Grayson made introductions, and then he motioned to the last empty chair.
“Sorry to call you in so late, Meg.”
“Not a problem. Show me what you have.”
“Before we do, perhaps I should explain—”
Meg interrupted the bishop with a shake of her head and a curt, “No.” As if realizing how rude and abrupt her words sounded, she added, “If you’ll show me what you have, we can decide how best to proceed.”
So Henry handed her the single sheet of paper.
She studied it for a full three minutes before looking up at Grayson. “You’ve seen this?”
“Yes. Henry brought it to me thirty minutes ago.”
“You called me down here for this? For a drawing?”
“It’s not merely a drawing,” Clyde said.
“But it is. A quite detailed one, to be sure, but still just a drawing.” Meg dropped the sheet on Grayson’s desk. “Let me be clear. This is not evidence, and it will not influence the way we proceed in this case.”
“Hang on, Meg. Maybe you need to listen to the bishop’s story first.”
Emma could tell Meg Allen wasn’t used to being interrupted and told what to do. The woman clamped her mouth shut, her lips forming a tight, straight line. She sat back in her chair, stared at Henry, and waited.
If he was perturbed by her attitude, he didn’t show it. But then Emma knew he’d encountered such attitudes before. No doubt he had prepared himself for this moment both emotionally and spiritually. Probably he’d spent a good amount of time in prayer since they’d spoken earlier in the day, perhaps since the night Vernon died.
“When I was twelve years old, I was playing baseball with the other children, and Atlee Stolzfus was up to bat. Atlee always had a powerful swing. He was older. Out of school already. He told me later that he’d been approached by a professional team to play for them, but after that day—the day I’m speaking of—he never picked up a bat again.”
For Emma it was like being pulled back into another time, one marked by fear and uncertainty. She’d been eight when Henry’s accident had occurred, old enough to question why such things happened. Old enough to worry her friend might not recover.
“I heard the crack of the bat, but I never saw the ball coming toward me. The moment of impact has always remained a blank spot in my memory. I was taken to the local hospital, where a small hole was drilled in my head to reduce the pressure from intracranial bleeding.” He reached up and touched a spot on the side of his head, a scar completely covered by hair that was beginning to turn gray. “It was determined that I had a suffered a catastrophic brain injury. My mamm and dat were worried I wouldn’t recover.”
Henry glanced at Emma. She wanted to reach out and squeeze his hand, to assure him they were doing the right thing by sharing his history, and that they would support him regardless of the outcome. He must have sensed some of that because he nodded once and turned back to the arson investigator.
“I did recover, went home, and lived a rather normal life from that point on… other than this skill.” He glanced at Emma again. “This gift I had. I was suddenly able to draw, in complete and accurate detail, anything I’d seen.”
“Photographic memory?” Meg asked.
“Not quite. Nein. I couldn’t tell you what I’d seen, couldn’t verbalize or explain it. In that way, my memory is the same as anyone else’s. Plus the doctors… well, they say there is no such thing as true photographic memory.”
Meg sighed, put her hand on top of the sheet, and spoke in a more compassionate tone. “I appreciate your sharing this with me, Mr. Lapp, but even if I wanted to believe what you’re saying, this simply isn’t evidence. I can’t present it in a court of law.”
“Ya, we understand that.” Emma couldn’t keep quiet another second. “What we want is for you to look at it, truly look at it, and see the details there, the letter on the table and the postmark on the envelope. Plainly someone was angry enough with Vernon to write that letter, and the person who did that could be his killer.”
When Meg hesitated, Grayson cleared his throat. “I checked out his story. It’s called acquired savant syndrome, and it’s a real thing.”
“Savant syndrome? Like people who can suddenly play Mozart on the piano?”
“That’s one kind. The condition presents itself in several different ways.” Grayson pulled his laptop closer, searched for a moment, and then he began to read. “According to the Wisconsin Medical Society, savants can present with art and musical ability, like what you mentioned. Also calendar calculation…”
“What in the world is that?”
“Like you ask someone what day of the week February 3, 1645, was and they can tell you.”
“Pretty useless skill if you ask me.”
Grayson shrugged. “Some acquired savants have a special math skill, like a man named Daniel Tammet. He has memorized pi to 22,514 decimal places. Other savants have remarkable spatial skills. Another kind is what Henry is describing—the ability to recreate in minute detail something he has seen.”
Meg shook her head, as if she didn’t know how to respond.
“There’s more,” Clyde said. “Tell her about Goshen.”
Henry nodded to Grayson, who pulled a sheet from a stack of papers and pushed it toward Meg. “That’s from the court proceedings in Goshen, Indiana, fifteen years ago. A young girl, Betsy Troyer, was killed. Henry was charged for that murder when he brought one of his drawings to the police. They thought he had to be guilty to have been able to recreate such a thing and because of his knowledge of certain texts.”
