by Jane Jensen
“How can you know that when we haven’t seen this plant here before?” Franklin asked.
“Because we do have access to history books and to conservationists in other states. I’ve been in touch with the chief conservationist in New Mexico, where they sometimes have issues with white-snakeroot poisoning. They’ve only seen it when cattle are allowed to forage in woodland areas.”
Franklin shook his head as if not convinced, but he didn’t argue.
“Also,” Ellis continued, “if I may . . . with a plant like this, the stems are fairly woody, so it’s unlikely it would be eaten down to the roots. Our people have been very thorough searching those pastures. I’m confident that it’s not there.”
Franklin gave a wary grunt. “Even if that’s the case, it’s still a leap to talk about homicide. What you really mean is a serial killer. Right, Detective?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He—or she, or they—is a murderer and, given the fact that they’ve hit multiple targets, a serial killer by definition. We believe we might have an eyewitness.” I described what Mark Hershberger had seen—the man feeding their family cow from the road just before the family fell ill.
Ms. Foderman raised her hand and spoke up. “Detective Harris—if the plant was deliberately given to these animals, and the farmers don’t know who’s responsible, how do you propose finding the person?”
“Good question,” I said. “We’ve outlined a number of lines of inquiry. We’ll be interviewing the farmers’ families again with this new information in mind. The killer may have a link to one or more of these farms, a reason why he—or she—targeted them specifically. Then there’s method. White snakeroot isn’t exactly easy to find in Pennsylvania. So we need to find out if any nurseries in the area grow it and check out their customer lists. The killer has to have access to the plant, and a considerable amount of it.”
Franklin stood up from his seat, his bulk ponderous. “I have to say I’m concerned about the direction this is going. I think this is a monumental waste of time, and a deflection of expensive resources. The state of Pennsylvania is paying for this investigation, and, I’m sorry, Detective Harris, Detective Grady, but you haven’t convinced me someone is deliberately poisoning random Amish cows.” He said the last with considerable disdain, like we were blaming little green men.
But I’d faced plenty of bullies in my life, and I wasn’t intimidated. I crossed my arms and stared right back. “That’s what the investigation is for, Mr. Franklin, to convince you and everyone else, including, eventually, a jury.”
Grady spoke up firmly. “We must follow this line of inquiry. I trust Detective Harris will be able to get everyone some kind of answer quickly.”
“What I want to know is, what do we tell the press?” Ms. Foderman interjected. “The governor is already concerned about the media coverage. The deaths of the Kinderman family and the Philadelphia outbreak have made this national news. Food-borne illness can cause a public panic. We have protesters outside already. If people think this could be some sort of terrorist act, it’s going to be a madhouse.”
The words “terrorist act” hadn’t been applied to the situation before, not even in my own mind. But Margaret Foderman was right. The press could spin it that way.
“Agreed!” Franklin barked. “If this were a case of deliberate poisoning, why, it could affect any farm at any time! We don’t want to cause a boycott of all Pennsylvania food. Right now the scope is very limited. We need to maintain that perception.”
Limited to Amish farms is what he means, I thought. And apparently that scope was fine with Mitch Franklin.
“Besides, what if the police are wrong?” he insisted. “We don’t want to look like we have no idea what we’re doing.”
“Actually, I agree,” I said. “I’d recommend that we keep this information quiet for the time being. First, because, no, we don’t have unequivocal proof yet. I’d want more evidence before going public. But second, there’s a better chance of catching this person—or persons—if they don’t know we’re looking for them.”
I exchanged a look with Grady. He nodded.
“Well. I think that’s resolved for now,” Ms. Foderman said with the air of someone who fields crises on a daily basis. “Can we expect a daily update on your progress, Dr. Turner? Detective Harris?”
“Of course,” Glen said.
That’s not how I should be spending my time, I thought. But I nodded and said, “Absolutely.”
—
On Saturday morning, the first full official day of the police investigation, Glen and I drove out to see the Knepps. They were one of the first families to have gotten ill, according to Hannah. They’d gotten sick even before the Hershbergers. It was past time to follow up with them in person. If they had been an early case of tremetol poisoning, they might hold an important missing clue.
Aaron Knepp was in his sixties and lived on a small farm of about twenty acres. As we drove up, we saw a Jersey cow, her udder ripe with milk, and a single goat. They were eating side by side in the pasture. Aaron Knepp said little as he motioned for us to sit on a hanging glider on the porch and took a chair opposite. His children, he explained, were grown but lived in the area. Since his wife’s death, he lived on the farm alone.
“That sickness took my wife. She had a weak heart anyhow, and being so ill . . . She passed in her sleep.” His voice was strangely devoid of emotion.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Knepp,” I said. “Did a doctor or coroner confirm the cause of death?”
Knepp nodded. “After I found her, I walked to the neighbors, and they called the doctor. He come right out that mornin’ to make out the death certificate.”
“Did he examine her?”
“Course. He made sure she was gone. Death certificate says it was her heart.”
“Was there an autopsy?” Glen asked.
“No.”
“Was she embalmed?”
“No.” Knepp shook his head impatiently. “That’s not our way.”
