Among the Wicked

by Linda Castillo

  When my mamm passed away a couple years later, I returned to Painters Mill, my past, and my estranged Amish family. The police chief had recently retired and the town council and mayor—citing my law enforcement experience and my knowledge of the Amish culture—asked me to fill the position. They’d been looking for a candidate who could bridge a cultural gap that directly affected the local economy. My roots had been calling to me for quite some time, and after weeks of soul-searching, I accepted the position and never looked back.

  Most of the Amish have forgiven me the transgressions of my youth. I may be an Englischer now, but when I smile or wave, most return the gesture. A few of the Old Order and Swartzentruber families still won’t speak to me. When I greet them—even in my first language of Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch—they turn away or pretend they didn’t notice. I don’t take it personally. I like to call that part of my repatriation a work in progress.

  My own family wasn’t much different at first. Early on, my sister and brother would barely speak to me. In keeping with the Anabaptist tenet of excluding the wicked from the group, they’d effectively excommunicated me. We’re still not as close as we once were; chances are we’ll never again find the special bond we shared as children. But we’ve made headway. My siblings invite me into their homes and take meals with me. It’s a trend I hope will continue.

  I’m anticipating the evening ahead—a quiet dinner at the farm where I live with my lover, John Tomasetti. He’s also in law enforcement—an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I love him, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Like any couple, we’ve encountered a few bumps along the way, mostly because of our pasts—both of which are slightly checkered. But he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and when I think of the future, it makes me happy to know he’s part of it.

  I’m doing fifty, headlights on, wipers making a valiant attempt to keep the snow at bay. I’ve just crested the hill at the intersection of County Road 13 when the buggy materializes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard to the left and stomp the brake. The Explorer fishtails, but I steer into the skid. For an instant, I think I’m going to plow into the back of the buggy. Then the tires catch asphalt and my vehicle comes to an abrupt halt on the gravel shoulder on the opposite side of the road.

  I sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. Several thoughts strike my brain at once. I didn’t see the buggy until I was nearly upon it. The accident would have been my fault. Everyone on board probably would have been injured—or worse.

  Through the passenger side window, I see the horse come to a stop. Flipping on my overhead emergency lights, I back up so that I’m behind the buggy to protect it from oncoming traffic. I grab my Maglite from the seat pocket and get out, noticing immediately that there’s no lantern or reflective signage anywhere on the buggy.

  The driver exits as I approach. I keep my beam low to avoid blinding him as I take his measure. Male. Six feet tall. Mid-thirties. Black jacket. Black, flat-brimmed hat. Matching steel-wool beard that hangs to his belly. His clothes, along with the fact that the buggy is without a windshield, tell me he’s Swartzentruber. I’ve seen him around town, but I’ve never spoken to him. I don’t know his name.

  “Guder Ohvet,” I begin. Good evening.

  He blinks, surprised that I speak Pennsylvania Dutch, and responds in kind.

  Leaning forward slightly, I shine my beam into the buggy. A thirtyish Amish woman, also clad in black, and six children ranging in age from infant to preteen are huddled in the rear, their legs covered with two knitted afghans. The woman is holding a baby. Dismay swirls in my gut when I’m reminded how this could have turned out.

  “And Wie bischt du heit?” I ask the woman. How are you today?

  She averts her gaze.

  “Miah bin zimmlich gut,” comes the man’s voice from the front. We are good.

  When dealing with the Amish in an official capacity, particularly the Old Order or Swartzentruber, I always make an effort to put them at ease before getting down to police business. Smiling at the woman, I lean back and address the man. “Sis kald heit.” It’s cold today.

  “Ja.”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Elam Shetler.”

  “Do you have an ID card, Mr. Shetler?”

  He shakes his head. “We are Swartzentruber,” he tells me, as if that explains everything.

  To me, it does. The Amish don’t drive; if they need to travel a long distance, they hire a driver. Most do not have driver’s licenses, but apply for DMV-issued ID cards. Not so with the Swartzentruber, whose belief system prevents them from having their photographs taken.

  “Mr. Shetler, I came over that hill and didn’t see your buggy.” I motion toward the vehicle in question. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a lantern or reflective signage.”

  “Ornamentation,” he mutters in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “I nearly struck your buggy.” I nod toward his wife and children. “Someone could have been seriously injured.”

  “I trust in God, not some Englischer symbol.”

  “Ich fashtay.” I understand. “But it’s the law, Mr. Shetler.”

  “God will take care of us.”

  “Or maybe He’d prefer you put a slow-moving vehicle sign on your buggy so you and your family live long, happy lives.”

  For an instant he’s not sure how to respond. Then he barks out a laugh. “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That is nothing but trifling talk.

  “The Revised Ohio Code requires reflective signage on all slow-moving vehicles.” I lower my voice. “I was there the night Paul Borntrager and his children were killed, Mr. Shetler. It was a terrible thing to behold. I don’t want that to happen to you or your family.”

  I can tell by the Amish man’s expression that my words are falling on deaf ears. His mind is made up, and he won’t change it for me or anyone else. I’m trying to decide whether to cite him when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see Tomasetti’s number on the display.

