Who the Bishop Knows

by Vannetta Chapman

  “He fell backward? You’re sure?”

  “Ya. The horse shot out from under him like an arrow from a bow.” They all turned to stare at the horse, now being handled by two of the rodeo clowns.

  Clyde’s brow wrinkled as he looked back at the chutes and then toward the opposite side of the arena. “All right. So if he was coming out of the chutes from the northwest…”

  “Then the shooter had to be to the southeast, or maybe a little more east if he wanted a straight shot as Jeremiah moved around the arena.”

  “And it happened just as the sun was setting, so the light wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Stop,” Emma said. She couldn’t stand one more minute of this sort of talk. “This isn’t another mystery we’re becoming involved in. This is a member of our church…”

  “Actually, he hasn’t joined yet,” Silas said, reminding them.

  “And he wouldn’t join here anyway.” Emma sank onto the bleacher, but her gaze remained on the field, on the calamity taking place there. “Ruth told me he planned to go back to Goshen at the end of the summer.”

  “Just trying to figure out what happened, Mamm.” Clyde offered her a weak smile. “We’re not trying to involve you in another mystery.”

  “Gut, because I’m done. I don’t want another thing to do with the police unless it’s thanking them for watching over our town.” She sat down next to Rachel and finally echoed what her daughter-in-law had said a few minutes earlier, what had been running through her mind since the shot rang out. “This cannot be happening again.”

  “I’ll go talk to some of the others. See if they’ve heard anything.” Silas darted off toward a group of Amish teens.

  “Um, Mamm.” Clyde leaned forward, peering toward the crime scene. “Maybe you need to go down there.”

  “Me?”

  “It looks like Henry’s making his way to Ruth.”

  “Why would he need me?”

  “She might respond better to a woman.” The crowd had grown quieter as Ruth’s wails seemed to increase in length and intensity.

  Rachel supplied the obvious answer. “You’ll soon be our bishop’s wife, and poor Ruth doesn’t have any other family here.”

  Ruth’s husband passed after they moved to Monte Vista. Her closest friends were Nancy Kline and Franey Graber, two women with whom she’d opened a local bakery. Emma knew for a fact that Nancy and Franey weren’t there tonight—they were busy with extra baking for the crowds that flocked to the rodeo. The three hotels in Monte Vista were full for the entire week, and the restaurants struggled to feed everyone in a timely fashion. Bread 2 Go was making a killing.

  Ruth Schwartz was indeed her friend, though they weren’t as close as the three widows who ran the bakery were to each other. But Rachel had hit on the real reason she should be kneeling next to Ruth—Emma was about to become the bishop’s wife.

  She longed to be married to Henry Lapp.

  They’d decided the year before to marry, which should have been simple at their age, but life had intervened. She’d had to travel back to Goshen to be with her sister, who’d undergone chemotherapy. Fortunately, her cancer was now in remission, and she seemed to be well on the road to recovery. Emma was glad to be of help, but she’d also been eager to be home, to move on to the next phase of her life. The past few months had been difficult for both her and Henry, but through their many letters she understood better what Henry needed in a spouse, what it meant to be a bishop’s wife. She knew her family was right—she should go down and be by his side, to help Henry help Ruth.

  She stood, smoothed out her apron, and threw a look back at Stephen, Thomas, and Katie Ann. The boys had their heads together and were pointing at something in the direction of the carnival. Katie Ann stood close beside them.

  “We’ll be fine,” Rachel assured her.

  Emma’s heart sank as she made her way down the bleachers. When she’d nearly been killed the year before, she promised herself she would never again become involved in solving any type of crime or murder. But this was different. This was her friend weeping over the body of her grandson. She really had no choice at all.

  She straightened her posture, raised her head, and walked toward the Monte Vista police officer, determined to find a way to comfort her friend.

