by P. L. Gaus
Ricky Niell’s handset chirped, and Armbruster said over the radio, “The bishop’s wife has Burkholder’s parents up here. Should I send them down?”
Robertson shook his head no, and Ricky said into his handset, “No, Stan. We’ll come up there.”
Moaning, Crist said, “I don’t want to see my parents right now.”
To that, Robertson replied, “You stay here with Sergeant Niell, Mr. Burkholder. Consider yourself under arrest. We’ll go talk to your parents.”
And he waved the bishop outside.
* * *
Wayne and Mary Burkholder stood in plain Amish attire beside their buggy at the top of Darba’s drive, and waited for the rotund Sheriff Robertson to struggle up the graveled slope. After he had managed the climb, Robertson took out a handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his brow, saying, “I’m sorry about this, folks, but Crist has confessed to killing Glenn Spiegle, and I have placed him under arrest.”
Bishop Shetler crossed the drive to stand with the Burkholders, and said, “He’s down in the barn, Wayne. He says quite plainly that he did it.”
Crying, and holding a kerchief to her nostrils, Mary Burkholder asked, “Can we see him, Sheriff?”
“Not just yet. I want to take him down to the jail. Get him charged. Then you can talk to him in my office, before we take him to his cell.”
Wooden-faced, Wayne Burkholder asked, “Will this take long, Sheriff?”
“Maybe an hour,” Robertson said. “We’ll try to finish up with our questions just as soon as we can.”
On the lane behind them, there was the clatter of horse’s hooves and the rattle of a buggy pulling to a stop in front of the Winters house. They all turned to look, and tiny Vesta Miller, hair tucked up in a loose bun under a bonnet hanging somewhat askew, jumped down out of the buggy before it had come to a stop. The horse angled off into the middle of the road, and Vesta ran up waving her cell phone. Showing panic in all of her features, Vesta cried out, “Is it true?” and stopped beside Mary Burkholder to catch her breath.
Wayne Burkholder stepped away to take charge of Vesta’s buggy horse, and Mary took Vesta in her arms. “Crist is down in the barn, Vesta. He says he killed Glenn Spiegle.”
“No, no, no,” Vesta cried and pushed away. “It can’t be true. He was supposed to come for me this morning.”
“Did he call you?” Robertson asked, eyeing Vesta’s phone.
“No, Darba called,” Vesta said, looking from face to face, denying what she had heard.
“Did she just call?” Robertson pressed, glancing back at the Winters house.
“Ten minutes ago, I guess,” Vesta said. “I want to see Crist.”
“I can’t let you talk to him right now,” Robertson said, and looked to Bishop Shetler.
Shetler stepped forward and said to Vesta, “We can talk to him down at the sheriff’s office.”
“No!” Vesta shouted, tears coursing her cheeks. “I want to talk to him! I want to talk to him right now.”
Mary reached out for Vesta and took her again into her embrace, saying to Robertson, “There has to be some mistake.”
Robertson shook his head. “I need to ask him some more questions. But he says he did it.”
Wayne Burkholder walked back with Vesta’s horse in tow and said, “Who can help us, Leon? What should we do?”
In the distance, they heard a car horn, and they all watched as Pastor Cal Troyer drove up in his gray carpenter’s truck and stopped on the blacktop, blocking the road. Cal stepped out in jeans and a work shirt, saying, “Darba called me. Where’s Crist?”
Showing some impatience at answering the question again, Robertson said, “We have him down in the barn, with the body of Glenn Spiegle.”
“Have you asked him any questions?” Cal asked, confronting the sheriff with his tone.
“Yes, Cal, that’s what we do.”
“Well, you need to stop,” Cal said. “I’ve hired him a lawyer.”
Robertson gave a sigh. “OK, Cal,” he said. “Who?”
“Linda Hart.”
“That’s just great, Cal!” Robertson barked. “You know she’s a hothead.”
Smiling, Cal said, “She’s bested you a time or two.”
“She’s a hothead, Cal. That’s not what Burkholder needs right now.”
