by Gaus, P. L.
WHEN MISSY TAGGERT showed up at the Brandens’ front door, Bruce Robertson was with her, and he was carrying two large pizzas. Caroline had started on a dinner salad, so she served that on the back porch, with the pizza. The four talked while they ate.
Missy said, “We went back out to the woods at Calmoutier, Mike. Didn’t find a thing.”
Branden shook his head. “I need something to link Eddie Hunt-Myers to this. I need something more than suspicions.”
Robertson said, “There, we may be able to help you,” and took a second slice. “I attended a seminar at Quantico—the FBI—last fall. It was about profiling criminal personalities. Developing an understanding of the types of personalities who commit these crimes, like kidnappings, torture, and murder. So, Missy and I were wondering, what kind of person could kidnap two little Amish kids like that, and use a butchered puppy to paralyze them with fear?”
Missy asked, “Mike, this Eddie. Is he a loner, or a joiner?”
Branden said, “One of his former girlfriends told me he’s definitely a loner.”
Missy took another slice and asked, “He a finisher or a quitter?”
“Nate Wells says he never really finished anything. Lost interest too fast.”
“Confident and forward, or hesitating and retiring?”
Caroline answered, “I think he’s overly confident.”
Missy asked, “Why?”
“He gave Michael a copy of his letter of apology to the Billetts. Asked him to read it and to help improve it. But I think he was playing us for fools.”
“That’s what’s so baffling,” the professor said. “There’s no reason for him to have done that.”
“He wanted you to think he’s a dunce,” Missy said.
“I suppose so,” Branden said.
“Was his mother at commencement, Mike?”
“Yes.”
“Notice anything between them?”
“Like what?”
“A strange glance? Maybe a weird antagonism? Something between them that shouldn’t be there.”
“His smile, when he hugged her,” Branden said.
“What about it?”
“Didn’t seem right, somehow.”
Missy nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Does he switch from girl to girl a lot, or has he kept a long-standing relationship with anyone?”
The professor said, “He’s had too many girlfriends. He dumps one and moves to another. Doesn’t seem to faze him.”
“It fits, Missy,” the sheriff said.
Caroline said, “What? What fits?”
Missy laid her slice of pizza back in the box and said, “It’s a certain personality type. I think Eddie could have done this—kidnapped the children. I think he’s the type.”
“What?” Branden asked, eyebrows raised.
Bruce said, “He’s got no follow-through, Mike. A short attention span. He’s cruel to people who love him, like Cathy Billett. He likes his thrills—writing an apology to the Billetts and then asking you to read it. He’s got an outgoing personality, but no real friendships. He has trouble with long-term relationships. He’s a loner, really. And if Missy’s right about those kidnappings, then he’s got no soul. No sense of remorse. He could have done that and never felt a thing. That’s the profile of an intelligent sociopath.”
“I don’t like who you’re describing,” Caroline said. “It’s creepy.”
“What exactly are you two saying?” Branden asked.
Missy said, “It’s possible he’s just antisocial at a criminal level, but he may also be borderline psychopathic.”
“He’s insane?” Caroline asked.
“Insane is probably not the right word,” Missy said. “For one thing, he’s not out of control. He probably understands himself quite well, although he may be somewhat delusional about his motives. He may not be able to appreciate the consequences of all of his actions, and he may not be much of a forward thinker. He probably has a poor understanding of ‘the future.’ But he knows what he wants, and he always knows what he is doing. So, he’s not ‘insane.’ But that’s what makes him so dangerous.”
Caroline said, “At least he’s back in Florida now.”
Cautiously, Branden said, “I’m not so sure about that anymore.”
“Do you know where he is?” the sheriff asked.
Branden reluctantly shook his head. “Somewhere in Holmes County, Bruce. He made a phone call from right here in Holmes County.”
35
Wednesday, May 16 6:30 P.M.
ROBERTSON TOOK his phone out, called Ed Hollings, the night dispatcher down at the jail, and spoke with urgency. “Ed, I want you to put it out to everyone, and I mean right now, that we’re looking for Mr. Eddie Hunt-Myers, who just graduated from Millersburg. Right, wait. Mike, we need your best description.”
