Shunning Sarah

by Julie Kramer

  His reasoning was admirable.

  “You’d get no argument from me,” I said, “except your sister was murdered in cold blood and our society believes we need to do everything we can to find her killer. For me, that means telling her story.”

  “Our society believes forgiveness makes a safer world than punishment,” he said.

  “We believe in forgiveness, but we also believe in justice.” And I told him I intended to keep Sarah’s face in the news until her case was solved. “To us, her sketch is not an insult, but an important element in the search for her murderer.”

  “My church and I have buried Sarah and forgiven all. We do not need you to tell her story or find her killer.”

  “It was a beautiful service,” I said. “Even though I couldn’t understand much.”

  He looked at me, perplexed.

  “Yes, Gideon. I was there. I watched and prayed along with the rest of your community. The service was enlightening.”

  “Stay away from us.” Now he sounded harsh, where before he’d sounded instructive.

  I told him I’d be at the Lamplight Inn in town in case he or his family reconsidered and wanted to discuss his sister. “Putting a homicide victim’s face on television is a way of honoring them. Showing that their life mattered, as did their death.”

  “No. TV is the devil’s tongue.” He cracked the reins and I dodged the metal wheels just as the horse started to bolt.

  “Tell me why you were shunning Sarah.” This time I was yelling, sort of like when Tom Cruise wanted the truth in A Few Good Men.

  “Sarah could not forgive.”

  Those were Gideon’s final words before the buggy disappeared into the night. I could still hear the clip-clop echoing long after I lost sight of him.

  CHAPTER 48

  Sleep did not come easily to me in the same bed where Sarah Yoder had spent her last night alive.

  A thick yellow chenille spread covered me with old-fashioned warmth in the front bedroom of the Lamplight Inn. A gray cat curled on a corner chair, purring. But still, my mind could not relax.

  I had finished reading my Amish love story. As foreshadowed, the heroine had resigned herself to a simple life with her reliable suitor, rejecting the flashy outside world. It was a comfortable conclusion that made me envious of her happily ever after.

  It’s just fiction, I reminded myself. Real life is never so easy. Neither is true love.

  Hours later, in a confusing dream about forgiveness and damnation, I woke to a crashing noise.

  Two intruders barged inside, kicking the door to my room open. They both wore wide-brimmed hats. A clean-shaven man grabbed me by the arms with one hand and held my head with the other. His bearded companion turned on a flashlight and advanced toward me. He was careful to keep the light focused on the ground so I couldn’t see their faces.

  I tried kicking, but the second attacker caught my ankle and dropped down on the mattress next to me. We all were breathing fast, but only I feared for my life. My nightgown bunched up at my waist, and I felt both terrified and exposed.

  “Let me go.” I was too shaken to scream. They might not have even heard me; my voice was low and strained.

  They said little, and I understood none of their language, but certain guttural noises reminded me of the Pennsylvania Dutch speech at Sarah Yoder’s funeral.

  I was certain my assailants were Amish.

  I twisted my body. Someone yanked my hair. The mattress started to slide off the bed frame and the flashlight fell between the pillows. I tried rolling to the floor to escape, but strong hands held me tight.

  I braced myself for rape.

  I’d interviewed enough sexual assault victims to know this was going to be ugly. And even when my attack ended, it wouldn’t ever be over for me. While these men might disappear into the night, forgetting me as memories of that night blurred with their other victims, I would never forget what they did.

  But my assailants had other ideas. One seemed to flash the light under the bed and around the corners of the room, as if searching for something. Could they merely be robbers? Were they looking for money?

  My optimism died in seconds, and I feared I was next to go. Enough light still shone to reveal a pair of scissors coming toward my throat.

  “Please,” I cried. “Don’t.”

  I shut my eyes because the blades scared me, and all I could imagine was cold metal against warm flesh.

  In the background, the owner of the inn was screaming for them to leave. I hoped she had already dialed 911. I didn’t want to die minutes from rescue.

  Then I heard snipping sounds.

  They released me so abruptly, I fell off the bed. Then I realizing my hair had been sheared and scattered across the room.

  Linda found the flashlight and helped me to the bathroom. The power and phone lines to the house had also been cut. When she heard my screams and tried to turn on the lights, they wouldn’t work. Neither would the telephone.

  I looked in the mirror, but didn’t recognize my reflection. What used to be a fashionable shoulder-length bob was now an ear-length disaster.

  CHAPTER 49

  Linda kept apologizing because the attack happened on her turf. I reassured her that this wasn’t her fault.

  I couldn’t understand the motivation of my assailants. While I didn’t get a clear enough look to identify them, I was sure that the one with the scissors had to be Gideon Yoder.

  So much for Amish pacifism.

  “Why would they do this?”

  She had neither answer nor advice, but to better assess the damage, carefully lit a kerosene lamp she kept to impress tourists.

  My first reaction was to call the sheriff. Breaking and entering, assault and battery, trespassing—I wanted the pair arrested and jailed. I wanted their mug shots on the news coast to coast. But after today’s wild squad-car ride, Sheriff Eide would obviously not be sympathetic to my plight, so that wasn’t possible.

