After being inside for over three hours with so many people and having to be “on” the entire time, I feel as if I can breathe the instant I step outside. The wind has kicked up and smells of woodsmoke and snow. Clouds have gobbled up the sunshine from earlier. I shiver as I make my way around the side of the barn toward the rear.
To my right a dozen or so buggies are parked in a neat row. The two young hostlers stand nearby, watching me. I wave, but they turn away without returning the gesture.
I reach the back of the barn and take the stone steps to a path of trampled snow that wends through the trees. Ten yards away, two white clapboard buildings stand side by side. The one to my right is marked FRAW, so when the path splits, I go right. The outhouse is exactly that, but more closely resembles the kind you might find in a park. After making use of the facilities, I walk to the rear of the building to see what’s there.
I find myself staring into an ocean of winter-dead trees tangled with vines and a few evergreens. To the west, the land dips down and over the tops of the trees, I see the smooth white surface of a plowed field. Remembering the aerial photos, I realize that beyond the field is a good-size creek.
A shriek breaks the silence. I look around, try to discern the direction from which it came and the nature of the sound. Spotting tracks, I leave the walkway and follow them down the hill. I’ve only gone a few yards when I hear male laughter. Youthful. More than one. I change direction slightly, my boots nearly silent against the snow.
The trees open to a clearing where four Amish teenagers have gathered. Three boys and one girl. At first I think they’ve slipped away to hang out and have some harmless fun. Then one of the boys lunges forward and shoves the girl using both hands. She reels backward, arms flailing, and lands on her behind in the snow. Instinct kicks in and before I can stop myself I move out of the trees. The three boys turn toward me, mouths open, arms loose. I see surprise on their faces. A topical uneasiness tells me they’re not overly alarmed by my presence. The boy who shoved the girl casts me an annoyed glare. He’s disappointed I had the gall to interrupt.
I look at the girl, recognize her immediately: Marie Weaver. “Are you all right?”
Getting to her feet, she brushes snow from her coat. “I’m fine.”
I turn my attention to the boy who shoved her. He’s about nineteen years old. Sandy hair. Bad haircut. Vivid blue eyes. An attitude I’m no stranger to, especially when it comes to young males pumped up on testosterone. He might’ve been attractive if not for the angry patches of acne on his cheeks and the bad attitude in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” The question is out—in my cop’s voice no less—an instant before I remind myself who I am and why I’m here. Amish women aren’t pushovers, but they’re not as assertive as I am, especially when it comes to men.
In the periphery of my vision, I see the other boys exchange looks that relay the question: Who the hell is she? The one I’m addressing meets my gaze head on and holds it. “Jacob Yoder.”
The boy who’d been courting Rachel Esh.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“We could ask you the same thing.”
I glance over to the other boy to my left. Dark brown hair. Too long with blunt-cut bangs. Pale skin. Brown eyes. A sharp retort dangles on my tongue, but I curb it. Instead, I stare hard at him until he looks away and I turn my attention back to the girl. “What’s going on?”
She looks over her shoulder as if the answer lies somewhere within the trees. “We were just goofing off,” she mumbles.
“Is that why he pushed you down?” I ask.
Yoder steps closer. “I didn’t—”
“I saw you.” I stand my ground, and he doesn’t come any closer.
“We were just playing around,” Yoder says. “Ain’t that right, Marie?”
I make eye contact with the girl. She looks down at her shoes. “We were just playing.”
A little voice inside my head warns: Be careful.
“Who are you?” The third boy, in his late teens with strawberry-blond hair, looks at his friends, emboldened by them. “I ain’t seen your face around here before.”
“Yeah.” The dark-haired boy moves closer, stops a few feet away, looks me up and down. “You’re not even from around here and you think you can tell us what to do.”
Under any other circumstances, the last thing I’d do is give up ground, literally or figuratively. These young men are up to no good, and the cop inside me would like nothing better than to shove their bad attitudes down their throats. But I need to maintain the persona of a newly relocated, recently widowed Amish woman. Dropping my gaze, I take a step back. “I’m Kate Miller,” I tell him. “I heard this girl call out, and I thought she needed help.”
“Well, she don’t need any help,” Yoder tells me. “From you or anyone else.” He grins at the girl. “She likes it rough. Ain’t that so, Marie?”
I look at the girl. For the first time I notice the red welt on her cheek. The anger and humiliation simmering in her eyes. I wonder if she has other marks in places no one can see.
“I could use some help loading my things into the buggy,” I tell her. “Would you give me a hand?”
For an instant, she looks torn. She doesn’t want to be here, and yet she doesn’t want to acquiesce in front of these boys. I turn my attention to Yoder. “You can help, too, if you’d like.”
No one moves. No one replies. I look at Marie, sending a silent communication that she should come with me. She gives me nothing in return. Nodding at the boys, I turn and take a few steps toward the barn. When I glance back, I see the girl following.
Raucous laughter chases us as we wend through the trees and take the path toward the barn. Neither of us speaks until we reach the outhouses.
“What was that all about?” I ask as we step onto the stone walkway.
“We were just goofing off,” she mumbles.
I motion toward her cheek. “Is that how you got that mark on your face?”
