by Jane Jensen
I cleared my throat. “There’s an herbal nursery that grows white snakeroot near Lancaster, but they have a small supply and say they haven’t sold any in bulk or had any go missing. Unfortunately, there are a number of heirloom seed places online where you can buy the seeds. Apparently, some people use it in perennial borders. Hernandez has been tracking them all down and asking them for lists of sales in Pennsylvania in the past few years, but that will take a while to check, especially the PO boxes.”
“He seems like a good guy, Hernandez,” Glen said. “I’ve actually been impressed by your department overall. I like Grady too.”
“So do I. He’s a great boss.”
Weirdly, Glen didn’t look too happy about it. He frowned at the road. “There are good people in DC too.”
“I’m sure there are.”
He started to speak, hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Are you really happy here, Elizabeth? In such a rural area? With . . . with a man who . . . who is basically a farmer? I know it’s none of my business, but I guess it’s pretty obvious that . . . I’d like a shot with you. You’re intelligent, beautiful, and dedicated. I think you deserve better.”
Well there it was, all laid out. And I found that I didn’t feel conflicted at all. I liked Glen, and it had been flattering to be the focus of his attention. But the only thing I felt in my heart was a longing for the man who had kissed me in the barn this morning, the man who worked hard at his craft, could put together a mind-blowing potato salad, and still made my toes curl.
“I have everything that I want right here.”
He sighed and shook his head. “If you ever change your mind . . .”
“I won’t,” I said, and smiled.
—
James Westley was a wiry kid with lumpy brown hair that was cut short but still managed to be in disarray. We found him in his dorm room, where he was playing a video game with another guy, the door wide open. James clearly wasn’t thrilled about being interrupted during his Saturday morning playtime.
“Detective Harris from the Lancaster Police and Dr. Turner from the CDC. We’re here to ask you a few questions.” I showed James my badge.
“Wow. I’m out of here,” his friend said. “Whatever he did, I wasn’t there.” He seemed to be joking.
“Asshole!” James shouted at the guy’s back as he took off down the hall. James was apparently also joking. Or perhaps not. He flushed when he looked back at Glen and me. “Um . . .”
“We can step inside, James, or would you prefer to talk here in the hall? Or perhaps you’d like to go down to the lobby?” I suggested briskly. Not talking to us at all was not an option I mentioned.
James stepped aside and let us into his room. He gave a nervous glance down the hall before shutting the door.
The dorm room wasn’t exactly neat, but it wasn’t a pigsty either. The bed was made. Pillows slumped on the floor from where James and his friend had been gaming. A bag of Doritos and several energy drink cans were arranged on the desk, which seemed otherwise dedicated to a TV monitor and a PlayStation 4.
“So . . . you came up from Lancaster? I’m from there,” James offered with a reluctant attempt at friendliness.
“Yes, we know you are,” I said.
“So why are you here? Shit. Is this about my family?” James suddenly looked scared.
“No, James. As far as we know, your family is fine. We’re here about another matter. Have you heard about the recent deaths in Philadelphia and Lancaster County? The ones caused by milk?”
James’s face lit up. “Yeah, I saw that online! You know, the weird thing is, I wrote a paper once on milk sickness. It was for a history class.”
I studied his face, trying to discern if he was playing me. “We know that. That’s why we’re here.”
James looked confused. “Huh. Well . . . I’m not an expert or anything. You should talk to my teacher, Mrs.—”
“Roberts. Yes, we did. We’re not here to ask for your expert advice.” I managed to keep the verbal eye roll from my tone.
James’s mouth shut, and he looked from me to Glen, a frown between his brow. “So what’s this about then?”
“Do you have a car, James?”
“Yeah. Well, it’s optimistic to call it a car, but it runs. I don’t use it much.”
“When was the last time you were in Lancaster County?”
James looked uneasy. He shuffled from one foot to the other. “I, um, went down for Valentine’s Day. That’s my mom’s birthday too, so it’s sort of a family thing. Went down for the weekend.”
“You haven’t been back there since mid-February?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” I pressed, my tone cool. “Because we will be able to track your car via the highway camera system.” It was a bluff mostly. Yes, we could look for his car on the video feed if he’d taken Interstate 76. But there were faster routes he could have taken that didn’t have video coverage.
James folded his arms over his chest. “Of course I’m sure! I don’t leave campus very often because gas costs money and I’m too busy anyway. You can ask any of the guys who live here, and they’ll tell you. What’s this about?”
I exchanged a look with Glen. I wasn’t getting any guilty vibes from James. If he knew anything about the crimes in Lancaster, he was doing a remarkable job of faking innocence. I was disappointed, but I wasn’t done yet. What at first glance seemed like a dead end could still have a hidden egress or two.
I chose my words carefully. “We have to investigate all possible causes of the milk sickness in Lancaster County, no matter how remote. That includes the possibility that someone is introducing the poison deliberately.”
I stopped there, watching his face. His brow furrowed deeper as he tried to figure out what I meant, then cleared. His eyes widened. “You think—” He stopped, biting his lip.
“Go on. What were you going to say?”
“You think someone’s feeding the cows . . .”
“Go on.”