Cal shook his head. “She’s on her way out here. So you’d better not ask any more questions. I want Crist Burkholder to have a lawyer, and I’m telling you that Linda Hart is it.”
“I already have his confession, Cal,” Robertson said.
“Take me down there, Bruce.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Let me tell Crist not to say anything more.”
“I can’t take you down there, Cal.”
Troyer turned toward Stan Armbruster and said, “Then have your deputy call down on his radio.”
Robertson nodded, and Armbruster said into this shoulder mic, “Burkholder has a lawyer, Ricky. Can’t ask him any more questions.”
“OK,” Ricky said over the radio. “But tell the sheriff he needs to see this.”
Robertson nodded a question to Armbruster, and Armbruster said into his mic, “What? The sheriff is standing right here.”
“Burkholder calls it a Rum Room. Says Darba Winters lets the kids use the room for their Rumspringe wild times.”
Robertson urged another question with a nod to Armbruster, and Armbruster said, “What? It’s just a room?”
“Not just a room. There’s a DVR hooked to a TV. There’s a stack of movies. Got a phone here, and a radio. Then there’s a laptop with a fax/printer. And a refrigerator full of drinks and a cupboard full of snacks. Then there’s a sink, a little stove, a microwave, and coffee pot. There’s also a toilet in a little closet.”
Robertson shook his head, cast a glance at Darba Winters’s front bay window, turned down the drive, and started marching back toward the barn. Cal turned to look at the bay window, too, and there he saw Darba Winters standing with a mug of coffee, looking out at the people gathering on her drive and front lawn.
To the bishop, Cal said, “I guess Darba has called a few people,” and the bishop replied, “It’s the cell phones, Cal,” and walked off toward the Spiegle farm across the road, muttering under his breath about the relentless intrusions into his life from the modern world of gadgets. And if gadgets weren’t enough, now murder.
4
Wednesday, October 7
8:30 A.M.
BISHOP SHETLER walked up the Spiegle driveway, marveling at the disparity between the heaviness in his heart and the light, airy clarity of the morning sky. Marveling also at the transition Crist Burkholder was making from life and freedom to loss and incarceration. And although the sky overhead was clear and deep blue as far as his vision could reach, and although the morning air was as crisp and sweet as a cold autumn apple, the bishop could find no joy in any of it.
We should be taking in the feed corn, Shetler thought, trudging along in the gravel. All the families should be together in their fields, cutting the stalks, pitching the ears into the wagons, stacking the stems for winter. And singing with the work, keeping a happy, purposeful pace. Telling the old stories.
But Shetler stopped, turned back, and studied the gathering crowd in front of the Winters place, and he knew little of that joyful harvest would take place today.
No, today was forevermore a murder day, and the sin of an angry heart would taint everything that happened in his district for months to come. Wayne and Mary Burkholder, brokenhearted by their loss. Vesta Miller, abandoned to her father’s harsh commands and rulings. Billy Winters, probably still down in Pinecraft on his delivery for the cheese factory. Did he know yet that his best friend was dead? And Darba Winters, fragile at times, today making phone calls to everyone she knew, stuck inside without Billy, the only man who could smooth her through her rough spells.
Yes, Darba would have made a lot of calls. Phone calls to all the cell phones under Amish pill
ows. A phone call evidently also to Cal Troyer. Making a call to her psychiatrist, the Bishop hoped, because Darba wasn’t the sort to bounce easily into a calm frame of mind, even in the best of times. Even with Billy home.
Shetler shook his head, turned back toward the Spiegle house, and continued slowly up the drive. He walked up to the porch, mounted the steps, and reached out for the doorknob just when Jacob Miller pushed the door open from the inside and stepped out onto the porch in front of the startled Shetler.
Fingering his suspenders nervously, Miller said only, “Bishop,” as a greeting and appeared to cover his embarrassment at having been discovered by adding officiously, “Have you heard about Glenn Spiegle?”
Shetler answered by a single nod of his head, allowing Miller to stand openly in his pretense of humility.