“Six feet, maybe six-one. Two hundred pounds, give or take, blond hair, blue eyes, southern accent. He’s strong—built solid.”
“Did you get that, Ed? OK, now this kid is wanted for questioning in the two Amish kidnappings. He’s to be considered dangerous, and he may be armed. A knife that I know of. Don’t know about guns. Right, Ed. Right now—to everyone. Coordinate this with Wayne County, too.”
Branden said, “The Erbs, Bruce. Protect the Erbs.”
“Ed, send two units out to the two Erb farms on Nisley Road. Ricky Niell knows the addresses. OK, so call in the day shifts. No, both of them. I want this guy found.” He switched off.
Branden said, “You’ve pegged this a little higher than I had it.”
Robertson shook his head. “If he’s sociopathic, maybe even just antisocial, then he’s the type of person who would have kidnapped those two kids. That’s what got us started on this—asking what kind of person could do that.”
Branden argued, “But, why would he do that? I still can’t figure out the reason.”
“It’s so simple,” Caroline said softly. She set her salad bowl down and seemed miserable to be thinking such troubling thoughts. “It’s the phone.”
“What?” Branden asked.
“This only makes sense,” Caroline said, “if Eddie did it all. If that’s true, then he killed Benny Erb, expecting to recover the cell phone he had given to him. Well, he didn’t get if back by killing Benny, so he kidnapped the children, and John Hershberger took Eddie’s call on Benny’s phone. Israel Erb had given it to Hershberger after he took it from his daughter. Eddie would have called again and told Hershberger that he’d trade Albert for the phone, and Hershberger must have agreed. That’s why Eddie released Albert. He got what he wanted. Hershberger gave him Benny’s phone. That’s the phone Eddie originally gave to Benny, so he could ask Benny about the families out at Calmoutier. Eddie wanted the phone back, Michael. That’s what makes it all fit.”
The professor was stunned into silence. Robertson opened his phone and called Ed Hollings again. “Ed, Bruce. We also want to question a John Hershberger.”
Branden interrupted, “He’s got a farm on Nisley Road, too.”
“Nisley Road, Ed. Put Armbruster on this. I want Hershberger in my office by morning.”
Branden said, “I believed Hershberger when he said he had burned the phone. I believed him! But he lied to me. He lied to everyone about that, and that’s what his confession will be on Sunday. That’s why he’s been called to repent—he lied about burning that phone.”
They were working on a list of first-search locations in Holmes County, places to start the hunt for Eddie, when the doorbell rang. Caroline went to answer it, while Branden, Robertson, and Taggert finished the list.
Caroline brought Nina Lobrelli to the back porch, saying, “Mike, you’re going to want to hear this.”
Lobrelli took off a light jacket, threw it over a chair, and sat down heavily. “I just came from Aidan Newhouse’s office,” she said, starting to shake. “Ben Capper is with him. He’s hung himself.”
Branden and Robertson stood up together, and Branden asked, “When, N
ina? Just now?”
Professor Lobrelli nodded and sank further into the chair.
From somewhere near the center of town came the siren of a sheriff’s cruiser. At nearly the same time, Robertson’s phone squawked, and he took the call, listened, and said, “Yeah, Ed. We just got that.”
Branden said, “What?”
Robertson switched off, took a long look at Professor Lobrelli, and said, “Your Ben Capper just called it in. Professor Newhouse is hanging from a light fixture in his office.”
36
Wednesday, May 16 9:10 P.M.
WITHIN THE HOUR, the sheriff had his whole investigative team in the office of Professor Aidan Newhouse. Newhouse was cut down, still wearing Ben Capper’s cuffs on one wrist. Deputy Pat Lance was dusting the office for prints, and Dan Wilsher had Lobrelli out in the hall, going over her account of finding Newhouse. Ben Capper stood down the hall, arms folded somberly over his chest.
Missy stood up beside the body and pulled off her blue nitrile gloves. “If this was suicide,” she said, “he changed his mind. He’s got deep gouges at his neck, where he tried to pull the noose off, and he’s got fingernails broken off in the rope.”