“We’d been to visit Betsy,” Henry explained. “Her parents were worried and asked me to speak with her. When we arrived at the house, she wouldn’t come downstairs, so I went up to her room, along with one of the men in my church—Emma’s husband.”
Grayson picked up the thread of the story. “Henry was arrested and held for trial, but before the trial commenced, one of the investigators decided to take a closer look at what Henry had drawn. His vision—or whatever you want to call it—caught an image of a text that came in on the girl’s phone while they were there. Her parents claimed she had no phone. It was later discovered that they had thrown it into the pond. The officers were able to find it and submit it as evidence.”
“The parents regretted trying to hide the phone.” Henry shrugged his shoulders. “They didn’t understand how it could lead to catching Betsy’s killer.”
“The cell service provider was able to provide transcripts of all her recent texts. One text was from a drifter Betsy had been seeing.”
“The same text Henry had drawn,” Emma explained. “His drawing is what caused the police to start looking for a phone, one her parents claimed didn’t exist.”
Grayson continued, “Long story short, Henry was released and the drifter, a man named Gene Wooten, was convicted of the murder. He’s currently serving a life sentence.”
“Those were terrible days for our community.” Emma looked directly at Meg Allen. She wanted the woman to understand what Henry had sacrificed by coming to the authorities with his drawing. “Henry was held for more than three months because they wouldn’t listen. And that man? Gene Wooten? He nearly killed another girl in the meantime. Henry hasn’t used his gift since, but tonight he did. We’re here for Sam because he did not kill Vernon. And the proof? It’s on that sheet of paper if you will only look at it.”
Twenty-One
Henry spent Saturday morning in his garden. He didn’t have fields with crops, having purchased a small parcel of land. By the time they moved to Colorado, he’d understood that he was too old to try to farm fifty acres. But he could still raise most of the vegetables he needed in a garden, and he had his workshop.
He spent the afternoon there, finishing the birdhouse he’d studied the day before, and then working on a side table made from scraps of wood. It was the largest project in his shop, though it was only two feet tall. The top measured eighteen
inches by eighteen inches, which he was fashioning from different types of wood scraps he’d picked up at the lumberyard in town. He alternated the wood, bringing to mind patchwork quilts his mother had handsewn when he was a young boy. He was thinking of that, of the feel and texture of those quilts and how they resembled the softness of the wood once it was well sanded, when there was a knock at his door.
He’d never heard the person drive up. He needed to see about purchasing one of Abe’s beagle pups, which would no doubt provide an early warning system for when he had visitors.
Hurrying to the door, he was surprised to see Meg Allen waiting. She handed him an envelope. “Your original drawing. We kept a copy.”
“Would you like to come in?”
She seemed surprised at the quantity and scope of projects in his workshop. “You’re quite talented at woodworking.”
“Danki.”
“Have you always had this skill?”
“You’re asking if it’s a result of my injury. I think not. My dat enjoyed working with wood, though he was a farmer first and foremost. I picked up any carpentry skills I possess from him.”
“I’d like to talk to you about the drawing.”
Henry sat at the workbench and waited. Meg took the stool across from him, where often customers would wait as he filled out a receipt or wrote down a special order.
“I did a thorough background search on you regarding the case of Betsy Troyer and… your condition.” She ran the palm of her hand over the worktable. “I won’t say I’m a believer, Mr. Lapp, but I would like to talk to you about that drawing.”
“Call me Henry, please. Do you think it might hold a clue?”
“I find the drawing… interesting, and at the moment I don’t have any other leads.”
“What about Vernon’s neighbors? Not that I’m saying they did it, but I know there were feelings of animosity between them.”
“That’s putting it mildly. The neighbors to the north called the police on Vernon eleven times in the last year.”
“I had no idea the situation was that bad.”
“They were calls about minor things—claims that he’d trespassed onto their property, complaints about the animals and items he stored there. Whatever you can imagine, they tried to use to get him in trouble. Once they even called the health department, claiming his property was a menace.”
“Vernon didn’t tell me any of this.”
“I’m not surprised. But regardless of their past history, only two people live on the property to the north—a Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, and both have a solid alibi for the night of May first. In fact, they weren’t even in town, and we’ve been able to corroborate that.” Meg nodded to the envelope. “Which is why I’m back here, and why I’d like to discuss that.”
Henry pulled out the sheet of paper, and pivoted it so it was facing Meg.
Then he walked around the table and sat on the stool beside her. Together they read the letter that had been revealed in the drawing… or partially revealed. Vernon’s mail had been dropped on the table, on top of the letter, and it obscured nearly half of the writing, from the top left to the bottom right on a straight angle.
“Hard to make much sense of,” Henry admitted.
“Looks like gibberish.”
“But the tone of it is rather bleak.”
“Yes,” Meg pointed to the word DEAD. “I’ll agree with that.”
They both stared at it for a moment, and then Meg asked, “You’re sure you can’t remember any more?”