  My second reaction was that I didn’t want to make news this way. I’d be a laughingstock. The other media would pull file tape of me from old stories and run before-and-after pictures of my new ’do. They would make jokes about how I was losing my hair over my job.

  I snapped a picture of my head with my phone camera and texted it to Garnett, because I didn’t know who else might care or even be awake.

  He texted back, “Is the station making you cut your own hair now?”

  I couldn’t bear his sarcasm, so I didn’t answer.

  Linda offered to contact Ike, the owner of Everything Amish. She had his home number from a local business directory and apparently thought we were closer than we actually were. I noted that she didn’t suggest calling 911, probably because she didn’t want her place known as a crime scene.

  I didn’t want Ike seeing me like this, because I still hoped to go on a date with him. But I needed some personal counsel and some Amish perspective. So I handed her my phone and let her make the call.

  • • •

  It all made sense to Ike.

  “Hair, for the Amish, symbolizes their commitment to a pure and simple life,” he said. “Women never cut their hair; men never trim their beard. To have them hacked off is shameful to the individual and indicates a lack of respect by the attackers.”

  And cutting the power lines could be interpreted as a statement of their opposition to modern conveniences.

  “If they have a problem with my reporting,” I said, “can’t they just complain to my boss?” I dreaded having to explain my haircut to Bryce. “I thought Amish violence was rare. I’m starting to wonder if one of them killed Sarah.”

  Ike explained that a splinter group of Amish in Ohio recently broke into the house of a bishop in the middle of the night and cut off his beard and his wife’s hair. He was surprised I hadn’t heard the news.

  “I don’t follow Amish gossip,” I said. “Was everyone talking about that attack the last time you were in Ohio picking up merchandise?”

&n
bsp; He looked puzzled, then suddenly said, “Oh no, it’s been on the networks, Riley. And now Amish communities consider such an ambush the ultimate insult.”

  “So you think that’s where these guys got the idea to come after me?”

  “No doubt.”

  “And they’re trying to send me a message that I need to stop putting Sarah’s picture on the air?”

  “After your confrontation with her brother, that’s a good guess.”

  “But how did word of this Ohio haircutting news even get out?” I asked. “I thought Amish handled things internally and never involved the cops. That’s sure the line they’ve been giving me. Forgive and be forgiven.”

  “That case is odd.” He speculated that the anger of the Old Order Amish toward the renegades must have been grave for them to call in outside law enforcement.

  “What about me? What should I do?”

  “Only you can decide.”

  I decided to pack up and leave.

  • • •

  Minutes later, my plans changed. I’d lost something besides my hair, but gained even more.

  My belongings had been scattered across the room during the break-in. Gathering them, I realized my camera was missing. I had purposely brought all the equipment inside, figuring it was safer at night with me than outside in the car. Then I remembered how the men seemed to be searching the room for something.

  I was more convinced than ever that the Amish were punishing me for keeping Sarah in the news. Their culture appreciated symbolism, and to show their disrespect for TV, they’d also taken my camera in addition to my hair. Probably to use in some antielectricity ritual denigrating the “devil’s tongue.”

  Bryce would be furious about the camera. Channel 3 would be out at least fifteen grand. There was no way I could get out of filing a police report for the theft or he’d think I sold the camera on Craigslist.

  “Any chance you could call in the assault yourself?” I asked Linda.

  “I’d rather not,” she said, “but will if you want me to.”

  I didn’t want my name going out over the county scanners. The sheriff might decide to respond himself and charge me with filing a false report. But Linda didn’t want the name of her inn associated with crime.

  “Could you not mention me on the phone?” I asked. “I’ll explain the specifics when they get here, but just say there’s been a break-in.”

  A county deputy showed up soon after. It was Laura Schaefer, still working the rotten night shift as her punishment for challenging the sheriff in the election.

  In my nightgown and minus my hair, she didn’t recognize me from our encounter by her lawn sign the other day. To convince her I was who I claimed, I had to show her my laminated Channel 3 ID. Even then she looked dubious.

  “Really, Laura, it’s me.” Her hair was different, too. All pulled back like a ballerina’s. But I still knew her, although her name on a badge certainly made recognition easier.

  “That’s Deputy Schaefer to you,” she said.

  She wanted to do everything by the book. As I described my attack, she grew even more skeptical, but took down the report.

  “Let me make sure I have this straight, Ms. Spartz. They cut your hair?”

  “Yes.” I pointed to strands scattered across the floor.

  “And stole your camera?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think they were Amish?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Do you have any better description?”

  “No, the room was dark.”

  The landlady had no more to offer: the men were leaving as she was arriving.

  I told Deputy Schaefer about my suspicions of Gideon Yoder and she took down his name. But if not for the broken door hinges and Linda vouching for me, she wouldn’t have believed any of my tale. I couldn’t really blame her. It sounded wild.