Robertson asked, “Can it also have been murder, Missy?”
“Yes. Either he kicked that chair over there and did it himself, or someone clever laid this scene out to look like that’s what he did.”
Robertson stepped out into the hall, made a call, and spoke into his phone, while waving for Branden to come forward in the hall. “Ricky? We’ve got a dead professor here. No, Newhouse. Right—protest marches at the courthouse—that guy. I’m going to operate on the assumption that he was murdered. So look, Niell, we need more people at those farms. OK, who? That’s a start. I want your roadblocks up again. Now, Sergeant. No. OK, call in Wayne County, then. This is all going down in their backyard. I know, so listen, lock them in a barn if you have to. Both families—all of the Erbs. I don’t care, just call me when it’s done.”
When the sheriff switched off, Branden asked, “Who’s out there, Bruce? That’s a lot of people to protect.”
“Five minutes, Mike, and we’re gonna have this covered.”
Branden started off toward home and called back over his shoulder, “I’m going out. Call Ricky.”
Ricky Niell’s first roadblock on 229 was set up in front of the old St. Genevieve Church at Calmoutier. Branden cleared inspection with the Wayne County deputies there by displaying his reserve deputy’s badge, just as Niell drove up from the other side of the barricade. Niell flipped his cruiser around in the cemetery driveway and took Branden back to the Erb farms.
There were no streetlights, and no lamps burned in either of the houses. The grocery store where Benny Erb had died was locked and dark. Niell parked on the road and led Branden down the driveway of Enos Erb’s place, saying, “We took Willa Banks out of here a half hour ago. She was cursing a blue streak, but she’s safe.”
Branden followed. He had armed himself with a shotgun from Niell’s trunk. Ricky had his pistol out. Taking careful steps in the dark, they made their way down the muddy drive to the dairy barn behind the house. Not a single light showed anywhere on the property. The only sounds were the low murmurs of dairy cows in the pasture.
At the barn, Niell pushed sideways on the tall wooden door, rolling it on its overhead casters. He squeezed through the opening, and Branden followed into the stillness.
Inside, the darkness was nearly complete. Some thin shafts of moonlight streaked down from holes in the old, high roof, but it was not enough to illuminate the interior.
In the black darkness, Niell said, “They’re all in here, toward the back.”
As Branden’s eyes adjusted to the night, he began to pick out the straw hat of an Amish man, or the white cap of an Amish woman. Ricky snapped the switch on a micro light, and Branden saw the front edge of the group, men standing closely together in front of women and children. Ricky’s light jumped briefly over their faces, and Branden saw wide, peaceful eyes watching him. There was little fear, here. What the professor saw was mostly resignation. And although some of the children’s faces communicated excitement or alarm, the faces of the men and women showed passivity, conviction, and peace.
Short Enos Erb pushed forward from the group and eyed the guns with animosity. He waved at the weapons as if he wanted them to vanish from the men’s hands and said, “Guns have no place here.”
Branden answered, “We have to assume he’ll come here, Enos.”
Enos shook his head. “This is a fearful way to live, Professor.”
“I know,” Branden said, “but it is necessary. We find it necessary to act.”
Sadly, Enos replied, “We know. We know about this, with you English, Professor. But, please, you must not kill on our account. We cannot cooperate with killing.”
Niell said, “If you’ll just stay here, Mr. Erb, we’ll catch this guy. You aren’t safe until we do.”
Enos nodded with profound sorrow. “We reject the English killing.”
Branden asked, “Can you just stay here a little longer, Enos? Can you stay here and let us work?”
The dwarf stepped silently back among his people.
By daybreak, the roadblocks had captured nothing. Branden and Niell had walked the farm roads, and that too had produced nothing. There was no sign that Eddie Hunt-Myers had been anywhere near Calmoutier. So, from the barn emerged first Enos and then Israel, followed slowly by the others.
Enos gathered his family at the back of his house, and Israel walked his family across the road. Unable to argue, Branden and Niell watched the children file back inside their houses, and soon life on the two farms resumed as if nothing in the world could harm them.
