The Amish Wonders Collection

by Ruth Reid

  She jolted. “Oh, yes.” The woman dialed a four-digit number, then announced he could go to the nurses’ station and proceeded to give him directions to the elevators.

  Bo reached the third floor, followed the signs to a circular nurses’ desk in the intersection of three hallways, and approached the first woman in blue scrubs who made eye contact with him.

  Her sun-highlighted, blond hair was swept into a ponytail, and a stethoscope dangled from around her neck. “I’m Heather Merchant, the charge nurse for this unit. May I help you?”

  He removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to the nurse. “I’m responding to a call initiated by Detective Chandler. I believe it’s regarding one of Doctor Wellington’s patients.”

  The nurse scanned the card and looked up. “Doctor Wellington expected you over an hour ago, Mr. Lambright. She’s already made rounds and left for the day.”

  “I apologize for the delay.” Had the nurse pushed the subject, Bo would have recited the law, which allowed twenty-four hours to begin the investigation once a complaint was filed.

  Smiling warmly, Nurse Heather leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Doctor Wellington’s from the city and has the patience of a woman in labor. She’s filling in for one of our long-standing physicians, who I’m guessing didn’t fill her in on our community hospital or small-town life.” The nurse stood from the chair. “I’ll try to locate the officer for you. I think he’s still in the conference room talking with the hospital case manager.”

  A few minutes later, heels clacked against the floor. He glanced sideways at the thirtysomething woman dressed in a knee-length navy skirt, matching blazer, and bright-red shirt.

  “I’m Samantha Elroy, the case manager assigned to the Diener case.” She motioned to the hallway on the right. “If you would like to come with me to the conference room, we can discuss the case with Detective Chandler in private.”

  “Sure.” Bo always tried to gather as much information as possible prior to interviewing the family. Ms. Elroy led him to a room not far from the nurses’ station.

  A man rose from the chair at the end of the mahogany table and extended his hand. “I’m Detective Chandler.”

  He grasped the detective’s hand. “Bo Lambright.”

  “I tried to explain to the physician that your office is on the other side of the county, but apparently she had more pressing matters to attend to.” He sat down, flipped open the patient’s chart, then slid it in front of Bo. “I’ll give you a few minutes to read the notes, then Ms. Elroy and I will do our best to fill you in on the physician’s concerns.”

  Bo scanned the physical assessment notes, cringing when he read the section about blisters inside the child’s mouth.

  “Apparently the mother brought the child into the clinic earlier today lethargic, feverish, and dehydrated,” the detective said. “When she failed to bring the child in a timely way to the hospital to be admitted, Doctor Wellington requested police be dispatched.” He sighed. “Personally, I thought calling after only three hours was a bit premature on the doctor’s part, but . . .” He shrugged. “I’m not a doctor.”

  Ms. Elroy cleared her throat. “The mother did bring the boy in, but I think Doctor Wellington was worried the mother wasn’t going to.” She rolled her eyes. “The mother does have a reputation for self-doctoring with home remedies.”

  “Could I speak with the nurse caring for—” Bo glanced at the chart. “Nathan Diener, please.”

  “I’ll see if she’s available.” Ms. Elroy left the room and returned moments later with a young woman dressed in blue scrubs.

  “Hi, I’m Camille. I was told you wanted to speak with me about Nathan Diener.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll try to keep this brief,” Bo said. “I usually try to speak with the physician prior to meeting the family, but from what I understand, Doctor Wellington has left the hospital. Is there anything you would like to share about the status or perhaps observations you’ve had about the mother-child relationship?”

  Camille hesitated a moment, then obtaining a nod of approval from the case manager, proceeded. “As you’ve probably read in the progress notes, the boy’s mouth is blistered rather severely. Doctor Wellington ruled out a host of possibilities, including an allergic reaction. However, the preliminary blood work revealed an acid-base imbalance.”

  “Poison?”

  “That’s yet to be determined. Doctor Wellington seems to believe the boy ingested either bleach or another corrosive agent. His esophagus lining shows signs of irritation and, at this point, the child is being monitored for internal bleeding.”

  “I take it the doctor doesn’t believe it was an accidental poisoning,” Detective Chandler said, jotting something down in his small notepad.

  In a similar case Bo had worked on as an intern in Detroit, the child had ingested antifreeze and died after spending a week on an artificial ventilator. According to Bo’s proctor, the clues were there. The mother laced the sweet-tasting antifreeze with the child’s apple juice. “Never discard the obvious,” his proctor used to preach. “Is the child on a ventilator?”

  “No, sir, at this time his condition is stable,” the nurse replied.

  The case manager glanced at the clipboard she held. “I noted in an earlier conversation with the mother that she claims the child is rarely out of her sight—or her care.”

  “She is extremely protective, and even though she’s nonconfrontational, she has tried to hinder care,” the nurse said. “At first, she even refused to allow the nurse assistant to change her son into a hospital gown. And when she found out about the camera monitor in the room, she covered the lens with a pillowcase.” She glanced at the caseworker. “You might want to have administration talk with her about that. She’s adamant about not having a camera in the room.”

