information you can offer would be greatly appreciated."

He glances past me at the woman, who's standing behind the counter, looking at us, her hands on her hips. "Anna, you can go ahead and take off if you'd like," he says. "Lock the door behind you if you don't mind."

"G'night," she says.

"Night." Turning his attention back to me, he motions toward the doorway from which he'd emerged. "If you don't mind a little dust, we can sit in my office. I'll tell you everything I know, which isn't much."

I follow him through a museum-like chamber with half a dozen lighted display cases lining the wall to my right. He notices me looking at the ancient-looking tomes inside—Bibles and a leather-bound edition of Martyrs Mirror.

"Awe-inspiring, aren't they, Chief Burkholder?"

"Very much so." I nod. "They look old."

"Some of those Bibles date back hundreds of years. People died to keep them hidden and safe."

The persecution of the Anabaptists is a somber topic for the Amish, and not for the first time, I'm reminded of the hundreds who were hunted down, tortured, and killed for their beliefs during the Reformation in Europe.

We reach a small, cozily cramped office more befitting a college professor. An antique-looking desk holds an old-fashioned banker's lamp. Dozens of manila folders are stacked not so neatly on the corner. A Y2K-era computer rests on the adjacent credenza. An intricate Amish quilt hangs on the wall. Outside the window, the sun has set and I see a light snow falling. The whistle of wind through the eaves.

"Make yourself at home." Dan motions me into one of two visitor chairs adjacent to a desk piled with indistinguishable documents, forms, and books. "I have to tell you, Chief Burkholder, we receive thousands of visitors every year and I don't believe I've ever fielded a question about the Schwertler Anabaptists," he says.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"It's an obscure group that existed hundreds of years ago; not many people—the Amish included—are even aware of its existence. Do you mind if I ask why you're inquiring about them?"

"All I can tell you is that it may or may not be related to a case I'm working on."

"The mystery deepens." He studies me intently. "You must be referring to the Milan Swanz case."

I smile. "Are you assuming it's about the Swanz case or do you know something I don't?"

"Well, it was such an unusual crime. Painters Mill is a small town. And Milan Swanz was Amish." He shrugs. "I must admit I was intrigued."

"So you're aware of how he was killed."

"Of course. Dreadful to say the least, but I was captivated." Folding his hands in front of him, he leans back in the chair. "There's a certain symbolism, if you will, involved with burning a man at the stake."

I get the impression this charming man could talk about Anabaptist history all day, so I guide him back to the topic at hand. "What can you tell me about the Schwertler Anabaptists?"

"My knowledge is limited, I'm afraid. That said, I have a lot of resources here at the center." He shrugs. "I do know that the Schwertlers came to be during the Reformation, and they were a very unusual group for the time." His brows knit. "Let's see what we can find." He swivels to the bookcase behind him, plucks a massive tome from the shelf, and blows off the dust. "Sorry. My housekeeping skills are almost as bad as my weakness for straying off topic." Setting the book in front of him, he pulls wire-rimmed spectacles from his breast pocket, opens the book, and flips several pages. "Ah, here we go.

"Balthasar Hubmaier played a role in the Anabaptist movement during the Reformation." He turns the page. "He was born in Bavaria, Germany, around 1480. Graduated from the University of Ingolstadt with a doctorate. He was a priest for a time." He flips another page. "In 1524, Hubmaier married his wife, Elizabeth. Shortly thereafter, they moved to Zurich and he became acquainted with Heinrich Glarean. It was there that Hubmaier had a change of heart, if you will, and rebuffed the Catholic doctrine of infant baptism. Such a belief was extremely radical at the time—and risky business, of course. During that period, Hubmaier became a respected Anabaptist theologian. But it was a violent era and men were hardened. Later, he helped orchestrate a violent pogrom against Regensburg's Jews."

"That doesn't sound very pacifistic," I say dryly.

He looks at me over the top of his glasses. "Just so you know, ‘ schwertler ' translates loosely to ‘of the sword.' In fact, during that time, Hubmaier wrote a manuscript called On the Sword, challenging the nonresistant views of the Anabaptists. As I'm sure you're aware, the Reformation was a dangerous time for religious dissent. Because of his beliefs, he fell out of favor with Ferdinand, who was the Holy Roman Emperor. Ferdinand was a powerful man and a ferocious persecutor of heretics. Twice Hubmaier was imprisoned and tortured on the rack. He did not recant and in 1528, in Vienna, Austria, he was executed—burned at the stake."

He raises his gaze to mine and for the span of a few seconds, the words echo between us.

Burned at the stake.