I knew embalming was not mandatory in the state of Pennsylvania. All that was required was a death certificate by a licensed physician. Unless that doctor suspected foul play and insisted on an autopsy, that wasn’t the Amish way either. They prepared the body at home, built a coffin, held the funeral within three days, and interred the body in one of their own cemeteries. They pretty much sidestepped the death industry altogether. And that was their right, as far as I was concerned. But it wasn’t particularly helpful in this case.
“Where did they take your wife?” Glen asked.
“We buried her that Saturday in the Amish cemetery down there on Ronks Road.”
I shared a look with Glen. His lips were set in a disappointed line. I shook my head minutely. Nothing we can do about it now.
“Did you notice anything wrong with your cow around that time?” I asked.
Knepp stroked his long gray beard, his gaze turned inward, as if remembering. “Ja. She was a little off for a few days round about then. I jus’ heard today there was a sickness passing from cows through the milk, and it made sense to me that’s where we got it. At the time, though, just thought we all had the flu.”
“In what way was the cow ‘off’?” Glen leaned forward, elbows on his knees. A light breeze ruffled his hair making him look boyishly young. Then I thought that was a weird thing to notice.
“Well . . . she just stood by the barn all day, sort of head down, instead of goin’ off in the pasture like usual. So I knew she wasn’t quite herself. I kept an eye on her, and she was all right after a few days. Course, we was all sick by then. My son’s family too, my grandkids. I’d given ’em a gallon of that milk, and the whole family was sick as dogs. It only lasted a few days with them, though my daughter-in-law swears she still ain’t right.”
“Hmm. Did you notice the cow trembling at all?” Glen suggested.
“Or maybe walking stiffly?”
“She weren’t walkin’ much at all. Maybe she was shakin’, as I recollect. I thought she’d eatin’ somethin’ that upset her. The spring grass can upset their stomachs ’cause they eat so much of it, and they’re not used to how rich it is.”
Glen turned to me. “We should test the cow, and Mr. Knepp and his family too. I can get a team out here to examine the pasture and barn.”
“Absolutely.” I doubted they’d find much evidence in the barn, not this late, but we had to look. “Mr. Knepp, was there anyone around your cow in the day or two leading up to her sickness? Anyone you didn’t know? Or even someone you did? A vet? A farrier? A tourist? Anyone?”
Knepp shook his shaggy head. “No. But I don’t lock the barn, nor the house neither. Suppose someone could have gotten in at night while . . .” For the first time, I heard emotion in his voice. “. . . while the wife and I slept.”
“What about the dog?” Glen asked, looking at the old black Lab at Knepp’s feet.
“Oh, she’s an old girl and deaf as a post. Sleeps in the mud room too.” Knepp snapped his fingers, but the dog never looked at him. She continued to stare sleepily at me, head on her paws.
“One more thing, Mr. Knepp.” I took a breath, feeling awkward. “I heard from Hannah Yoder that some people believe this sickness is a curse, a hexerei.”
Knepp stared at me for a long moment as if surprised to hear an outsider speak of it. “’Tis so. I thought it was a curse. Not so sure now. People like you—youse don’t understand.”
“I’m hoping to,” I said with a sympathetic smile. I ignored the questioning look Glen was giving me. “Hannah mentioned a brauche man, Henry Stoltzfus. Has Henry been by your farm at all?”
“Not for years. But he don’t need to come by to lay a hex.”
“I see. Well, is there bad blood between you and Henry Stoltzfus? Does he have reason to wish you, and maybe the Hershbergers and the Kindermans, any harm?”
“Guess you should ask him that. I can tell youse this—the bad blood’s on his end.” Knepp’s face darkened with anger.
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
Knepp’s lips worked into a bitter pout as he considered it. He looked at me and at Glen. I knew he must be thinking that we were with the police and he didn’t want to talk to us. But maybe he was also considering the impact on his community this was all having. I tried to tip the scale in our favor.
“Maybe it was an argument Henry had with the church?” Hannah had told me that much.
That loosened Knepp’s tongue. “He has a daughter, Henry does. Feebleminded. ’N’ she got herself in the family way. She was unmarried. ’N’ our church elders went to see Henry, wanted him to do somethin’ about it. He refused. So he left the church. Hard words were spoken. Now I understand the girl has another child too, and she’s still not married.” He shook his head in disgust. “Ungodly, they are. And Henry Stoltzfus practices hexerei. If he’s not right with God, you can guess where that power is coming from.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Does Henry have any reason to dislike you specifically, Mr. Knepp?”
Knepp grunted. “You could say so. I’m one of the church elders, and so is Samuel Hershberger.”
CHAPTER 10
We took a back road toward Manheim, where Henry Stoltzfus lived. I’d checked him out before but hadn’t actually gone to see him. At this point, a talk with the brauche man was well past due. I could sense Glen’s consternation as he drove. He opened his mouth to speak several times, then changed his mind. I held my tongue and waited for him to spit it out.
“So, uh . . . what’s all this about hexes?” he finally asked. He seemed to be making an effort not to sound dubious.
“Stoltzfus has a grudge against the men whose cows were poisoned—at least Knepp and Hershberger. I’d say he’s a suspect.”