  “I’ll also mention it during my interview,” Bo said. “Sometimes hearing it from Child Protective Services has a greater impact.”

  The detective agreed, adding, “Depending on your findings, it might be a moot point. That is, if you find it necessary to have the mother removed from the room.”

  “True. If she’s unstable or a threat to the child’s welfare, I’ll petition the court to restrict her access to him.” He never liked restricting parental visits with a hospitalized child, or for that matter, removing children from the home, but with even the slightest hint of abuse, he always sided on what was best for the child. Nothing would ever change that.

  Once the nurse finished her report and returned to her duties, Detective Chandler briefed Bo on the interview he had with the boy’s mother. “The mother is in her late twenties, has two children. She has no prior arrests or domestic complaints on file. She acted frightened, appeared concerned, and frankly, without something more concrete such as positive test results, I don’t find any reason to arrest her at this time. From the interactions I observed between the mother and child, I didn’t see anything to cause alarm. After all, she did bring the child into the hospital, albeit, it took her over three hours to get here. Now, you might determine something different after your interview and if that is the situation, I will amend the case at that time.” He glanced at his watch. “I have another pressing matter at the courthouse that needs my attention, so I’ll leave this file pending until I hear from you.”

  “That’s fine. I can fax you a copy of my report.” He didn’t have an issue interviewing the parents without the authorities present, especially in a controlled environment like a hospital. It wasn’t nearly as dangerous as in a home where he’d had beer bottles thrown at him and dogs sicced on him.

  Once the detective left the room, the case manager leaned forward. “If you’d like, I’ll accompany you during the interview.”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s always good to have a witness.” Bo looked again at the file and read the part about the blisters. He reread the doctor’s notation: Intentional poisoning? Sure seemed like probable cause for arrest to him. He closed the file, grabbe
d his briefcase, and stood. “I’m ready to interview the mother now.”

  Chapter Three

  Bo waited outside the patient’s room as the case manager knocked on the door, then eased it open.

  “Mrs. Diener?” Ms. Elroy stepped farther into the room. “I have someone who would like to talk with you.” She waved Bo inside.

  He blinked several times, willing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. With the window blinds drawn and a curtain divider pulled to section off the room, Bo didn’t see the mother and child until the case manager slid the curtain open. Bo spotted the Amish woman sitting in the wooden rocker, two young children lying in opposite arms, and halted. This was a first. He’d never been called to investigate an Amish family. The pillowcase draped over the camera hanging on the wall facing the hospital bed made sense now. The Amish believed photographs, or in this case a video, was an engraved image and sinful.

  “Hello.” His voice was dry. “My name is Bo—”

  “Can I take mei sohn home nau?” She jostled the children in her arms as if getting ready to stand.

  “No, ma’am. I mean, I’m—I’m not a doctor.”

  Her shoulders dropped and she sank back into the chair, her face drawn.

  “Doctor Wellington requested that I talk with you.” He motioned to a vacant chair. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “That’s fine. What’s this about?” The woman’s bright-blue eyes darted between him and Ms. Elroy. “What did the tests show?”

  “Your doctor will discuss the results.” Ms. Elroy sat in the chair next to him. “Mr. Lambright is from Child and Family Services, and he would like to ask you a few questions about Nathan.”

  “Okay.” She directed her attention to Bo. “What do you want to know?”

  He reached into his shirt pocket, removed the small recorder, and pressed the Record button. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?” He always made a point to document the interviewee’s reply to his request for legality purposes.

  “I’d rather you nett. But why do you want to?”

  “I’m a slow note taker and the tape gives me something to refer back to at a later time.” Bo smiled, hoping the gesture would ease some of the woman’s apprehensions. He should have known it wouldn’t.

  She drew the smaller child closer to her chest and adjusted a lightweight blanket over her shoulder, draping most of the infant’s face. Then using a similar blanket, she shielded the sleeping boy’s face.

  Bo had an innate ability to know when someone was lying, but that required using all of his senses. He despised note taking, especially during an initial interview when he needed time to analyze not just what the subject said but their mannerisms as well. He eyed the woman’s defensive, bear-like posture. That mama bear wasn’t about to release her cubs. Something told him he wouldn’t be writing much. Once he started asking questions, she would clam up.

  Bo clicked the Off button on the recorder. “We don’t have to use it,” he said, returning it to his shirt pocket. He retrieved a pen, a tablet of paper, and the clipboard with the forms from his briefcase.

  “Tell me again, please, why you are here?” The woman’s voice shook, and her wide-eyed gaze flitted to the case manager before steadying coldly on him.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about your son.” He glanced at the form. “Will you state your full name, please?”

  “Mattie—I mean Martha Irene Diener.”

  Bo jotted her name. “And your husband’s name?”

  “Andy—Andrew. Diener . . . Paul. Paul’s the middle name. Andrew Paul Diener.”

  “Is he Nathan’s father?”

  She gasped. “Of course. Mei daughter’s too.”

  If she drew offense to that question, the next one would rile her as well. He was well aware that the Amish didn’t believe in divorce, but he wasn’t one not to follow protocol. He cleared his throat. “Does the father live in the home full-time, occasionally, hardly ever, or never?” He poised the pen, ready to circle full time.