Miller stammered out a few syllables, and then he said, “I just thought someone should make sure everything was fine over here.”
Shetler eyed the big, florid man for several long seconds and said, “You wear your shame badly, Jacob Miller.”
Miller’s face grew red, and he stared back at the bishop, unable to hide his indignation.
Shetler let him stew a moment longer and then said, “What are you doing here, Jacob?”
“Like I said, Bischoff, just checking.”
“It isn’t right, Jacob Miller. You’re meddling, again.”
Miller had no reply.
The bishop had more to say. “We’ve talked about these things before, Jacob, but I tell you again, as your bishop, that you meddle too much in other men’s affairs.”
“I just try to be helpful,” Miller stammered.
Losing some intensity, Bishop Shetler said more gently, “You’re not home enough as it is, Jacob. And the trouble is, when you are home, you provoke your children with your harsh rulings. And you are a trial to your wife’s patience.”
“I don’t see how you’d know anything like that about my children, Bischoff. Has any of them talked to you?”
“No, but Vesta talks to Darba Winters, and Darba talks to my Katie.”
Miller considered this and tried to find a comfortable place to put his hands. He eventually hooked his thumbs into his suspenders and stared at his shoes, saying, “Leon, I just thought someone should look after Spiegle’s place, considering that he’s been murdered. After all, someone will have to work his fields. There’s a lot to do here, and bringing in the corn isn’t the least of it. Plus the house will go to someone. No point letting it go to ruin.”
Shetler stood on the porch and let Miller talk. He wanted him to say whatever he would. To reveal himself fully to God’s perception, and to the bishop’s. And into the silence, Jacob Miller found it necessary to speak further.
“It’s true, Leon,” he continued. “We’ve got to decide who will get Spiegle’s farm.”
Showing no emotion, Bishop Shetler said, “His will deeds the land to me.”
Seeming at first disappointed, Miller hesitated, thought, and said, “Then you will need help deciding who will work the land.”
Bishop Shetler shrugged. “Some of the young men will need farms. They are my first concern.”
“Or, we could lease the land, Leon. Make a profit.”
“Like you lease your land out to English?” the bishop asked, still showing no emotion.
Miller nodded self-consciously. They had talked before about this issue, too. “My boys don’t need land, Leon. They’re earning a fine living making furniture.”
“In your shop, Jacob?”
“Yes. It is my shop.”
“And you keep the earnings?”
“Of course. Until they marry.”
“And your girls make quilts, Jacob. Do you keep those earnings, too?”
“You know what it costs to run a family.”
Stepping forward, Shetler looked up into the rheumy eyes of the big Miller and said, “You value money more than you value your family.”
Miller stepped back a pace and took an indignant tone. “You know I support the whole congregation, Leon. You know I give my share.”
“It’s really not about the money, Jacob. It has really never been about the money. I warn you, if you keep provoking your family with your harsh and critical lording…”
“Lording?”
“Yes, with your harsh lording-over, you’ll end up a bitter, lonely man who can’t figure out where to put all the remorse that God will plant in your heart, once you learn the truth of your excesses. The truth of your mistakes.”
“Remorse?”
“If God opens your heart to the damage you’ve done your children with your stern lording-over, your days will end full of remorse, and there won’t be anything you can do about it. They’ll all be grown and gone.”
“Damage? What damage? I provide. And isn’t the father the head of his household? A husband the head of his wife?”
“You quote the scriptures badly, and clearly you have no idea what they mean.”
“I think I know my Bible as well as the next man.”
“Enough! As your bishop, I warn you to change your ways. Your children need your love and approval, more than they need your authority. Vesta, now, most of all.”
“What has Vesta got to do with any of this?”
Bishop Shetler stared back at Miller and wanted, with all of his human instincts, to berate the man for the ruin and heartache he had caused his family. But, where he had been considering chastisement, a prayer rose in his mind, and he remembered himself. He remembered his duty as bishop. His duty to instruct. To instruct always by example. Sometimes also with words. His duty to mend, where brokenness arose and festered.