  Opting to call him back, I return my attention to Shetler. “Next time I see you on the road without the proper signage,” I tell him, “I will cite you. You will pay a fine. Do you understand?”

  “I believe we are finished here.” Turning away, he climbs back into the buggy.

  I stand on the shoulder, listening to the jingle of the horse’s harness and the clip-clop of shod hooves as he guides the buggy back onto the asphalt and drives away.

  Snow falls softly on my shoulders. The cut cornstalks whisper at me to let it go. “Jackass,” I mutter.

  I’m sliding behind the wheel when my radio cracks. “Chief?” comes the voice of my second-shift dispatcher.

  I pick up my mike. “What’s up, Jodie?”

  “You’ve got visitors here at the station.”

  “Visitors?” For an instant I envision my sister or brother sitting in the reception area, feeling out of place while they wait for me to show. “Who is it?”

  “Agent Tomasetti, some suit from BCI, and an agent from New York.”

  My memory pings. Tomasetti had mentioned a few days ago that the deputy superintendent wanted to talk to me about an investigation. But the meeting hadn’t yet been scheduled and he didn’t have any details. Odd that they would drop by after hours on a snowy afternoon without giving me a heads-up. Even more unusual that one of the men is from New York.

  “Any idea what they want?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, but they look kind of serious, Chief.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Like there might be something big going on.”

  “Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Perplexed, trying not to be aggravated, I put the Explorer in gear and start toward the station, hoping Elam Shetler and his family make it home safely.

  * * *

  I arrive at the station to find Tomasetti’s Tahoe and an unmarked brown Crown Vic with New York plates parked next to my reserved spot. Ther
e’s already a dusting of snow on the vehicles. I park and hightail it inside. When I enter reception, I find my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie, sitting at her desk, eyes closed, drumming her palms against her desktop to Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep.”

  Usually, her workaday antics are a source of entertainment for all of us. Since we have official visitors this afternoon, I’m not quite as amused. I’m midway to her desk when she opens her eyes. She starts at the sight of me, then quickly turns off the radio. “Hey, Chief.”

  I pluck messages from my slot. “Any idea where our visitors are?”

  “Agent Tomasetti’s showing them the jail in the base—”

  “Right here, Chief,” comes Tomasetti’s voice from the hall.

  He’s still clad in the charcoal suit and lavender tie he put on at seven this morning. He’s wearing his professional face, no smile for me, and I know this isn’t a happenstance visit. The two men coming down the hall behind him aren’t here for a tour of my single-cell basement jail.

  “Hi … Agent Tomasetti.” It’s a ridiculously formal greeting considering we’ve been living together for over a year.

  “Hi.” Two strides and he extends his hand. “Sorry for the last-minute notice.”

  “No problem. I was on my way here anyway.”

  “Heavy weather in store for New York tomorrow,” he explains. “Investigator Betancourt wants to drive back tonight, before the roads get too bad.”

  “Long drive.” I turn my attention to the two men coming up beside Tomasetti. I don’t recognize either of them, but I can tell by their demeanors that they’re law enforcement. Overly direct gazes. Suits off the rack. Taking my measure with a little too much intensity. Grim expressions that relay nothing in terms of emotion or mood. That cop attitude I know so well. I catch a glimpse of a leather shoulder holster peeking out from beneath the taller man’s jacket.

  Tomasetti makes introductions. “This is Deputy Superintendent Lawrence Bates with BCI.” He motions to a tall, lanky man with an angular face and skin that’s deeply lined, probably from years on the golf course. Blue eyes behind square-rimmed glasses. Hairline just beginning to recede. The slight odor of cigarettes he tried to mask with chewing gum and cologne.

  I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, Deputy Superintendent Bates.”

  He brushes off the formal title with a grin that belies an otherwise serious demeanor. “Larry, please.” He has a firm grip. Dry palm. Quick release. “I patently deny whatever Tomasetti has told you about me.”

  I return the grin. “I hope so.”

  Tomasetti motions to the other man. I guess him to be about the same age as Bates. Conservatively dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, red tie, he looks more like a fed than a statie. He’s not much taller than me, but he’s built like a bulldog and has a face to match. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes just starting to go bloodshot. Five o’clock shadow. He’s got long day written all over him.

  “This is Frank Betancourt, senior investigator with the BCI division of the New York State Police.”

  I detect calluses on his hand when we shake, telling me he spends a good bit of his time at the gym lifting weights. His eyes are direct, and when I look at him, he holds my gaze.

  “You’re a long way from home,” I tell him.

  “That’s not such a bad thing this time of year.” His smile is an afterthought, his jowls dropping quickly back into a frown.

  A pause ensues. An awkward moment when no one says anything. And I realize that with the niceties out of the way, they’re anxious to get down to business.

  Bates rubs his hands together. “Can we have a few minutes of your time, Chief Burkholder? We’ve got a developing situation in upstate New York we’d like to discuss with you.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tomasetti scowl.

