The time of fellowship was held at Lewis Glick’s farm. Lewis was unmarried, though Henry was aware that he was writing to an Amish woman in Maine. Lewis had come to him for advice on that. They’d become close over the last two years. Lewis struggled with drug addiction, and Henry acted as his accountability partner—an Englisch term if there ever was one. What had started as a back injury had quickly led to dependence on hydrocodone and OxyContin. He’d been clean for more than a year, and Henry could tell from the look of things on his farm that he was working hard each day and being successful. What Lewis needed was a woman, a family to stay clean for. A plump wife and a big barn never did any man harm. Lewis had laughed when Henry shared his mother’s frequently quoted proverb.
The house was too small for their entire congregation, so the noon meal was set up in the barn—giant platters of baked chicken, sliced ham, and various types of sandwiches. And every vegetable dish Henry could imagine, including a seven-bean salad that was one of his favorites. The dessert table was a beauty to behold with the freshly baked cakes, pies, and cookies. It occurred to him that those were the things he’d like to draw—images of everyday life.
They’d finished praying for the meal, and Henry had proceeded to share a bit of Scripture from the book of Isaiah, the fourteenth chapter.
“Surely, as I have planned, so it will be, and as I have purposed, so it will happen.”
Someone glanced toward the open barn doors, and then another person turned, and another.
He heard the sound of Englisch cars approaching.
Though his heart sank, Henry cleared his throat and continued. “I will crush the Assyrian in my land; on my mountains I will trample him down. His yoke will be taken from my people, and his burden removed from their shoulders.”
Agent Delaney walked into the room, followed by two other agents. He paused at the back of the room and cocked his head, and so Henry continued.
“This is the plan determined for the whole world; this is the hand stretched out over all nations. For the Lord Almighty has purposed, and who can thwart him? His hand is stretched out, and who can turn it back?”
Henry heard several amens as he closed his Bible and handed it to Clyde.
Delaney walked down the middle of the barn, between tables fashioned from sawhorses on both sides. Both men and women turned to watch his approach.
A child asked, “Who is that, Mammi?”
A baby began to cry.
Delaney was once again dressed in a starched white shirt and black pants, but this time he had a paisley tie. Henry tried not to react to the smirk on his face. The FBI agent stopped a few feet from Henry and said loudly enough for someone outside the barn to hear, “Henry Lapp, you are under arrest for the murder of Sophia Brooks.”
There were no gasps of surprise. Instead, his congregation stood, silent but focused on their bishop. He noticed a few had their heads bowed in prayer. That was good. Prayer was the one thing that could rescue him from this situation.
“Hands behind your back, please.” Leaning closer, Delaney added, “Wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of all these good church folk.”
Henry nodded once and placed his hands behind his back.
Delaney snapped the handcuffs onto his wrists, checking to make sure they were good and tight, as if Henry might be some kind of escape artist.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Delaney grasped the handcuffs and placed his other hand on Henry’s back, propelling him back down the aisle, past his congregation and friends. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
Emma’s head was raised, her expression steady and calm.
Katie Ann looked as if she was about to cry, but she pulled in her bottom lip and reached for her grandmother’s hand.
They were outside next to the cruiser when Delaney turned toward him and said in a lower voice, “Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”
“I do.”
Satisfied, Delaney put a hand on top of his head and guided him into the backseat of the cruiser. He started the vehicle and drove leisurely down the lane. When they turned onto the blacktop, Henry noticed the news photographers lined up, snapping pictures.
Thirty-Six
He’s being booked
and processed now.
Is there enough evidence
to make it stick?
We planted everything we had.
And the surveillance device?
Stopped working.
He found it?
Doubtful. It was well hidden and
one of the smallest on the market.
Then what happened?
Technical glitch. It doesn’t matter.
He’s not at his home. He’s at the jail.
And we have eyes there.
Keep me apprised.
Framing an innocent man
doesn’t sit well with me.
But killing the girl does?
We had no choice.
We still have no choice.
Thirty-Seven
Henry remained silent on the ride to the station and through the process of being photographed, fingerprinted, and escorted to his cell. Once there, he sat on the cot, braced his elbows on his knees, interlaced his fingers, and prayed.
He started off praying for himself—that God would protect him, would guide his steps and his words, would strengthen his faith. But then he thought of the faces he’d seen as he left Lewis’s barn. He started praying for Emma and her family, for Katie Ann that she might grow in faith, for his deacons. He prayed for Deborah and Adam King and for their infant daughter, Chloe. He petitioned God to bless the three widows—Ruth and Nancy and Franey—and help their new business to be a success, that they might be a blessing to both Englisch and Amish.
He prayed for Sophia Brooks’s family, whoever they might be.
And he surprised himself when he began praying for Sheriff Grayson and the other officers, even Agent Delaney. But was it so odd? They needed guidance if they were going to find the guilty person. A little divine intervention wouldn’t hurt.
A young woman who must have been a rookie officer brought him lunch. He wasn’t hungry, but he thanked her and drained the cup of water.