  Three

  Henry was held up as more law enforcement officers made their way into the arena—stringing up crime scene tape, pulling out equipment, and marking off the area. He used the time to assess what was happening around him. The horse Jeremiah had been riding stood at a distance, throwing its head, snorting, and pawing the ground with its right hoof. Two men in clown suits had rushed toward it, attempting to calm the beast. The steer Jeremiah was to have wrestled to the ground had already been corralled in a far corner of the arena.

  Henry wasn’t an expert on rodeo events, but since moving to Monte Vista, their community had regularly attended the Ski Hi Stampede. Everyone did, including officers from both the police and sheriff’s departments.

  Henry saw attending the rodeo as one more way to build bridges in the community, and it was natural for Amish youngies to be interested in the horse and cattle events. Team roping, barrel racing, and goat tying were some of the more popular events for local youth. There was rarely any risk of injury, and practicing provided fun, safe entertainment.

  Steer wrestling was another matter entirely. It required a horse-mounted rider to chase a steer, drop from the horse while it was running full speed, and then wrestle the steer to the ground by grabbing its horns and pulling it off balance.

  The risk of injury to the rider was high. The chances of the steer suffering any harm was much less, though that didn’t stop animal rights activists from claiming the event constituted cruelty to animals. Most rodeos used longhorns that weighed 450 to 650 pounds. From what Henry had seen, it irritated the steer more than anything else.

  But Jeremiah hadn’t been injured by the steer. He’d been shot.

  Finally Officer Moore nodded, indicating he could pass.

  Henry moved quickly across the area, and the officers and officials stepped aside to make way for him. He slowed as he processed what he was seeing.

  Two paramedics were attending to Jeremiah. Another team of paramedics stood by in case they were needed, but plainly they didn’t expect that to happen. They glanced at the ground, at the victim, and then their eyes darted away.

  As Henry approached the center of the crowd, he understood Jeremiah was past their ability to care for him. His eyes were open, locked on the stars that were only beginning to appear in the sky above. If Henry had to describe his expression, he would say it was one of mild surprise.

  Someone had opened his shirt, revealing a crimson stain on his chest, just left of center. They were applying compresses when one of the paramedics glanced up, shook his head twice, and the other glanced at his watch. Then he wrote on a clipboard. Henry was sure he was noting the time of death. Then they both moved back, giving Ruth a moment of privacy.

  When Henry took the final steps to reach Ruth’s side, he realized there would be no evidence to trample on. The person who killed Jeremiah Schwartz had to have been up in the stands. There would be nothing in the surrounding dirt other than the bullet. Whoever had done this was probably long gone. Otherwise, he’d already be in custody. Jeremiah’s murder had been committed with a rifle, from a safe distance, and any evidence found wouldn’t be next to his body.

  Ruth was now kneeling beside her grandson, covering her face with her hands and rocking back and forth. Henry knelt in the dirt beside her.

  “Ruth, perhaps we should let the paramedics do their work.” It was a ridiculous thing to say. There was no doubt that Jeremiah was dead, had probably died instantly, but Henry needed to move her away so the officers could begin the process of photographing and then transferring the body.

  Ruth seemed not to hear him at first. She continued rocking and weeping and wailing. Henry put one hand on each of her shoulders and
turned her gently so that she was facing him. Slowly her hands came away from her face. The heartbreak Henry saw in her eyes was nearly his undoing.

  “He’s gone, Ruth.”

  “Jeremiah?” The question was a plea, a last, desperate attempt to deny the reality in front of her.

  “Ya. I’m sorry, Ruth.”

  “He… he needs me.”

  “He’s with the Lord now. His life is complete.”

  Henry rose, bringing Ruth with him, and then he guided her away from Jeremiah’s body. She made it to the edge of the arena and then collapsed into his arms.

  By this time, Emma was standing next to Officer Moore, trying to convince him to let her join them. He wasn’t budging an inch, but Emma didn’t retreat. Henry called out, “Let her come. I think maybe she can help.”

  Moore looked around as if he might find someone else to make the decision, but another look at Ruth convinced him to wave Emma through.