The Amish men and a few of the older boys went into the barns to milk cows and goats. Vera Erb brought out a basket of laundry to hang on the line. Israel Erb opened his store and lit the gas ceiling mantles. An older boy rode his bicycle out onto the road and turned east toward the feed store.
Branden said to Niell, “At least they’re keeping the youngest children inside.”
Sarcastically, Niell said, “Yeah, Mike, there’s that.”
37
Thursday, May 17 8:45 A.M.
THE PROFESSOR drove his truck toward home and was waved through the roadblock at St. Genevieve Church. In Mt. Hope, he stopped at Mrs. Yoder’s Kitchen and got a cup of coffee to go. He drank it as he drove. In Fryburg he called the jail and learned from Ellie that Sheriff Robertson had John Hershberger in an interview room with Bishop Andy Miller. Branden asked Ellie to tell Robertson he was headed into town.
When Branden walked down the pine-paneled hallway past Robertson’s office, he could hear the sheriff bellowing from Interview B, and when he entered the room, he found Robertson at the left head of the metal table, fists planted aggressively on the cold surface of the metal, chin jutting out like an angry boxer. Miller and Hershberger sat submissively at the other end of the table, eyes focused on the blank tabletop. Branden took a seat next to Miller.
Robertson took note of the professor’s position next to the Amish men and pushed off his fists to stand to his full height, his barrel chest communicating dominance like a fighting cock.
Branden made a show of sighing and said in a tone of long-suffering forbearance, “Bruce, what are you doing?” From years of experience conducting interviews together, he trusted that Robertson would play along, and he wasn’t disappointed.
The sheriff said in a rough tone, “Mr. Hershberger, Professor, admits that he lied about Benny Erb’s phone.”
Branden looked to Hershberger, and the preacher flicked his eyes up briefly to acknowledge the professor. Then he pointed them back at the tabletop.
Bishop Andy Miller argued, “Sheriff, the sin of this falsehood is obvious, but no one was hurt. The children are safe.”
Robertson flung his arms into the air and blew out exasperation. “You had no way to know that you’d get Albert back!”
/> Preacher Hershberger kept his eyes lowered and said, “He promised he’d send Albert home if I gave him the phone.”
“You can’t be serious!” Robertson spat.
Holding up his hand to ward off further outbursts from the sheriff, Branden asked Hershberger, “How did you make the exchange?”
Hershberger looked up briefly and said, “He told me to put the phone in the back of the St. Genevieve Cemetery, behind the Haas headstone. That’s what I did. Then, Albert came home.”
Robertson stepped to the door and yanked it open. It was obvious that he was through talking. He glowered at the two men. “You’re both being charged with interfering with a felony investigation !” he barked, and marched out of the room.
A half hour later, Branden sank into the low leather chair in front of Robertson’s desk. The sheriff had a pencil out, drumming the eraser against his cherry desktop as if he were pacing the oar strokes on a slave galley—cruising speed, battle speed, ramming speed.
Branden slumped in his chair, ankles crossed, as he always did when he needed to think in the sheriff’s big office. He listened to the drumbeat of the sheriff’s pencil awhile and said, “He never saw him. Hershberger, I mean. Hershberger never saw the kidnapper. I can’t get anything out of him to help us.”
Robertson barked, “They’re both going to jail!” and Branden shrugged his acquiescence.
“Mike, this is nuts,” Robertson said. “If we’re right about this kid Eddie, he killed Benny Erb, Cathy Billett, and maybe even Aidan Newhouse. And he terrorized two Amish children. What kind of a college are you guys running up there?”
Bitterly, Branden answered, “We can’t prove anyone was actually murdered, Sheriff.”
Robertson pounded his desk with the flat of his hand and said, “He did it all, Mike. Your Eddie Hunt-Myers, the Almighty Third, killed three people.”
“Probably,” the professor admitted.
“And you think he’s still here?”
“Not likely, Sheriff. Eddie’s probably headed home right now. He’ll probably be able to produce signed affidavits from his parents that he was home all along.”