“But the Hershberger boy saw a man with a car. Isn’t Stoltzfus Amish?”
“He’s ex-Amish. I don’t know if he has a car or not, but we’ll find out.”
Glen gave a “huh,” and the atmosphere in the car lightened. Now he was just plain curious. “So what is a hexerei? Is this an Amish thing?”
I told him what Ezra had explained about the practice of powwow.
“So it’s basically like folk remedies and prayers, for good or ill?”
“Sounds like it to me. Honestly, I don’t know much other than what I just told you, which is what Ezra told me. He made it sound like not many Amish practice it anymore.”
“That’s more than I ever would have known,” Glen said appreciatively.
I turned my head to look out the passenger window in case my skin was stupid enough to blush. Glen wasn’t exactly moving on from his interest in me. If anything, it was getting worse. There were a dozen tells. It was there in the way I’d find him looking at me when he should be looking at the person we were interviewing, the way his hand lingered on the center console of the car while he drove, and in the smiles, winks, and warm looks he graced me with that were one step to the left of camaraderie. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d dealt with a male partner being attracted to me. In the case of Glen, though, it left me feeling off, wrong-footed. He was good-looking, a doctor, employed by a prestigious agency—and he wasn’t just staring at my breasts. He seemed to appreciate my intelligence, my work. It was flattering.
But he’s not Ezra.
Things were definitely not what they should have been at home. Last night, Ezra hadn’t come to bed until late and he’d lain with his back toward me. He’d been polite this morning but distant. I missed him, odd as that sounded. I wanted to get us back to where we’d been before, but I wasn’t sure how to accomplish that. I couldn’t afford to be distracted from this case. There were lives at stake. Didn’t he understand that?
“If this man is into herbal remedies, he might know about white snakeroot.” Glen’s voice was thoughtful.
“That’s true.” A spark of interest brought my mind back to the case.
“What about the Kindermans? Or Levi Fisher and his family? Would this Henry Stoltzfus have a grudge against them too?”
“I doubt they go to the same church. The Knepps and Hershbergers live relatively close together in Paradise, but the Kindermans were in Willow Creek and the Fishers are in Bird-in-Hand. They both live too far away to travel easily by buggy. I’ll find out for sure, though. And he could have known them from somewhere else. If he practices folk medicine in the community, he could have customers from all over.”
“See, I wouldn’t have thought of that. I’m really glad to have you on this one,” Glen commented. He added, as if feeling self-conscious, “Professionally, that is. I mean—” He cut himself off, biting his lower lip. It was a boyish tic, and it softened him.
Yes, he was attractive. In another time, another place . . .
“I’m glad to have your expertise as well,” I said in a careful tone.
Please leave it at that, I thought. He did.
Henry Stoltzfus rented a house on a road outside of Manheim. It was a small bungalow in a neighborhood of similar homes that had probably been built in the forties or fifties. The house couldn’t be more than twelve hundred square feet. There were children’s toys scattered around the unkempt yard. The property was narrow but long, and it ran straight back behind the house. I could see a garden back there and a shed. In the gravel driveway was an old blue Ford sedan with a few rust spots on the sides.
I took pictures of the car with my iPhone and then nodded at Glen. We approached the front door and knocked.
A girl of about eight answered. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, and her My Little Pony shirt was too small and stained with what looked like spaghetti sauce.
“Hi. What do you want?” she prompted smartly.
I smiled. “Hello. We’re here to see H
enry Stoltzfus.”
“Pa-pa! Customer!” The girl disappeared, leaving the front door open, and Glen and I standing on the cracked cement slab of the front stoop.
Henry Stoltzfus came into the living room wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He was not what I’d expected. He wasn’t terribly old, sixties at most. His thick hair was silver, and it was combed straight back with some kind of gel. His salt-and-pepper beard was closely trimmed, and his blue eyes were sharp. His face was still handsome and broad with Germanic strength. He was dressed in a worn brown work shirt and thick black pants that might have been Amish once upon a time. Otherwise, he didn’t look particularly Amish now.
“Mr. Stoltzfus?” I held up my badge. “I’m Detective Harris with the Lancaster Police, and this is Dr. Turner from the Centers for Disease Control. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Henry hesitated, then tossed the dishcloth over one shoulder. “Youse are not here for remedying, I take it. In that case, we can talk in the house. Come on in.”
He encouraged us to step inside the living room and shut the door, but he didn’t invite us to sit down. He put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow, his face wary. “What can I do for the police?”
“Do you mind if I record this?” I asked, pulling my iPhone from my jacket pocket.
Henry frowned, as if not sure why I would want to record our conversation, but he gave a terse nod. I started the recorder. I preferred to be sitting, but I wasn’t going to ask.
“This is Detective Elizabeth Harris. I’m with Dr. Glen Turner of the CDC. We’re interviewing Henry Stoltzfus at his home on Power Road in Manheim, April eighteenth, 2015. Mr. Stoltzfus, do you know Samuel Hershberger of Paradise?”
Henry’s mouth tightened into an unhappy line. “Know him to speak of.”
“How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Hershberger?”