  Emma was practically Henry’s wife, a bishop’s wife.

  More importantly, Ruth needed her.

  She stopped mere inches from Ruth, reached out, and touched her face with her fingertips. That seemed to bring Ruth back from some dark abyss. They huddled closer then, their heads together, Emma’s arms around the dear woman as her body shook with sobs. Henry stood close enough to see that Emma was not talking to Ruth so much as sharing the burden of her grief, and then Emma motioned for Henry to join them.

  He didn’t ask questions. Instead, he put one hand on Ruth and one on Emma. They made a sort of circle. He began to pray, asking God for His presence and mercy and grace. The words flowed from his heart and from dozens of other experiences with people who were grieving, though none of them had perished from a gunshot wound during a rodeo.

  When he was finished, Ruth continued to weep, Emma rubbed her back, and Henry waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  He noticed Sheriff Grayson with the body, spending only a few minutes there. Then he glanced around the arena as he plodded toward them.

  “Henry.”

  “Sheriff.”

  “Mrs. Fisher.”

  “Sheriff Grayson.” Emma continued to rub Ruth’s back. “Does she need to stay here, or could we… maybe take her to sit down?”

  “I need to ask a few questions first.” He turned to Ruth. “Mrs.…”

  “Schwartz,” Henry said. “This is Ruth Schwartz, and the young man on the field is Jeremiah Schwartz.”

  Hearing Jeremiah’s name caused Ruth to tune in to the three people standing in front of her. “My grandson. He’s my grandson.” She made to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, but Henry quickly pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it to her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Schwartz. I realize you’re probably in shock and no doubt grieving… ”

  She nodded, her eyes round and trying to focus on Grayson’s face.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “Nein.”

  “Anything at all?”

  “He… he came out of the chute. I saw him raise his right hand. He always held on with his left so he could handle the steer with his right. He was… he was practically even with the steer when I heard a pop, like when… like when the men shoot doves.”

  “What happened next?”

  “He was on the ground. I thought the horse had thrown him, or maybe he’d jumped wrong. People started screaming, ‘Gun! Someone has a gun!’ and I didn’t understand. I only knew Jeremiah was on the ground and not moving. I only knew I had to get to him. But the crowd…”

  “Any idea which direction the shot came from?”

  Henry understood that Grayson knew the answer to this question. The arena was an oblong structure, with the short ends on the northwest and southeast sides. The chutes were located on the northwest end of the arena. Jeremiah would have come through the gate, and based on what Ruth was describing, had been shot almost immediately. The shot had to have come from the southeast.

  But Grayson, Henry was sure, wanted to keep Ruth talking in the hopes that she would remember something. He tried a few more questions, tried the same questions in a different way, and finally handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else. I’ll be in touch again in a few hours when we know more. In the meantime, one of my officers will give you a ride to the hospital.”

  Monte Vista was a relatively small town with fewer than five thousand people. The closest hospitals were in Del Norte and Alamosa. Del Norte was the county seat and housed the morgue used by all three towns. It was sixteen miles to the west of where they were—too far for Ruth to travel in her horse and buggy.

  Ruth nodded as if she understood what Grayson had said, but she didn’t move or turn away from the scene playing out in front of her. The crime techs continued to work, though they had finished placing markers, crime tape, and camera stands around Jeremiah’s body. The last thing Ruth needed was to see her grandson photographed.

  Grayson glanced at Henry, and Henry turned to Emma. “Maybe you could accompany us.”

  “Ya, I’ll be happy to.”

  Henry turned then to go with them, but Grayson reached a hand out to stop him. “If you could stay for a minute.”

  Emma nodded, indicating they would be fine. She put her arm around Ruth and escorted her toward the nearest bleacher seat.

  “Did you see it, Henry? Did you see what happened?”

  “Nein. I was in line for hot dogs when I heard what sounded like a gunshot.”