Choosing his words carefully, Shetler asked, “If you had let Vesta marry Crist Burkholder, Jacob, do you really think Glenn Spiegle would be dead?”
5
Wednesday, October 7
8:30 A.M.
WHILE THE bishop was walking up Spiegle’s driveway, Cal Troyer caught up with Bruce Robertson on Darba’s drive, and he stopped the big sheriff outside the smaller door into the Winterses’ barn. The larger double barn doors to the right, built tall and wide to admit farm machinery, were still closed. Robertson was reaching for the doorknob of the smaller door when Cal tapped him on the shoulder.
“Bruce, you need to handle Burkholder carefully. He’s Amish.”
“No kidding, Cal! I’d never have guessed.”
“You know what I mean. He’s not going to know anything about arrests. Procedures. Court. You’ve got to be sure to explain his rights to him.”
“You’re not his lawyer, Cal,” Robertson snapped.
“I told you, Bruce. Linda Hart is coming out. Wait for her.”
Robertson opened the door, stepped inside the big barn, and waited for Troyer to follow. The two stood inside, at the edge of the illumination of Missy’s floodlights. The contrast between the two men was striking—Robertson, tall and rounded at all the edges by excessive weight, heavy since birth; Troyer, short and lean, muscles evident in his shoulders and arms, fit from his labors as a carpenter. The sheriff was clean shaven, but Troyer had a full white beard. Robertson wore a fifties-style flattop haircut that broadcast his inclination to command, whereas Troyer’s hair was long on his neck, suggesting the need for a band to hold it back from his ears. The two men had been friends since kindergarten, although more than occasionally they found themselves on opposite ends of a shouting match, and again today, the tension between them was growing.
Irritated that Troyer was prying again into one of his cases, Robertson called out to Ricky, “Sergeant Niell, where’s my prisoner?”
Niell walked over from the back of Burkholder’s blue Chevy and said, “He’s sitting in the Rum Room, with Pat Lance. We’re going to take him into town, as soon as I’ve gone through his trunk.”
“Are you sure that you’re allowed to search his trunk?” Cal asked.
Robertson laughed. “You’ve been watching too much Law and Order on TV, Cal.”
<
br /> Ricky explained. “The trunk was wide open when we got here, Cal. Everything was in plain sight.”
“Look, folks!” Robertson crowed. “This is a murder scene. We’ll search whatever we want.”
Not intimidated, Cal asked, “Ricky, have you read him his rights?”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Robertson shot. “Of course we did!”
Evenly, Ricky said, “Yes, Cal. Just before the bishop left. He heard me do it.”
“Are you sure he understands?” Cal asked. “Amish boys won’t know a thing about legal matters. Not criminal matters.”
“I can’t explain everything to him, Cal,” Ricky said. “He’s got a lawyer coming, right?”
Cal nodded. “Linda Hart.”
Impatient with the exchange, Robertson moved to Missy Taggert’s side, standing over the body of Glenn Spiegle, and asked, “Missy, you have a time of death?”
Troyer stood his place to listen just inside the barn door, and Ricky resumed his search of the trunk of Burkholder’s car.
To Robertson, Missy said, “I just took a liver temperature,” and held up her abdomen probe.
“What’s that tell us?” Robertson asked, beginning to dump some of his frustration with Cal.
“I need to make some calculations,” Missy said, kneeling to clip her temperature probe back into its case. The curls of her brown hair were tucked up inside a medical cap, and she wore a white coat over her slacks and sweater. She stood and explained.
“Darba said she turned the car off when she found the body. But she didn’t come down here right away, so it had been running for quite some time.”
Robertson interrupted, “She told Ellie on the phone that it wasn’t but maybe ten minutes before she came down here. Ten minutes after seeing Burkholder bolt up the drive.”
“Point is, Bruce, she did wait. And the car was running. So, that would have warmed it up in here. Warmer than outside, anyway, and when she turned the car off, it would have started cooling down in here. So, we can chart that.”
“How?”
“As soon as we got here, Pat Lance started taking ambient temperature readings.”