He wondered what was taking so long. Why weren’t they questioning him? Perhaps they thought by leaving him alone he would begin to squirm, appreciate the desperation of the situation he was in, and confess everything.
But Henry had nothing to confess.
He prayed some more, and then he sat back on the cot, his back braced against the wall, and closed his eyes. He never intended to fall asleep.
The sound of heavy footsteps approaching woke him.
Delaney did not come to fetch him. Instead, a younger man stopped outside his cell. The nameplate on his uniform pocket said Lawson. Henry suddenly remembered what Emma had said about Sophia being worried or frightened when Lawson walked into the diner. Why would she have been afraid of a police officer?
Lawson had copper-colored hair, eyes that hovered between green and gray, and a youthful manner. If Henry didn’t know better, he would have thought he saw sympathy in the young officer’s eyes.
“I need to put the cuffs back on.”
Henry turned and placed his arms behind his back.
“I appreciate that.” Lawson turned him around and motioned for him to walk out of the cell and down the hall. “And for the record, I wasn’t for arresting you in front of your congregation.”
“You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“I am, and so no one asks my opinion.” Lawson shrugged as if it made no difference to him.
He walked beside Henry as they cleared the jail cells, turned the corner, and passed two offices. Henry glanced into the main room where the officers worked. He noticed that most of the men and women who made up the police department seemed to be there, along wit
h the mayor and a National Wildlife Refuge employee in uniform. They were all watching him as he walked by, and they seemed to be waiting for something. Perhaps they were simply curious. It wasn’t that common for a murderer to be caught in their small town—twice as far as Henry knew, and he had been involved both times. What were the odds? Slim. The odds were astronomically slim, and Henry felt again that God must have a purpose in placing him here at this time.
They stopped beside the interrogation room—a place Henry was quite familiar with. He pushed the memories from Indiana away. The door to the room had a window in it, which Lawson tapped on before inserting a key into the lock and opening the door. The walls were painted a drab gray, the only furnishings four chairs and a rectangular metal table. A long, reflective window made up most of the west wall. It was the same room where Sheriff Grayson had questioned Sam Beiler. That time, Henry had been present as a sign of support for Sam and because the young man didn’t have a lawyer.
Sheriff Grayson wasn’t present today.
Agent Delaney sat on the far side of the table. Beside him was Jared Anderson. Henry had only spoken to the man a few times, though he’d been with the Monte Vista police force for as long as Henry had been there. He was a jolly sort with a quick smile, or at least he seemed to be. Sometimes Henry had the distinct impression that the smile and chuckle were part of a mask he wore, though he couldn’t have said why he thought that. Perhaps because then, like now, his expression didn’t seem to reach his eyes.
Regardless, he had always been amenable to Amish folk moving into the area. Henry guessed his race to be Caucasian and his age in the late fifties or early sixties. His build was medium and soft around the middle. His hair was graying. It was rumored that he’d been passed over for a promotion but didn’t care, that he was happy being the number two man in the police department. Not that Henry listened to rumors, but people in small towns had little to discuss over their lunch. Any news was fodder for the Englisch or Amish grapevines.
Neither the presence of Delaney nor that of Anderson surprised him, though Henry had been hoping Grayson would sit in on the questioning. In fact, his absence throughout the entire arrest had been rather odd, a thought Henry filed in the back of his mind for later.
But the third person in the room did puzzle him. A young, slender black woman stood, looked directly at Henry, and said, “My name is Kiana Sitton, and I’m your lawyer.”
She wore black slacks, a white blouse, and a gray blazer. Her hair was stylishly cut and softly framed her oblong face. Her eyes caught Henry’s attention—they were calm and patient and intelligent.
“I didn’t ask for a lawyer.”
“We can talk about that later. For now, I need you to tell these gentlemen you authorize me to represent you.”
Henry didn’t see as he had any choice. No other lawyers were lining up outside the door to defend him, and he probably wouldn’t do well representing himself in an Englisch courtroom. So he said simply, “Ya. I do.”
Kiana turned to Officer Lawson and said, “Remove the handcuffs, please.”
Lawson glanced at Delaney, who nodded.
“Danki,” Henry said.
He took a seat beside the lawyer, who had taken out her cell phone, pushed a button, and placed the device in the middle of the table.
“The date is Sunday, September 24. Location—Monte Vista police station. Matter—Questioning of Henry Lapp regarding the murder of Sophia Brooks.”
“Actually, Mr. Lapp has been charged with the murder of Sophia Brooks. This is his chance to save the people of Monte Vista a considerable amount of money by confessing.”
Kiana cocked her head, as if Delaney had said something amusing. Then she resumed speaking to the recorder. “For the record, my name is Kiana Sitton, and I am the lawyer for Mr. Lapp. Now I’d like everyone in the room to identify themselves.”
Delaney narrowed his eyes at the lawyer, ran a hand down the length of his tie, and said, “Agent Roscoe Delaney, special agent in charge, FBI.”
“Jared Anderson, police officer, Monte Vista Police Department.”
They all looked at Henry, and he realized it was his turn. “Henry Lapp, bishop.”