  “Looks like a rifle to me.” Grayson tucked the pad he’d been writing on back in his shirt pocket. “Someone had to see something.”

  “Ya, you would think so.”

  “Takes arrogance to smuggle a rifle into an arena.”

  “Perhaps the person hid it here beforehand.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Are you sure you couldn’t…” He made the motion of someone drawing.

  “I wish I could. I’d like to help, but I wasn’t even in the main arena at the time.”

  “Too bad.” Grayson pulled off his sheriff’s hat and resettled it on his head. “I established a perimeter as soon as I realized what happened, but no doubt some people slipped through. Could you ask around? Maybe someone from your congregation saw something.”

  “If they saw something, I won’t have to ask. They’ll come to me.”

  Grayson nodded as if that made sense. They’d been through two murder investigations together, and in both of them Henry’s special talent for drawing had helped to solve the case. This time, his gift would be of no use to them. Instead, it was going to come down to old-fashioned detective work. On the plus side, Henry could focus on ministering to Ruth and others affected by Jeremiah’s death. It was a truly terrible thing to have occurred on a beautiful summer night, and at one of Monte Vista’s most popular events.

  Perhaps whoever planned the murder had hoped to hide under the cover of the crowd.

  But people saw things, remembered details they didn’t realize they knew. It was usually a matter of asking the right questions to uncover that information. Henry, however, could draw. He could never explain the things he was able to draw, but his mind recorded every detail of what he’d seen in the same way people processed and stored memories, especially of traumatic events. Henry knew this because he’d made studying memory something of a hobby.

  Grayson thanked him and trudged back toward Jeremiah’s body.

  Henry walked slowly toward Emma and Ruth, praying he’d be of some comfort to Ruth as she walked through the valley of the shadow.

  Four

  Emma explained to Clyde and Rachel where she was going before hurrying back down the bleachers, making her way out of the arena, and climbing into the police cruiser with Ruth and Henry.

  The ride to Del Norte passed in silence. As they drove through Monte Vista’s downtown area, she couldn’t help but notice the banners hanging over each intersection.

  San Luis Valley

  Sk
i Hi Stampede

  Colorado’s Oldest Pro Rodeo

  The pro events hadn’t even started yet.

  Jeremiah had competed in the amateur events, which preceded the professional events. The entire rodeo was then followed by a dance. Usually their families left well before the band struck its first chord.

  To the left of the wording on the banner was the outline of a man riding a bucking horse—a cowboy, enjoying the prime of his youth, alive. And yet Jeremiah’s life had been cut short. Henry would say his life was complete, and she believed it was true. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Hadn’t Clyde preached on that very topic the week before? Yet the words from the Psalms wouldn’t pierce the grief her friend was experiencing, not right away. Perhaps in time…

  Henry seemed lost in thought as he stared out the window, or maybe he was praying.

  Emma was struggling with the fact that this was her third murder investigation. She didn’t want to be a sleuth. She didn’t want anything to do with unnatural deaths. Their lives were simple by choice, but neither could she abandon a woman who had been her neighbor for nearly fifteen years.

  The officer followed Highway 160 west through town and then angled northwest toward Del Norte. The sun hung low on the horizon, and the Rockies rose in the distance.

  She glanced at Henry as they passed into the shadow of the mountains.

  He nodded once, as if he understood her thoughts.

  Ruth had fallen into a stupor. She seemed oblivious, even unaware she was in the vehicle and traveling toward the hospital. Her hands lay motionless in her lap, her gaze fixed on something in the gathering darkness. Occasionally she would shake her head slightly, as if she could deny the reality of what had just happened. No doubt the poor woman was in shock.

  Based on her previous experience, Emma knew it would be hours before Jeremiah’s body was delivered, and a day or more before Ruth could take him home for burial. Perhaps Grayson wanted her out of the way. Maybe it was a kindness to suggest she wait at the hospital. At least she wouldn’t have to watch the crime scene techs at work or see the crowd gawk at her grandson.