  “Never.”

  “Never?” he echoed.

  “Andy passed away eighteen months ago.”

  Her mournful tone, barely above a whisper, struck a nerve in Bo. “I’m sorry.” Most widowed women in their mid-to-late twenties whom he was called to interview had already moved on to another relationship, often just as abusive. That prompted him to the next question on the list—one he would rather not ask. Questioning her about live-in boyfriends, male visitors, or the frequency of male overnight guests would probably close off their communication.

  Beep, beep, beep. The case manager glanced at her pager. “I’m sorry. I need to step out a moment and return a call.” She walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

  “Mrs. Diener, do you feel comfortable continuing or would you rather wait until Ms. Elroy returns?”

  “You can continue,” she said.

  “Is there . . .” He stopped when the boy stirred in her arms. The pager must have awakened him. He stretched the arm the IV line was attached to out from under the blanket and nearly clipped his mother in the jaw with his hand. She leaned close to his ear and whispered something, then lifted the blanket higher on her shoulder, tenting the boy’s face. Bo would have liked a view of the boy in order to observe their interactions, but he would wait. He still had a long list of questions; eventually the boy would wake again.

  She shifted in the chair, slipped her hand under the blanket, and made some adjustment. Bo hadn’t realized he’d been staring until she cleared her throat. “Do you have more questions?”

  “I, uh . . . How old is he?” The question had tumbled out. He’d read the medical chart, knew the answer, and he mustn’t let her motherly actions distract him again.

  “He’s three.”

  Most mothers would have their toddler weaned before the next baby arrived. Heat crept up the back of his neck. Get back to the questions. The topic of the child’s eating, or in this case, feeding habits would come up soon enough. He studied the list. “Do you own your home, rent, or live with a relative?”

  “Own.”

  “How many people live in the house?”

  “Just me and mei children.”

  “How many children and what are their ages?”

  “I have two. Nathan and Amanda.” Her gaze shifted from her son to the smaller bundle in her arms. “Mei daughter is eighteen months.”

  He referenced his notes about her husband’s death, then met her teary gaze. “Eighteen?”

  She nodded.

  Shove the sympathy aside, Lambright. He cleared his throat. “Other than family members, how often do you have overnight male guests?”

  “Never!” Wrath replaced any hint of somberness. The sharpness in her tone indicated she was losing patience.

  “What about male visitors? Father, brothers, cousins, uncles?”

  She stared at him.

  “Okay, we’ll come back to that one.” He shifted. “Does Nathan have his own room and bed to sleep in?”

  Silence.

  Bo looked up from the clipboard. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

  “No,” she snipped. “It may be that I’m simpleminded, but will you kindly explain why it matters if I own or rent mei home and why mei living conditions are so pertinent? I don’t understand what any of this has to do with mei sohn’s healthcare. Most of these questions have been asked already by the woman who was just in here, and then again by a man . . . Detective Chandler, I think he said his name was.”

  “I appreciate your patience, Mrs. Diener.” He kept his tone soft and even. “Yes, it was Detective Chandler who spoke with you earlier; he’s with the police department. Ms. Elroy is the case manager for the hospital. I’m gathering information for the Department of Child and Family Services with the State.”

  “Why does the State want to know about mei sohn? I don’t use the welfare system.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” Bo hadn’t wanted to jump to this part of the interview so
quickly, but judging by her growing agitation, she would probably stop cooperating at any moment. “Your doctor is concerned about the blisters in your son’s mouth. Do you know how he got them?”

  “Nay!”

  He eyed her carefully, analyzing her aghast, glowering stare. She made a defensive gesture to tuck the corner of the blanket under the boy and pat his back. Natural, protective response. He went on. “So he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything that would have caused his mouth to blister?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t even notice them until we were in the doktah’s office.” She grimaced, and tears—genuine—welled in her eyes. “Do you think I’m a bad mother?”

  Bad mother? He’d seen plenty of newborns deposited into Dumpsters like trash and babies who were born addicted to heroin. Those women were the epitome of bad mothers—not this Amish widow. Don’t let your emotions cloud the investigation . . . Read the next question. He glanced at the form.

  “You do,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers and replied, “No. I don’t.” Wrong. Never state your opinion.

  “I should have known something was wrong with Nathan. I should have seen the blisters.”

  Don’t say anything. Just listen.

  “He hadn’t eaten much in days. I should have known.”

  How was he going to get back on track and finish this interview? Her tears had triggered something he’d never experienced in all the cases he’d worked. And he’d listened to numerous sob stories and handed women hankies to dry their tears, and all while keeping his emotions stone-cold—intact.

  Bo dug into his pocket, pulled out a clean hankie, and handed it to her.

  She blotted the corners of her eyes. “I’m such a bad mother,” she said in a hiccupping sob.

  Bo swallowed hard. Was this an admission of guilt?

  She blew her nose. “Do you think Nathan is going to be okay?”

  “I’m not a . . .” Ms. Elroy entered his peripheral vision and returned to her seat. He acknowledged her presence with a nod. “Only a doctor can answer that, Mrs. Diener. But I hope so.”