"Three days later," the curator tells me, "his wife, Elizabeth, had a rock tied to her neck and was thrown from a bridge into the Danube River and drowned."

Having grown up Amish, I'm no stranger to the savagery inflicted upon the early European Anabaptists for their religious beliefs; I read much of Martyrs Mirror as a kid and the accounts of torture and murder made an indelible impression on my young mind. Even now, as an adult—a cop—hearing the brutal details of those stories sends a chill up my spine.

"What exactly does ‘of the sword' mean?" I ask.

"My interpretation?" Dan considers the question, thoughtful, weighing his words carefully. "Hubmaier believed that violence could be used for good. He defended the government's use of force to protect innocent Christians. He did not, however, believe in the use of force by an individual to defend one's self, family, other defenseless Christians, or their property. He also very much believed in a benevolent government."

"Evidently, the government wasn't as benevolent as he believed," I say.

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"And ruthless."

For a moment, neither of us speaks. It's as if we're caught up in those troubling times nearly five hundred years ago. I think about Milan Swanz and I struggle to find some cogent link between the murder and the Schwertler Anabaptists, but there's nothing there.

"I'm a curious man, Chief Burkholder." The director smiles despite the grim subject matter. "How interesting that an Amish man is found dead, having been burned at the stake, and a few days later, you're in my office asking about the Schwertler Anabaptists. I'm incredibly intrigued."

It's bad form for an investigator to divulge too much about an ongoing case to a civilian outside of law enforcement. People talk, and the last thing any cop wants is some sensational headline based on an exchange that never should have taken place. This conversation—namely the prospect of relevant information—is worth the risk as long as I don't reveal anything sensitive.

"Mr. Neufeld, would it be possible for you to keep this conversation private?" Even if he agrees, I know he may not keep his word. Still, it's good policy to ask so that he understands the nature of our discussion.

"Of course."

"Thank you." I take a moment to get my words in order. "I interviewed an Amish person with regard to this case and they mentioned the Schwertler Anabaptists. I don't know if there's a connection, but I thought it was worth looking into."

He nods. "The burning of a man at the stake is, indeed, symbolic in terms of the persecution of the Anabaptists," he says. "It is not, however, symbolic in terms of the Schwertler Anabaptists."

"Because the Schwertlers believed in the ‘of the sword' philosophy only when it was in the hands of a benign government."

"Exactly."

As I work to process the information, my cop's mind considers all the dark corners of the homicidal mentality. "Is it possible we could be dealing with some bastardized version of the group?"

For the first time, he looks troubled, as if we've ventured into an area in which he's not quite comfortable. He covers his discomfiture with a chuckle. "That's a little out of my bailiwick."

"In the course of your Anabaptist studies, have you ever come across any information on ritual or symbolic murder?" I ask. "Modern day or historic?"

He sighs. "I'm a religious man, Chief Burkholder. A student of history. As brutal as some of that history is, I'm a wimp when it comes to true crime." He laughs. "That stuff's too dark for me. That said, there are times when history and crime overlap and my curiosity gets the best of me." He looks down at his desktop. "I recall reading about a murder in an Amish settlement in Canada. Milverton in Ontario, I believe."

I write it down. "What happened?"

"It was back in the 1950s, I think. An Amish man was accused of killing two of his children. I don't recollect the details of the case, but the police were involved. And at some point during the investigation, the man disappeared."

"How does a case like that relate in any way to the Schwertler Anabaptists?" I ask.

"Everyone assumed this man had run away to avoid capture and stay out of jail. But that spring, his body was recovered from a lake a few miles from his farm. There was a rock secured to his neck."

"Foul play?" I ask. "Or suicide?"

"If memory serves me, his death occurred in the dead of winter. The lake was frozen and authorities surmised a hole had been chopped in the ice. Most of the Amish believed it was suicide."

"Seems like an odd way to commit suicide."

"Indeed." His eyes meet mine. "I don't believe the police ever figured it out. I'm sure you see the correlation."

"Elizabeth Hubmaier."

He nods.

"So, in your opinion, the Schwertler Anabaptists existed."

"For a time."

"How long?"

He smiles tiredly at the open-ended question. "I'm afraid that's beyond my area of expertise, Chief Burkholder. The history we know is based on events that were documented and verified."

"Is it possible the Schwertler Anabaptists still exist?"

"I don't see how. As you well know, violence is renounced by all Anabaptists, particularly the Amish. Even in times of war, they are conscientious objectors." He shrugs. "I think it's safe for us to assume the Schwertler Anabaptists are nothing more than a dark chapter of our history—and rightfully so."