Abe grimaced. “One or two a week from all over the country. Probably because I put something in the Budget about having available pups. Unfortunately, that seemed to draw attention from the wrong folks.”
Henry squatted next to the dog pen to study the small beagle with giant brown eyes and long silky ears. The pen was a five feet by ten feet run, with shade over the back half, a good-sized dog house, huge water bowl, and what looked like a miniature jungle gym.
“When did you add that?”
Abe laughed. “One of the Englischers offered it for free if we’d haul it away. His children had outgrown it years ago, and the wife wanted to put in a butterfly garden. It was my doschder’s idea to put it in the dog pen. She’d read somewhere that it was gut exercise for them.”
“You know, Abe, the reporter in town has asked me several times if she could do a feature on some of our families. Perhaps if you invited her out to let her see what you have here and do a story on the dogs, it would put an end to the letters.”
“I doubt the influence of the Monte Vista Gazette reaches that far.”
“You might be surprised. She tells me Amish are a popular topic right now.” They exchanged a knowing smile. Both had endured enough of the tourist phenomena when they lived in Goshen. It was one of the reasons they decided to move out west.
“No pictures, of course.”
Henry nodded in agreement. “Though she could take some photos of the dog pen.”
“This pup should grow to be about thirteen inches and weigh in at twenty to thirty pounds. She’s a hunting dog, not a watchdog, but I suppose once she becomes attached to you she will protect you. It’s a dog’s nature.”
Henry motioned for Abe to open the gate, and the beagle came charging out, tripped over her own feet, righted herself, and trundled into the bishop’s legs. He bent down and picked up the pup. She had a short clean coat, a combination of black, white, and tan. And of course long, velvety ears.
“Have you named her?”
“Kids are calling her Lexi, but you can name her whatever you want. She’s not exactly answering to it yet.”
Henry checked her eyes, peeked into her ears, and ran a hand down her coat. He had no idea what he was looking for, but she seemed healthy enough. “I’ll take her.”
Abe nodded but held up a hand to refuse payment when Henry pulled out his money.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Now, Abe, we all work to make a living here. You’ve spent a lot of feed and attention on this dog, and I’m happy to pay for her.” He pressed the money into his friend’s hands. “Has she had her shots already?”
“First set. You’ll need to get the boosters.”
They were walking toward Henry’s buggy when Abe said, “I saw one years ago—a puppy mill. Terrible thing. The smell was horrendous, and those poor animals were crammed into pens no bigger than you’d put a chicken. I hadn’t been chosen to preach yet, and I don’t mind telling you I had a hard time controlling my temper. I called the authorities, the Englisch animal control center in Goshen, but someone else had done the same and they were already sending an officer out.”
“Amish?”
“Actually, an Amish man had partnered with an Englischer. They thought they could make a quick fortune. Neither understood how much work dogs truly are. The police shut them down and charged them both with animal cruelty.”
“Animals are much like everything else on this earth—the land, the resources, even the people. All are given to us to care for and to use in service to others.”
“Indeed.”
Abe’s two youngest—Anna and Tim—ran up to them carrying a rather large cardboard box and a paper sack.
“Mamm said to bring you this.” Anna handed him the cardboard box. It was bigger, but apparently lighter than whatever was in the sack. “So Lexi doesn’t crawl all over your feet while you’re driving.”
Her brother stood beside her. “She sent some food too, since you probably won’t get to town until tomorrow.”
“Thank you both.”
Anna reached forward and kissed the pup. “I’m going to miss her, but I can come visit, right?”
“Of course you can.”
Which was all she needed to hear. Anna bounded off, her brother quick to follow once he’d placed the sack of supplies in Henry’s buggy.
“I heard Sam is out of jail.” Abe held the pup while Henry situated the box on the backseat.
“He is.” It was the first they’d spoken of it. Henry hadn’t wanted to bring it up. He didn’t like to mar the peace of a Sunday, even if it wasn’t a church Sunday. At the same time, he understood people needed to be reassured all was fine. Only it wasn’t. Not yet.
“So do they have any idea who did it? Do they still believe Vernon was murdered?”
“Ya. Some, er, clues have come to light that seem to indicate so.”
“Your drawing?” Abe grinned when Henry looked surprised. “Everyone knows about that. We all think it’s a marvelous gift the Lord has given you, Henry. I’m glad you were able to use it to free Sam.”
A simple way to look at things, but maybe he was right. Or so Henry thought as he put the pup into the box, climbed into his buggy, and drove toward home.
They were still left with the question of who was guilty. Henry was relieved it wasn’t an Amish person—at least he didn’t see how it could be. No one in their community went over to Alamosa much. Abe did now and then to check on his brother. He couldn’t think of anyone else. But he still felt it was his responsibility to look after his congregation.
What if this person wasn’t finished causing destruction? What if he had a vendetta against the Amish?
What could he possibly do about it?