  “I’ll call later, Deputy, to add the camera’s serial number to my report,” I said.

  “That would be helpful,” she replied.

  When she left, I left. But I didn’t just leave with a bad haircut. I also left with a secret Sarah had hidden under her mattress at the B and B that had fallen to the floor during the scuffle.

  I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I was certain the answer would point to her killer.

  CHAPTER 50

  My parents had left the door open but didn’t actually expect me to show up, especially not at that time of morning. If the dogs hadn’t barked, they might have slept through my arrival.

  My mom was in a fleecy pink bathrobe. My dad was in flannel pajamas with holes in the knees.

  I regretted not taking an Amish bonnet along from the Lamplight closet to cover my hair, because that was the first thing my parents noticed even though they were half asleep. And boy, were they mad when they heard the details.

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “I have to be on TV today.”

  My mom reassured me that everything would be fine. “Remember who used to cut your hair when you were little? When I’m through with you, honey, you’ll look like Halle Berry.”

  • • •

  I didn’t look like a movie star, but I did look better.

  My mother had a haircut trick from my childhood called Scotch Tape Bangs. She put tape across my forehead and cut once. The result was as crooked as I remembered, but with a little gel and a blow-dryer, who could tell?

  I thanked my mom for her snipping ability. Then I told her I needed a nap. “Wake me in an hour.” By then, I hoped to know if Walden had survived the night.

  When I crawled under the blankets, Husky followed me. I told him I’d bring him home soon, but today’s assignment was dangerous and might involve bears and guns.

  “You’ll be safer here on the farm with the other dogs.”

  Then I started wondering if I’d be safer with him beside me. I willed myself to fall asleep, but no slumber came. I tried counting backward to the last night I slept well, but gave up.

  I reached for my purse and Sarah Yoder’s secret, pulling out a notebook. Only about a dozen pages contained writing. The language looked German. My hope was that this was a hidden journal of her final days. September translated the same in German and English. So I could see that the writing began about two weeks before what investigators determined to be Sarah’s time of death.

  I paged through the diary backward, because as a newsie, I wanted the most current look at Sarah’s life.

  Ich habe beschlossen, dass ich morgen zur Polizei gehe.

  I had no idea what the sentence meant.

  My last thought before dozing off was that Sarah’s name wasn’t actually on the notebook. I hoped conjecture wasn’t giving me false confidence.

  CHAPTER 51

  I understood rearview mirrors are essential in automobiles, but I was trying to avoid my new look as much as possible. Just as I turned the key to head back to southeastern Minnesota’s bear country the next morning, I received a text.

  * appeared on my screen. It was Nicole signaling that Bryce was calling her into his office. She must not have known I was out of town.

  I brainstormed about thirty seconds, then dialed Bryce. “Good morning, boss. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “I’m in a meeting, Riley. Can you call back in fifteen minutes?”

  Sure he was in a meeting. “Believe me, I’d love to delay this, Bryce, but it’s pretty urgent.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about the camera. It’s missing.”

  I heard him telling someone—probably Nicole—he had to take this call and would get back to them.

  “What do you mean, missing?” he asked.

  “It’s been stolen.”

  Our back-and-forth dialogue was similar to the deputy interview all over again. Bryce seemed certain I was making up the entire scenario to avoid being a one-man band.

  “If you think losing the camera is going to make me send photographers out on stories with you, R
iley, you are much mistaken. I’m more likely to suspend you for misconduct.”

  He was serious. To TV stations, gear was everything. Some broadcast cameras cost more than a shooter might make in a year.

  “It happened just like I said it did,” I replied. “Here, I can prove it to you. Check your computer.”

  I shot a photo of my new haircut and emailed it to him. “So what do you think of my new haircut?”

  There was a long pause. “I’ll have to get used to it. But this debacle is still going in your file. Call me when you know if our bear is dead or alive.”

  Bryce didn’t sound convinced I’d been robbed. And I knew he didn’t really care one way or another about Walden’s fate. He liked the idea of animal stories, but not animals themselves.

  When I hung up, I saw I had another text from Nicole: “thnx.”

  • • •

  Bear hunting season was officially over in Minnesota. During the final hours, one hunter in Fillmore County had shot himself and another had injured a friend.

  But Walden was still very much alive, at least according to the North American Bear Center. Teresa’d gone from lobbying at the state capitol for the protection of research bears to taking her message to the people of Minnesota.

  “How can you be sure?” I asked Teresa. “Is it possible someone just didn’t report the kill?”

  Teresa reminded me that Walden was wearing a radio collar with GPS technology. “We know exactly where Walden is at all times. It’s our Big Bear version of Big Brother.”

  “How about we track him and get some video proving to viewers that he survived the night?” I asked.

  Without a camera, I’d have little to report on post–hunting season that would get Bryce excited. Guaranteed video of the VIP bear would be enough for him to send Malik down to join me.

  But Teresa said no. “The fewer people who know where Walden is, the safer he’ll be.”

  “Don’t you think viewers will want to see him? What if I promise not to report his location?”