“I did that on a tree branch.” She stops walking and gives me a who-the-fuck-are-you-anyway look. “Why do you care? I don’t even know who you are.”
“I just moved here.” I jab a thumb in the general direction of the boys. “I didn’t like what I saw back there.”
She stares at me, her expression set and stubborn. “You don’t know what you saw.”
“Maybe I ought to tell the bishop.”
Her mouth opens. Apprehension flashes in her eyes. “That’ll only make things worse.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“The bishop doesn’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He just doesn’t. He thinks…” She lets the words trail. “Forget it.”
Her body language tells me she doesn’t want to go back to the barn. But she doesn’t want to stand here talking to me, either, so I let her off the hook. “I don’t have anything that needs loading.”
“I wasn’t going to help you with it, anyway.” Making a teen’s customary sound of annoyance, she turns and walks into the outhouse. I wait, trying to decide if I should ask her about Rachel Esh. According to Anna, the girls were best friends. If anyone has an insight into Rachel’s life—or her death—it’s Marie. I go to the edge of the porch area and look out over the woods. Marie emerges a minute later, shoots me a nasty glare, and starts toward the barn without speaking.
I fall into step beside her. “I just realized where I heard your name,” I say slowly. “You were the Esh girl’s best friend.”
She stops and swings around to face me. “How do you know about her? I thought you weren’t from around here?”
I keep my answer vague. “One of the women inside was talking about what happened.” I pause. “That explains why you’re so sad.”
“I’m not sad,” she snaps.
“You were friends.”
“Yeah, well, she’s gone so it doesn’t matter, does it?”
We
continue toward the barn, but stop when we reach the concrete walkway where the roof extends out. “Do you know what happened to her?” I ask.
“No one does,” she mutters.
“Did those boys know her?”
“Everyone knows everyone around here. In case you haven’t noticed, Roaring Springs is a small town.”
“She was too young to die.” Noticing dried grass on the sleeve of her coat, I brush it off. “And you’re too young to be so sad.”
“Yeah, well, no one cares what you think.”
I nod toward the woods where the boys are. “Look, you don’t know me, but … I have a niece your age. If you ever get into trouble or need help, you can come to me. I’m staying at the Bowman trailer. Do you know where that is?”
“I don’t need help from you or anyone else.” Casting me a disdainful look, she walks away.
“You’re wrong about one thing,” I say to her back.
She keeps walking.
“It matters,” I call out.
She doesn’t look back.
CHAPTER 11
One of the unwritten rules of Amish etiquette is that you don’t leave directly after the post-service meal. Sunday is the only day set aside for rest, and most take full advantage of the opportunity to visit with their neighbors and friends. By the time the Gingeriches drop me off at the trailer, it’s nearly four P.M.
I’ve put in some long days in the course of my career; I’ve pulled all-nighters and worked around the clock more times than I can recall. I don’t ever remember being as mentally exhausted as I am today. I’ve been “on” since this morning, unable to let down my guard even for a moment. Pretending to be someone you’re not and trying to keep all the lies straight is taxing, to say the least.
On the bright side, it was time well spent. Though I didn’t learn anything earth-shattering, I met dozens of people and came one step closer to establishing my place in the community.
The incident with Marie Weaver and the three boys niggled at the back of my brain all afternoon. It’s true that some Amish teens fall prey to the same bad behaviors as their “English” counterparts; they’re human, and as fallible as anyone else. But generally speaking, the vast majority are well behaved and respectful, especially when their elders are around.
When I confronted Jacob Yoder, he was not only unrepentant but defiant. As if he’d known there would be no repercussions. I was left with the impression that the incident wasn’t an anomaly. I can’t help but wonder if Rachel Esh knew them, too. If she’d been treated with the same level of disrespect. Or worse.
On the surface, today’s worship service had been typical; it would have been an enjoyable and fulfilling experience for any visitor. But I’m no ordinary visitor, and more than once I’d sensed there was something off-kilter. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I felt a nearly indiscernible thread of tension, of watchfulness—maybe even paranoia. It’s as if everyone was following some carefully written script and being cautious not to veer from it. Especially when the topic of Eli Schrock arose.
Every individual I met spoke highly of the bishop. His belief system. His kindness and generosity. His strength and leadership. But the reverence with which those words were uttered didn’t quite ring true. There was something left unspoken.
My own impressions of the bishop are mixed. He gave me no reason to harbor suspicion. He’s a charismatic man, a natural leader, and outwardly friendly, while at the same time commanding respect. He’s an enthralling speaker and delivered a rousing preaching service. He knows the Amish tenets and certainly wields the power to enforce them. All that said, when I looked into his eyes, I saw a flash of something unexpected. Tucked beneath the layers of benevolence and caring and a keen intelligence, I saw secrets. An innate darkness I’ve observed before—in the eyes of criminals.
I’m trying to put all my observations into order and pin down the specifics of what’s bothering me as I unlock the door and let myself into the trailer. More than anything, I want a hot shower and a few hours of downtime. I want to curl up on the sofa with my phone and a blanket and call Tomasetti. But there’s one more thing I need to do before dark: I want to see the place where Rachel Esh’s body was found.
