CHAPTER 23

Someone always knows something.

When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I partnered up with a veteran cop by the name of Howie Sharpe. He was old school and just six months away from retirement. I worked my first major case with Howie. A six-year-old girl, little Melissa Sussman, had gone missing, and the entire police department worked around the clock to find her. Like so many missing child cases, Melissa’s story didn’t end happily. But I learned more in the course of that case than at any time in my career. Howie always told me: “Someone always knows something.” It was one of his favorite idioms, and that case proved it true, albeit too late for the child.

I never forgot that weeklong frenzy of good old-fashioned police work. I never forgot little Melissa Sussman or the life that would never be. And I never forgot the things wise old Howie—who got his retirement, by the way—taught me.

I’m at my desk, combing through the Hochstetler file for the dozenth time when it strikes me how few Amish people were interviewed in the course of the investigation. Ron Mackey had been the chief of police back then and retired shortly after. I didn’t know him personally, but I’ve heard that in the late ’70s there was a good bit of friction between the Amish and “English” communities. Most disputes were over the use of slow-moving vehicle signs, building codes, and taxes. I can’t help but wonder if, because of the tension and that cultural divide, Mackey ruled out turning to the Amish for help.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer and heading toward Bishop Troyer’s farm. He’s been the bishop for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know if his tenure goes back to 1979. Even if it didn’t, he probably had a grasp on what was going on in the Amish community. I’m hoping he can tell me something I don’t already know.

I make the turn into the narrow gravel lane of the Troyer farm and park near the sidewalk. Most of the Amish in Holmes County have extraordinarily neat yards with shorn grass and manicured shrubs. Many go so far as to plant flowers, display potted plants, and landscape their yards. Not the Troyers. Both the front and back yards are plain. No flowerbeds or potted plants or even shrubs. Just a small garden and a birdhouse mounted on a fence post in the side yard, but even that is unadorned.

I’m midway to the house when someone calls out my name. I turn to see the bishop trudging toward me from the barn. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since last fall, when I was working the Borntrager case. Though it’s been only a few months, he looks years older. I’ve never seen him use a walking stick, and I can’t help but notice that his legs seem to be even more bowed.

“Bishop.” I start toward him, wishing him a good morning in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder mariye.”

“I’m surprised you still speak the language,” he says, a hint of reproach in his voice.

I withhold a smile. Bishop Troyer may be old, but he’s got a keen mind and a sharp tongue. He’s clad in black trousers. Black jacket. White shirt. Flat-brimmed black hat. His long beard is wiry and gray with small bits of alfalfa hay in it. I stop two feet away from him. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Bishop, but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

“I’ve not heard those names in a long time,” he says. “Such a terrible thing. So many young lives lost. It makes the heart hurt.” His gaze meets mine. “Why do you ask of them now?”

“I’m working on another case that may be related.” I pause. “Were you bishop back then?”

He shakes his head. “Eli Schweider was.”

“Is he still around?”

“Eli lives in the house next to his son’s farm out on Rockridge Road.”

“I know the one,” I tell him. “Not too far from Miller’s Pond.”

“He’s very old now, Katie. Ninety years old, I think. His fluss is bad and he’s frail.” Fluss is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for “rheumatism.”

“Danki,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.

“You watch your manners with him, Katie Burkholder,” he calls out after me.

“Don’t worry, Bishop. I’ll behave myself.”

I leave him standing on the sidewalk with his walking stick in his hand, a frown on his face.

*   *   *

Minutes later, I turn onto Rockridge Road. Half a mile in, I pass by a plain metal mailbox with the name SCHWEIDER finger-painted in black on the side. I turn into the gravel lane and bounce over potholes as I head toward the big white farmhouse. I crest the hill only to notice the smaller cottage-style home on my left, and I realize it’s probably the original farmhouse, where the elders would live now.

I drive past the larger house and park near the cottage. Though it’s midday, the sky is low and dark and spitting rain. As I pass by a mullioned window, I see the glow of lantern light inside, telling me someone is there. I step onto the porch, knock, and wait. I’m about to knock a second time in case Eli Schweider is hard of hearing, when the door creaks open.

I find myself looking at a bent, white-haired man who’s at least a foot shorter than me. Tiny eyes peer out at me from the folded-leather creases of eyes set into a face that’s brown from the sun and mottled with age spots. Wire-rimmed glasses sit on a lumpy nose, and he tilts his head back to look at me through Coke-bottle lenses.

“Who’s there?” comes a crushed-gravel voice.

“I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police of Painters Mill.”

He stares at me long enough for me to notice cloudy irises that had once been blue, and a mat of drool in a beard that reaches all the way to his belt. “You’re an Englischer.”

“Yes.”

“I have no business with you.”

He starts to close the door, but I stop him. “Please, Bishop Schweider. Bishop Troyer sent me.” The statement is out before I can amend it. I add in Pennsylvania Dutch, “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

As always, my fluency in the language garners his attention. “Burkholder is a good, strong Amish name.”

Raindrops begin to tap on the ground behind me. When he doesn’t invite me inside, I ask, “May I come in? I promise not to stay too long.”

He shuffles back and I step into a small room with low ceilings and exposed beams. The odors of woodsmoke and toasted bread fill the air. But the room contains the slightly unpleasant smells of mildew, cedar, and old things, too. From where I’m standing, I can see into a small kitchen with stone walls and a two-burner stove. Atop a table, a mug of something hot sits next to a paper plate with a single piece of toast.

“I’ve interrupted your lunch,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if it’s because he didn’t hear me or he chose not to. Turning his back to me, he shuffles toward the kitchen, sliding his feet across the wood planks a few inches at a time.

“You speak Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch and yet you’re an Englischer,” he says. “There’s something wrong with that.”

“I left the Amish when I was young.”

He tries to look at me over his shoulder, but his neck is too stiff. He continues shuffling toward the table. “Who is your father?”

“Jacob Burkholder.”

He turns and looks at me. “You must be Little Katie.”

I smile. “Not so little anymore.”

“What is it you need?”

“I’m working on a case. From a long time ago. It’s about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

A quiver goes through the old man’s body, as if he’d been hit with a brisk wind and the cold took his breath away. “They are with God,” he says. “The children, too.”

“Except for William.”

“God spared Billy.” He starts toward the table, shuffling. The soles of his shoes scrape across the floor, sounding vaguely like a saw through wood. “Are you going to catch the men responsible, Katie Burkholder?”