Well, he could pray. As he had reminded people more than once, prayer wasn’t a last resort. It was what they should endeavor to do first, middle, and last. God would guide them, and perhaps He would lead Meg Allen to finding the killer.
Twenty-Four
Monday morning when Meg Allen drove up, Henry wasn’t caught by surprise. Not because Lexi alerted him. The dog was sound asleep in a basket on the front porch. Henry happened to be sitting there working on his Sunday sermon when he heard a car pull into his lane.
Meg nodded toward the pup, who rolled over onto her back and emitted a low whine.
“You got yourself a guard dog?”
“Something like that.”
“Doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Give her time.”
“If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you about the investigation.”
“Of course. Would you like some coffee?”
Meg sighed as she sat down in the rocker next to him. Henry thought she looked tired. He wondered if she had worked on Sunday while he’d rested. Of course she had. Law investigations didn’t stop for the Sabbath. And yet perhaps if she had rested, she’d be better equipped to face whatever trials today brought. Which wasn’t for him to judge one way or the other.
“I’d better not. I had three cups in town,” she admitted. “Any more and I’ll be orbiting.”
“So what have you learned?”
“Very little.” She pulled out a small notepad and studied it. “I attempted to get a subpoena for the local school records because the letter clearly indicates someone with a learning disability.”
“You can do that? Get a subpoena on the weekend?”
“A subpoena can be approved anytime. We’ll find a judge and wake them up if need be. Unfortunately, in this case, the judge wouldn’t approve the subpoena. The academic and behavioral records of every student are sealed, and they can only be accessed by the student—if he or she is an adult—or a parent or legal guardian if they are still a minor.”
“You could ask parents to let you see the records, but you wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Correct. Though based on the letter, I doubt this was done by someone still in school. Also, student files are periodically pur
ged. The records might be destroyed if our perp is an older man.” Meg paused and tapped the folder she’d brought. “What was your reaction on Saturday when we first looked at the letter together?”
“It was difficult to make out what was being said. The person had poor spelling and grammar.”
Meg hesitated, and then she said, “I believe it was more than that. My sister is dyslexic. Do you know what that means?”
“Some children in our schools have had problems, academically, because of dyslexia. I can’t say I understand it myself. At the time, we decided to bring in a Mennonite teacher a few hours a week to work with them. They were bright children, if I remember correctly, only with some problems in the…” Henry mimicked writing on a piece of paper.
“Exactly. Teachers use a whole checklist to determine if a child might have dyslexic problems. I didn’t remember the particulars for my sister, only that she struggled, but I thought if our perp is dyslexic, it might narrow the field of suspects. I went to the school after I left here, trying to get the records. As you know, Monte Vista is small enough that kindergarten through twelfth grade classes are all housed on the same campus. Grayson even had the head principal meet me at the main building and unlock it. The judge denied our subpoena, but I was still able to meet with the special education coordinator. She told me a dyslexic person will often exhibit certain patterns in their writing—repetition, transpositions, omissions, substitutions, and even reversal of letters.”
“You found those things in the killer’s letter?”
Meg frowned at the folder. “I found those characteristics in the letter, but I’m not ready to jump to the conclusion that the killer wrote it. Possibly. Then again, possibly not. My hope was that it would be a place to start, and often in an investigation that’s what you need. A good solid starting place.”
She pulled out the copy of Henry’s drawing. It had a lined sheet of notebook paper stapled to the back. She folded back the top sheet and handed it to him. “I spent some time working on the letter, on correcting the spelling and grammar issues. I think you’ll agree it makes more sense now.”
“Ya, I can see how the few letters you’ve changed do help. The writing makes more sense, though it’s still a puzzle. The changes, though—they seem correct.”
“It’s only a guess… again, this wouldn’t hold up in court, but if we can identify the writer of the letter we at least have a direction in which to take the investigation.”
“The tone is decidedly negative. Hurt, even.”
“Maybe it’s a family vendetta. Maybe someone’s best friend went through a terrible time because of these perceived injustices. Maybe that person decided to set things right to help out someone they care about. My main concern is to identify our perp before he strikes again.”
“You think that will happen?”
“It could. He has no reason to stop, unless his grudge was solely against Mr. Frey.”
“If that was the case, why did he hit the construction site?”
“Precisely.” Meg hesitated, and then she said, “I’d like to speak plainly, but I want to assure you I mean no disrespect to you or your congregation.”
“Go on.”
“In this first paragraph, our perp seems to be laying out his grievances, in particular that the Amish don’t fight in wars and don’t attend school past the eighth grade.”
“Both are sometimes controversial aspects of our religion, at least to outsiders.”
“The second paragraph seems more personal. He says My family…”
“And speaks of a factory closing.” He stared down at the letter, shook his head, and then handed the letter back to her.
“I checked with Sheriff Grayson about that. A small factory in the area did close twenty years ago.”