“Doesn’t work that way. I don’t remember any of it, but my mind can accurately draw what it saw. It’s more like recreating a photograph.”
“But there is no photographic memory. You were right about that too. I checked.”
“Indeed, and yet it would seem that our subconscious mind does remember more than our conscious one.” Henry pointed to the corner of an envelope with a partial postage mark showing.
“Can you tell where this is from?”
“Alamosa, I would imagine. We can only see the right half, but the last letters and the last numbers of the zip code match up.”
“So it was mailed from there?”
“If that envelope held this letter.”
“A fair assumption.”
“Well, there is a whole stack of mail here.”
“But most of it seems to be flyers and such.”
There was one flyer announcing the special deals at the local grocer. It was amazingly detailed, and for a moment Henry found himself astounded that he had drawn such a thing.
Meg interrupted his thoughts with, “Sam Beiler was released earlier today.”
Henry jerked his head up, a smile spreading across his face. “That’s wunderbaar news!”
“We had him write out a sample text. His handwriting didn’t match the letter.”
“I was sure it wouldn’t.”
“And we checked out his alibi with the store clerks.”
“I always knew you’d find he was innocent.”
“He’s no longer a suspect in the construction site fire. However, he’s not entirely clear in the death of Vernon Frey, but we don’t have enough evidence at this point to hold him.”
Henry studied Meg carefully, trying to see past her professional demeanor. “But do you believe he could do such a thing?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It matters what I can prove.”
“Perhaps it matters to me.”
He didn’t think she would answer, but after a moment she did. “My gut is telling me Sam isn’t our guy, but I’ve been wrong before—and that was a costly mistake.”
“You aren’t wrong this time, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you prove it.”
Twenty-Two
He’d lost a few days, but that didn’t matter.
His plan had been to spread out the destruction.
To worry them as he had been worried.
To disrupt their lives.
On one level he understood this was foolishness, that wreaking havoc on them wouldn’t restore what he’d lost. That conviction occasionally rose to the top of his thoughts, but each time he pushed it away. He would remember his promise to his brother, and the anger in his heart would ignite, consuming any doubts. The worry he saw in their eyes nearly made him laugh. The way the sheriff rushed from place to place pleased him to no end. The fact that even that nosy arson investigator seemed to be at a loss helped him to sleep at night. She’d found no solid evidence.
That was the beauty of arson. It left behind few if any clues.
And he’d been careful about that. He read up on the process on the web, careful to do so on the library’s computer so his search history couldn’t be traced back to him. The library had a sign-in sheet, but it was easy enough to put someone else’s name on the form.
The Internet search was helpful. He learned to use only products that could easily be purchased anywhere. Another important aspect, according to the websites, was to choose a location that had plenty of material to spread a fire naturally. That way he didn’t have to carry in anything more than the initial incendiary device. Vernon’s house had been perfect for that. There was so much junk stacked inside and outside that, once ignited, he’d known it would burn aggressively. The same thing was true of the construction worksite. They had both deserved what happened to them. He’d crossed their names off his list with a feeling of accomplishment.
But his next location would be trickier, and he had to be careful. Revenge was all good and well, but it wasn’t worth getting caught over.
Fortunately, he was smarter, craftier, and more motivated than the authorities.
So he was careful what he purchased and how he purchased it. Everyone knew mail deliveries, cell phones, and even credit card purchases could be tracked. He didn’t have a credit card, so that wasn’t a problem. But there was no way to track cash.
He stopped at the gas station and filled up his gas container—something people did all t
he time for lawnmowers and such. Only he didn’t plan on mowing. What he had in mind next should get everyone talking. If he couldn’t make a living, why should they be able to? He’d make a bold statement with this move. He would make them pay, as he’d promised.
And if someone was hurt? Well, that was their fault for being in his way.
Twenty-Three
Henry spent Sunday with Abe and Susan and their family.
It wasn’t a church Sunday, and traditionally Amish used off Sundays for visiting family. But their community was small, and most had few relatives in the area. So they gathered in groups at various farms. Henry made sure he rotated where he spent his off Sundays. He enjoyed seeing all of his congregation, though he was closer to some than others.
“Didn’t know you were interested in the pups.” Abe’s bushy eyebrows arched over his glasses.
“I wasn’t, but either my hearing is going or my attention is. I often don’t realize someone has driven down my lane until they’re knocking at my door.”
“Unfortunately, all I have left is the runt. She’s small, but I imagine she can be as gut a watchdog as any of them.”
They’d finished eating the lunch meal, and Henry was enjoying the walk out to the dog pen behind the barn. Susan had made her cheesy casserole, and he’d eaten two helpings of it. Now his stomach reminded him he was overly full. His belly stretched against the cloth of his shirt, and his suspenders seemed tighter. He’d have to skip his usual evening dessert.
It felt good to be out in the sun and not thinking about arson and fire and death. “Are you still getting hate mail about running a puppy mill?”
What the Bishop Saw Page 9