Kiana had whipped out a pad of paper and a pen from her leather bag. A gold-and-silver bracelet caught the fluorescent light and sparkled and winked, or so it seemed to Henry.
“Enough of the formalities.” Delaney slapped a hand against the table. “You were read your rights upon your arrest. With those rights in mind, would you like to offer a statement in regard to the death of Sophia Brooks?”
Henry shook his head.
“You’ll need to answer verbally.” Kiana nodded toward the phone. “So it will be recorded.”
“Nein. I don’t.”
Delaney smiled as if that answer amused him. “All right. Perhaps you can tell us what Sophia was doing at your home.”
“She wasn’t. She’s never been in my home.”
Delaney pulled a sheet of paper from a small stack next to him and pushed it across to Kiana. “Forensic results say otherwise. We found her prints in virtually every room of your house.”
“I don’t understand,” Henry said, confusion literally clouding his vision. Sophia had never been to his house. How could what Delaney was saying be true?
“So her fingerprints were found at his house.” Kiana pushed the sheet back across the table. “The murder wasn’t committed at the home. This means nothing.”
“It establishes that he had more than a casual relationship with the deceased.”
“How do you know she didn’t enter his house and have a look around? It’s common knowledge that the Amish don’t lock their homes.”
Henry jerked his head in her direction. Who was this woman? She wasn’t from Monte Vista. At least he’d never seen her before. How did she know anything about being Plain? Though she was right on that point. He’d never locked the door to his home or his workshop.
“We also have testimony that he was seen arguing with Sophia at the diner.” Delaney pushed another sheet toward the lawyer.
Kiana studied the sheet for a moment, jotted down a few notes, and then slid it smoothly back across the table. Henry noticed that in addition to the bracelet, she wore what looked like a diamond watch and several expensive rings.
“As far as I know, it’s not against the law to have an argument.”
“If that’s your defense, this case is going to be easier than I thought.” Delaney leaned back in his chair and studied Henry. Then he sat up straight, smoothed his tie, and tapped the sheets of paper on the table. “You were known to visit her often, to insist on being seated in her area of the diner. You were seen arguing with her—”
“We never shared cross words.”
“You gave her a ride in your buggy, took her to a motel, and then took her home. What happened then, Henry? Were you pursuing a romantic relationship with Sophia? Did she have second thoughts? Did she try to get away? Is that why you killed her? Is that why you strangled her and dumped her body at the wildlife refuge? Did she reject you? A lovers’ spat, perhaps?”
Henry felt his face flush and his pulse accelerate. It was bad enough that they were saying these things about him, but they were also disrespecting Sophia’s memory.
“Or maybe you loaned her money. She was practically homeless, staying at the cheapest motel in town. Maybe she asked you for money, and in your…generosity, you gave it to her. It would be understandable if you became angry when she couldn’t or wouldn’t pay it back.” Delaney crossed his arms on the table, a small smile playing on his lips though his gaze remained cold and piercing. “Maybe you tried to convert her, and she wasn’t willing to become Amish. Which is it, Henry? Tell us. Why did you kill Sophia Brooks?”
Thirty-Eight
Emma, Clyde, Rachel, Katie Ann, and Silas sat at the kitchen table, Henry’s drawings spread around them.
“I’ve heard about Henry’s ability, but I didn’t realize—” Silas leaned closer to
the drawing of Sophia helping the old woman. Emma’s grandson’s two interests were farming and courting. Emma had been surprised when he’d insisted on coming home with them after the fellowship luncheon.
Katie Ann wrapped a kapp string around her index finger. “Reminds me of those books we had when we were young. Remember them, Mammi? I Spy?”
“You’d sit for hours staring at those books, trying to find the objects listed on the right-hand side of the page.”
“Only this time we don’t know what we’re looking for.” Rachel sipped her cup of coffee and glanced out the window when she heard Stephen and Thomas run past. She glanced up at Emma and nodded slightly. It was good that they were working on this together and that the younger boys weren’t involved. They should be outside playing on a beautiful fall afternoon.
“We’re not even sure there’s anything to find,” Emma said. “I hope there is, but it could be there aren’t any clues here to be had.”
“Giving up already, are you?” Clyde winked at her and then went back to studying his drawing. He’d taken the one of Sophia lying in the field. It seemed most likely to contain a clue. Perhaps the killer had left something behind, some mark or telltale sign.
“I keep thinking about the last time I saw her at the diner.” Emma picked up her picture, held it at arm’s length, and then pulled it in closer. “She seemed so on edge, as if she thought someone in the diner meant to harm her.”
“Maybe she was paranoid,” Rachel said. “People with mental instability can seem fine one moment and exhibit radical paranoia the next. I read a book about that once. Only medication can help the situation. Perhaps Sophia was mentally ill.”
“I’d agree if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s dead.” Emma cocked her head, trying to view the drawing from a different angle. “But even in this scene, she seems…worried. Look at how her brow is creased. And her eyes? They’re not on what she’s writing on the pad. They’re scanning the room.”
Silas stood up and came behind her. “Any idea who all these people are? It’s amazing that Henry could remember who was there that day.”
When the Bishop Needs an Alibi Page 14