“Well before I moved here. A small community of Amish were in the area before us. They began purchasing farms…” Henry allowed his gaze to drift to the roof of the porch, trying to count back. “You could check records, but I believe that happened five years before we looked into the area. There was some problem, a majority of the families left, and their bishop passed. They even had to close their school and send what children remained to the Englisch.”
“I didn’t realize that ever happened. I know you prefer a parochial school.”
“It’s true. We do. But it’s not always possible. When I volunteered to move to Monte Vista, some of the families in my congregation in Goshen decided to join me. That first year was difficult. We decided to put off reopening the schoolhouse until the next year.”
“Maybe in his mind, the arrival of Amish in the valley is when the trouble began.”
“You keep saying ‘him.’ Are we sure it couldn’t be a woman?”
“The majority of arsonists are white males. Nearly sixty percent are under the age of eighteen, but those cases rarely involve murder, which is what makes me think our perp is someone older.”
“So you’ve whittled it down to forty percent.”
“Of those over eighteen, eighty percent are under the age of twenty-nine. Many have little or no education, having dropped out of school before graduating. A good percentage have prior felony arrests, and some have significant medical histories.” She set the rocker in motion and stared out across Henry’s yard. “They’re troubled young men. In the eight years I’ve been an arson investigator, I’ve never come across a female arsonist.”
She cleared her throat and brought her attention back to their case. “I believe our perp matches that profile. It’s highly unlikely this person is a woman because of the statistics, plus a woman would have been more noticeable at the construction site.”
“Makes sense.”
She nodded toward the letter. “He mentions losing his home.”
“Foreclosure?”
“I have someone working on that—getting me the names on all foreclosures that occurred in the area in the last twenty years.”
Henry whistled. “Could be a long list.”
“What about Vernon’s place? Was it a foreclosure?”
“I couldn’t say. He bought it before I arrived. Vernon was in the first group.”
“We’ll check the real estate records.”
“If it happened so long ago, why would he be lashing out now? And your profile… it indicates a younger man.”
“But the letter mentions his father. So I’m thinking the father might have become unemployed.”
“When the factory closed.”
“And then they lost the home. Let’s say our perp is between twenty-five and thirty-five. He could have been a child when the home went into foreclosure.”
“He blames us for moving in and buying up the homesteads.”
“And he wants to get even.”
Twenty-Five
Why now?” Henry asked. “Why strike out against those around him now?”
“Sometimes these things build up.” Meg studied him a moment. “Do your families play the game Jenga?”
“With the building blocks? Ya. Our children love that one.”
“The more blocks you add, the more precarious the stack. Emotionally, people can be like that. They endure one thing and then another and another, but with each added situation the burden becomes worse until they topple, much like the Jenga blocks.”
“But if he’s angry with us, then it seems to me his troubles might have begun after we arrived. Perhaps he even went to school before our schoolhouse opened, because he mentions our kids. He’s angry that our young men are able to work, while he’s still forced into a classroom.”
“Grayson can get me a name of students brought up on truancy charges. We’ll give those priority, but I’m going to work from the factory closing forward.”
Henry nodded and then waved at the letter, indicating she should continue.
“We have a reference about someone drinking, so we’re pulling all DUIs, drunk and disorderly, that sort of thing.”
“And this mention of buggies?”
&
nbsp; “Could be someone who was in an accident.”
“Haven’t had too many of those since we moved into the valley.” Henry tapped the arm of the rocker. “One terrible accident, the first year we were here, killed a father and child.”
Meg sat up straighter. “That could be it. Do you know any of the details?”
“I do. I attended the trial.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“The woman who’d lost her husband and daughter was devastated, as you can imagine. The trial lasted only two days, but I was there for all of it. I didn’t want her to endure such a thing alone, and she had no other family in the area. Plus, the accident happened right out there, in front of my place.”
“Did you testify?”
Henry ran a thumb up and down his suspenders. “I did. I was working in my workshop when I heard the crash. I ran out to the road in time to see the Englischer drive away.”
“Your testimony put him in jail.”
“Nein. His blood alcohol level did that, and his prior DUIs didn’t help. They didn’t actually need my testimony, though it might have helped in the sentencing phase. He received life in prison. A real shame for someone that young.”
“A real shame for the two who were killed.”
“Every life is complete,” Henry murmured, though he didn’t suspect she would understand.
“Do you remember the name of the person convicted?”
“Shawn. Shawn Neely.”
“This could be it. This could be the connection we’re looking for.”
“I don’t see how. Shawn’s in jail.”
“What about his family?”
“Don’t know if he had any.”
“No one from his family came to the trial?”
“Not that I can recall.”
Meg tapped her fingers against the chair. Finally, she turned to him and asked, “Does the wife still live here? The one whose husband and child were killed?”
“No. She moved back east as soon as the trial concluded.”
What the Bishop Saw Page 10