Toeing off my boots, I pull on an extra pair of socks and put the boots back on. I run my hand over the .22 strapped to my thigh, find it secure. My phone is still tucked away in my coat pocket. Though it’s only a little past four, dusk is already settling in. As much as I don’t want to get caught in unfamiliar woods after dark, I’m glad for the added cover. If someone catches me sniffing around the scene, I’ll have some explaining to do.
Locking the door behind me, I descend the steps and round the trailer to the rear. The backyard is small and fenced with chain link that’s tangled with winter-dead vines. A rusty metal shed is nestled in the farthest corner. The door is bent and ajar, as if someone forced it open and didn’t bother repairing it. I take a moment to look inside, but there’s not much there. An old rotary push mower. A leaf rake. Snow shovel. A few clay pots. I move on to the fence at the back, shove open the gate, and then I’m in the woods and heading north.
I start off at a jog. It’s not easy in muck boots and a dress, especially with four inches of snow on the ground. I can’t imagine how silly I’d look to some casual observer. Luckily, I’m in the boonies, and chances are I won’t run into anyone.
My boots are nearly silent as I weave through the trees. Somewhere in the near distance a hawk whistles. It’s a melancholy, lonely sound in the silence of the forest. A light snow has begun to fall, and though my nerves are on alert, I can’t help but admire the stark beauty all around me.
I have only a general idea of my destination. Suggs told me the girl’s body was found near the lake. The tree nearest her body was flagged with orange marking paint. He thought there might be some scraps of crime scene tape left as well. He wasn’t sure.
It doesn’t take me long to reach the lake. It’s a good-size body of water—about two acres—and completely frozen over. A deer path runs alongside the water’s edge. I cut over to the trail and continue on. The snowfall is just enough to dust my shoulders and head covering. It’s cold, but the physical activity has warmed my core. Ever cognizant of the coming darkness, I maintain a brisk pace. It’ll be fully dark in half an hour. If I don’t find the scene quickly, I’ll have to turn around and wait until tomorrow.
I reach the end of the lake and stop, looking for the marking paint or any scrap of crime scene tape left behind. I turn, take a good look at my surroundings. I pick out a few landmarks, and then I leave the path and go left. I walk fifty yards, keeping my eyes on the tree trunks. When I think I’ve gone far enough, I go right for a few yards and then walk back toward the lake.
I’m about to give up when, twenty yards from the north end of the water, I find the orange X on the trunk of a massive birch tree. Of course there’s nothing to indicate Rachel Esh had ever been here, but there are signs that this was the scene of a police presence. A six-inch-long piece of yellow crime scene tape is tied around a sapling. Another piece is stapled to a larger trunk. The underbrush has been trampled, some of it cut away.
I’m no stranger to crime or the knowledge of the things human beings can do to each other. Even for an experienced cop, it’s unsettling to stand in a place where you know someone died, especially when their death was at the hands of another. I wonder about the girl’s final moments. Did she come out here alone and lose her way? Was the snow coming down too hard for her to find her way home? Was she lost, alone and afraid? Did she know she wasn’t going to make it out of these woods alive? Or did someone make sure she didn’t? Someone who, for reasons unknown, didn’t want her to survive?
I don’t expect to make some profound discovery simply by looking at the scene; nothing’s ever that easy. But I’ve heard it said that some places have memories. I’m not sure I believe it, but it’s almost always useful to visit a crime scene. I spend fifteen minutes walking the area, trying
to get a feel for it, the logistics of the surroundings, gain some sense of what might’ve transpired. Why would a fifteen-year-old Amish girl wander into the deep woods during a snowstorm? Where was she coming from? Where was she going? Was she alone? Running away from someone? To someone? I think about her recent pregnancy, the possibility of a home abortion. Did she do it herself? Or did someone help her? And who supplied her with the OxyContin that showed up in the tox screen?
I know one thing for certain: Rachel Esh kept a lot of secrets.
I make a mental note to ask Suggs about the OxyContin trade in the area, have him cross the names with some of the Amish I met today, see if any of them intersect. I walk the area a final time, but there’s nothing there. Just the remnants of a police presence, the knowledge of a life lost before its time, and an unsolved mystery that will be forgotten all too soon if someone doesn’t uncover the truth.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, my voice sounding strange in the silence of the forest.
I’ve just started toward the trailer when the toe of my boot nudges something beneath the snow. Kneeling, I brush away snow and pull out a faceless Amish doll. It’s about eight inches long. The fabric is tattered and dirty. Stitched into the material are the words LIFE BEYOND DEATH.
The odd inscription gives me pause. No one puts words like that on a child’s doll. More than likely they were sewn into the fabric subsequent to Rachel’s death and left here as some kind of tribute after the crime scene people left. Someone had cared about Rachel Esh. Mourned her death. Her parents? Her best friend, Marie Weaver? Her boyfriend? Or is this something else? The response of a guilty conscience from someone unknown?
I don’t have an evidence bag, so I drop the doll into my coat pocket. I’ll pass it off to Suggs later. Chances are it won’t tell us anything, but it’s worth a closer look.
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