  “We can talk in my office.” I motion toward the door and lead the way inside. “Anyone want coffee?”

  All three men decline, telling me they’re seasoned enough to know that police stations and decent coffee is an oxymoron. Tomasetti and Bates settle into the visitor chairs adjacent to my desk. Betancourt chooses to stand and claims his place near the door.

  I remove my coat, hang it on the rack next to the window, and slide into my chair. “It’s not often that we have visitors from BCI or the New York State Police,” I begin.

  “Tomasetti tells me you used to be Amish,” Bates says.

  “I was. I was born here in Painters Mill to Amish parents, but I left when I was eighteen.”

  “You speak German?”

  “Yes, I’m fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch.” For the first time, a tinge of annoyance nips at me. I feel as if I’m being held in suspense; they want something but they’re being coy about tipping me off because they suspect I may refuse. I wish they’d stop beating around the bush and get to the point. “What exactly can I do for you?”

  Bates looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “A couple months ago, the sheriff up in St. Lawrence County—Jim Walker—contacted the state police for help with a developing situation inside an Amish community.” He motions to Betancourt. “Frank was assigned the case and had been working with Jim. Two weeks ago, Jim suffered a heart attack. He’s on leave and everything was sort of put on a back burner. Things heated back up three days ago when an Amish girl was found frozen to death in the woods a few miles from her home.

  “This Amish settlement straddles two counties, St. Lawrence and Franklin, so we contacted the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department and brought in Sheriff Dan Suggs. It didn’t take them long to realize neither agency had the resources to see this thing through.”

  The state police usually have a pretty decent budget and resources galore with which to assist small-town law enforcement. In this case, however, the police lab and databases are not the kinds of investigative tools the sheriff needs. And for the first time I know what they want from me.

  “We’re familiar with some of the cases you’ve worked here in Painters Mill, Chief Burkholder,” Bates tells me. “You’ve done some impressive police work.” He slants a nod at Tomasetti. “I talked to John about your particular skill set, and I thought you might be able to assist with this case.”

  Bates motions to Betancourt. “Since Tomasetti and I are pretty much window dressing, I’ll turn it over to Frank.”

  Betancourt comes to life. “On January twenty-first, a couple of hunters found the body of fifteen-year-old Rachel Esh in the woods a few miles from where she lived.”

  His style differs greatly from Bates’s, who seems more politician than cop, preferring to ease into a conversation with a joke and small talk. Not so with the senior investigator. While Bates is laid-back, Betancourt is intense and jumps into the discussion feetfirst. I get the impression he’s not shy about ruffling feathers, either.

  “What was the cause of death?” I ask.

  “The autopsy showed she died of hypothermia due to exposure. There was a snowstorm. For some reason she was out in it and froze to death. ME ran a tox, which showed she had traces of OxyContin in her bloodstream at the time of her death.”

  “Odd for an Amish girl that age to have drugs in her system,” I say. “Does the sheriff suspect foul play?”

  “She got the drugs somewhere.” Betancourt leans closer. “But even more perplexing is the fact that she’d recently been pregnant.”

  “Recently pregnant?” I look from man to man. “What do you mean?”

  “During the autopsy, the ME found evidence that she’d recently lost a baby. Some fetal material had been left behind.”

  “Miscarriage?” I ask.

  “ME thinks she had an abortion.”

  “Is parental consent required in New York?” I say.

  Betancourt shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Is there a boyfriend?” Tomasetti asks. “Anyone talk to him?”

  “We talked to a lot of people, including her parents, and no one knows who she’d been seeing. We couldn’t come up with a single name,” Betancou
rt growls. “No one had ever seen her with a guy. She never talked about him. The family she was living with claimed she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “So she wasn’t living with her family?” I ask.

  Betancourt shakes his head. “Evidently, she had some problems with her parents. She moved in with another family, who are also Amish. Basically, no one seemed to know shit about what might’ve been going on in this girl’s life.”

  “Or else they’re not talking.” I think about that for a moment. “Had she been reported missing?”

  Betancourt shakes his head. “The family she was living with figured she’d run away, gone back to live with her parents. Apparently, she’d done it before. No one checked.”

  “Sometimes the Amish prefer to take care of their own problems,” I tell him. “If they can avoid involving outsiders—including law enforcement—they will, for better or for worse.”

  “This time it was for worse,” Bates mutters.

  “Interestingly,” Betancourt says, “this girl wasn’t dressed in Amish clothes.”

  “That may or may not be relevant.” He gives me a puzzled look so I expand. “At fifteen, she may have been starting Rumspringa, which is a teenage ritual, so to speak, in which Amish youths don’t have to follow the rules in the years leading up to their baptism. The adults pretty much look the other way.” I consider this before continuing. “What was she doing in the woods in that kind of weather?”

  “No one knows if she was there of her own accord or if someone took her there and dumped her,” Betancourt replies.

  “Sheriff Suggs tells us the Amish up there aren’t very forthcoming,” Bates says. “He’s not getting much in terms of cooperation.”

  “How did the ME rule on manner of death?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Undetermined,” Bates replies.