“. . . white snakeroot. Right? Is that what you mean?”
I just looked at him.
“Man, that is fucked up!” James looked worried but also scared. And his expression grew more scared by the moment as he studied our faces. “Look, if you think it could have been me . . . I mean, that’s nuts! Just because I wrote that stupid paper, like, years ago! I haven’t even left campus. You can check.”
“Oh, we will,” I said smoothly.
“And I wouldn’t . . . I mean, Christ.”
“The paper you wrote, James,” Glen said. “Did you read that out loud in class by any chance?”
“No.” He shook his head hard. “That’s, like, grade-school shit. We just turned the papers in. We didn’t have to get up and do a speech or anything.”
“Where did you get the idea?” I asked. “Especially the one about Native Americans feeding white snakeroot to the settlers’ cows in order to poison them?”
James shifted from foot to foot. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I dunno. It just occurred to me. The Indians knew about the plant. And eventually they told some doctor, and the settlers figured it out. So that made me think, like, did the Indians know before that, know that’s why people were dying, and just didn’t say anything? Like, ‘Ha ha, you took our land and now it’s biting you in the ass, dickwad.’”
“So that was entirely your own idea? You didn’t read it anywhere? Or maybe someone suggested it?”
“No. I told you how I thought of it.”
“Did you discuss it with any of your friends? Talk about how cool that would have been? Or maybe you shared your paper with someone?”
James blinked. A spark appeared in his eyes, as if something had occurred to him. But he shifted his gaze to the floor. “Nah. I dunno. I don’t remember. It wasn’t a major deal at the time. Just on
e more paper. Like, who would give a shit? We had other stuff to talk about.”
I studied James’s downturned face and the way he was examining the toe of one grubby tennis shoe. He was wearing beat-up Nike running shoes, not Converses like the ones that left the print at the Troyer farm. He turned the tip of the shoe this way and that as if suddenly finding it fascinating. I’d bet anything he was lying. But about what, and whether or not it was relevant—that was another question.
“James?” I waited until he looked up at me, his eyes wary. I took a steadying breath and tried to appeal to his humanity. “People are dying. Children are dying. They’re drinking poisoned milk and dying a very painful death. Do you understand that?”
James shrugged, uncomfortable. “That sucks. But there’s nothing I can do about it.” He raised a hand to his mouth and began biting at a nail.
I studied him a moment longer, then sighed. I nodded at Glen, who brought out the form the CDC had put together. It listed the days and hours in which the known and suspected poisonings had taken place. “Please fill out this paperwork and write down what you were doing for the times noted, in detail. And if you remember anything at all, will you call me?” I took out a card and held it out.
“Sure,” James said, but he didn’t meet my eyes as he took the card.
CHAPTER 17
When Glen and I arrived back at the Lancaster police station, it was midafternoon. I wasn’t surprised to see most of the Violent Crimes team at their desks. Everyone, even the detectives who normally worked drug and gang crime, was putting in extra hours on the raw-milk case. They were on the phones and the Internet following up leads for Hernandez—tracing anyone who had bought white snakeroot seeds from the suppliers he’d found and running down library patrons. I was grateful. Everyone cared about this case. A lot. Surely it was just a matter of time before we got a break.
I’d barely put down my things when Grady pulled me into his office along with Hernandez and Glen Turner. He paced behind his desk.
“The chief called me this morning after he’d talked to the mayor, who’d been called by the governor. They’re looking at introducing a bill on Monday in the state house, an emergency measure that will make it illegal for anyone to give children under eighteen raw milk. We banned selling it, but this would mean no one who owns a cow could give the milk even to their own kids. I don’t care if we get lawyered up the ass. If we can’t stop the Amish adults from drinking the damn stuff, we can at least make them think twice before giving it to their children. I don’t want to find any more dead kids!”
I sympathized with Grady’s anger. We’d all been devastated at the Troyer house, knowing we should have been able to prevent the tragedy and had failed. But I also felt pretty clear that being more heavy-handed wasn’t the way to go.
“Hang on a minute,” I said, putting a hand on Grady’s arm as he passed. He paused instead of shaking me off, which was a good sign that he would at least listen. “What we have is a lone poisoner targeting vulnerable-looking Amish farms. There’s only so much damage he can do.”
Grady looked incredulous. “We just found a dead family of eleven! That’s plenty enough damage as far as I’m concerned.”
“Sorry. That’s not what I mean.” I took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “I mean, we have an intimate situation—one killer.”
“And literally thousands of Amish farms,” Grady pointed out roughly.
“Yes. But.” I sighed again. “What we need to do is not go after all milk or all Amish farms. What we need to do is catch one killer.”
Grady huffed. “I thought that’s what we were trying to do.”
“We don’t need to blow up this conflict with the Amish any more. The more we try to tell them what they can’t do on their own farms, the more they’re going to feel like outside authority is coming down on them, trying to force them to go against their beliefs. That’s not going to help.”
Glen nodded. “She’s right, Grady. We need to be working with the Amish on this. We have another press conference Monday morning. What if we release the news about the poisoner? Ask the Amish to be on the lookout for him?”
Grady grunted. “That would mean the killer would also know we’ve figured it out. But at this point—”
“No,” I said firmly. “He’s targeting Amish farms, and the Amish won’t watch the press conference anyway. All that will accomplish is to tell everyone else what we’re looking for—including the killer. He’ll just get harder to find. Yes, we should warn the Amish about him, but not through the press.” I started pacing myself. I met Hernandez’s gaze.
“We need to catch him in the act,” Hernandez said.
“Right. We need to lure him out somehow,” I agreed.
“But how would we know where he’s going to strike?” Grady asked, his tone more thoughtful now. “There’re way too many vulnerable farms out there. We can’t watch them all.”
No, we can’t. I tapped my chin as my mind worked it over. “Look, can you give me a few hours?” I glanced at my watch. “We can reconvene at five. I’d like to talk to Ezra and a few of the other Amish I know. I have an idea, but I need to make sure it’s solid.”
Grady rubbed his jaw doubtfully. “Five is too late. I’m sure the chief and the mayor are going to want to hear a plan today.”
“Four then.” I was already reaching for the office door.
Glen stepped forward. “Do you want company?” He clearly wanted to go along.
“No. Sorry. I need to do this alone. See you at four.”
—
The beautiful farm on Lynwood Road in Bird-in-Hand glowed in the Sunday morning light, its house and large barn a gleaming white. Ezra and I pulled into the driveway. The center area between the house and barn was crammed tight with sleek black buggies and horses. An Amish boy motioned for Ezra to park on the lawn, and he did, rolling slowly to avoid damaging the grass.
I took a nervous breath, wondering if I was really ready for the plan we’d agreed to yesterday afternoon in Grady’s office.
I’d dressed as conservatively as my closet allowed this morning—a full black skirt that reached the middle of my calves, boots, and a white silk high-necked blouse under a black suit jacket. My hair was back in the bun I normally wore for work, and I had even less makeup on than usual.
Beside me, Ezra was tense.
“You don’t have to go inside,” I said, offering him an out for the third time that morning.
He shook his head, as if there were no point in discussing it, and opened the driver’s door.
Ezra had helped me devise the plan I’d presented to Grady. And he felt strongly about it and wanted to be there, even though, in his words, “It may do you more harm than good to be seen with me.” I didn’t agree. Even if the Amish shunned Ezra because he’d turned his back on the Amish way of life, they still knew he was one of their own. I most certainly was not. Besides, I wanted Ezra’s read on how this went this morning. He could understand the German dialect the Amish spoke, and knew how to interpret their body language and expressions better than I ever would.
The Amish don’t believe in spending a lot of money on church buildings. They hold services in a different congregant’s home each Sunday. This farmhouse had been built recently, no more than twenty years ago. And it appeared to have been built with this kind of gathering in mind. Just inside the front door was a small foyer that opened to a large room that was probably a living room and dining room most of the time. The furniture had been moved out to provide room for rows of portable wooden benches. There was no podium in the front, but different Amish men got up to speak to the crowd.
I couldn’t understand a word of the thick German, but I glanced at Ezra occasionally and he didn’t seem particularly bothered by the sermons. I was glad the elders hadn’t taken the opportunity to preach at Ezra in a veiled fashion, to try to make him fe
el guilty. But really, other than some curious glances, no one paid much attention to Ezra and me as we stood in the back of the room.
After the interminable sermons came more singing. There was no musical accompaniment, and the hymns were sonorous and slow, more solemn than joyous. But the raised voices and harmonies were beautiful, and I found my chest growing tight.
How strange it was to be here, witnessing a life so foreign to my own, to what I’d seen in my years in Manhattan. It was hard to believe that such pockets existed, relatively unchanged from the way they’d been several hundred years ago. There was a peace in it that I would never be able to access. But I knew now that there was no such thing as an idyllic way of life or a place where cruelty didn’t exist. And I knew too that I was too independent, too questioning to ever have a place in a regimented world like this one.
Finally, when I was beginning to wonder if the service would ever end, an elder got up and spoke in English.
“We have someone here today to speak with us. It is Detective Elizabeth Harris with the Lancaster Police. She helped last year in that sad business with the murder of Katie Yoder and her English friend Jessica Travis. So please listen up to what she has to say now.”
It was a warmer introduction than I’d expected, and I was grateful. I made my way up to the front of the room feeling all eyes upon me. I hadn’t brought along muti-media materials because I knew they’d only distance me from this audience. But without them I felt a bit at sea.
“I’m sure you have all heard about the poisoned milk that’s killed a number of Amish in the area, sickened others, and has created a lot of fear in the public and bad press for farmers.”
Dozens of blank Amish faces stared at me. The men, with their long beards, were intimidating. And the women were hard to understand. At least I’d gotten to know Hannah well enough to know there was no malice behind those women’s eyes, only reserve. I represented a world they didn’t want their children to know.
“I’m speaking to you today in confidence. What I’m going to tell you is something we don’t want the newspapers, or the general public, to know. The truth is, we need your help to put an end to this problem before more people die. You see, there’s a person—we believe he is not Amish but an outsider—who is deliberately giving your cows this poisonous plant and causing the milk to become deadly.”
