Shamed

by Linda Castillo

  I tell him everything I know about the case, my suspicions about an infant being taken from the area seven years ago. I don’t know if I can trust him, but in light of what happened to Sadie Stutzman, I don’t have a choice. I hold nothing back.

  “That’s why you were asking about missing kids,” he mutters almost to himself.

  I nod. “And Noah Schwartz.”

  He scratches his head. “You think that hit-and-run has something to do with all this?”

  “I do.”

  “Holy cow.” He blinks at me. “So are we talking about a stolen baby?”

  “Or an illegal adoption of sorts involving Noah Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman.”

  “And now both of them are dead.”

  I nod.

  “Shit.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Any idea who?”

  I shake my head. “A relative. Biological parent or parents.” I shrug. “Someone close to the family.”

  We watch a white Suburban with SCIOTO COUNTY CORONER emblazoned on the doors pull into the driveway.

  “Maybe I ought to take another look at the hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz,” he says after a moment.

  “I’d appreciate it if you did.” I watch the technician open the rear door of the Suburban and roll a gurney out of the back. “I thought I might talk to the new bishop before I head back to Painters Mill. See if he can shed some light on any of this.”

  He nods, interested now, his eyes level on mine. “You think he knows something about this?” He motions toward the house.

  I give him the only answer I can. “I don’t know.”

  “Look, I’ll do what I can to send you on your way, but someone in our investigations division is going to want to talk to you; they’re going to want a statement.” He motions toward my sidearm. “They’re going to need your weapon, too.”

  I don’t relish the idea of being without my .38 for the remainder of the trip, especially after what just happened, but I don’t argue. I sigh. “That’s fine.”

  “Hang tight, Chief Burkholder, and I’ll get things rolling.”

  * * *

  Bishop Melvin Chupp lives on a dirt track off of Hansgen Morgan Road near Wheelersburg. It’s a pretty piece of land with an old brick farmhouse and two big red bank barns in the back. The woman who answers the door tells me I’ll find her husband in the barn. She hands me a paper plate heaped with a dozen or so oatmeal cookies to take to him and tells me I should eat as many as I can because he “eats like a starved horse.”

  Carting the plate, I take a barely-there stone path to the barn. The big sliding door stands open, so I take the ramp and go inside. The pleasant smells of horses and hay and leather greet me like old friends. “Hello?” I call out. “Bishop Chupp?”

  “Who wants to know?” comes a whispered voice.

  “Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

  “I like the sound of that name. Come on back.”

  Balancing the paper plate of cookies in my right hand, I start toward the sound of the voice. I find the bishop in the first stall I come to. He glances at me and puts his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  I look past him to see a goat in the throes of kidding. For an instant, the case and all its darkness and urgency fall to the wayside. I forget about the death of Sadie Stutzman, the ambush this morning, and for a short span of time, I’m living in the moment, enthralled, watching three tiny creatures enter the world.

  As the doe begins to lick the afterbirth from her offspring, I find myself thinking of the bond between a mother and her offspring. I think about the woman who gave birth to Elsie Helmuth and I wonder: How far would a parent go to get their child back?

  I look at the bishop and motion toward the aisle outside the stall. “Kann ich shvetza zu du e weil?” I ask. Can I talk to you awhile?

  “Kannscht du Deitsch schwetze.” You can talk Dutch. The Amish man grins, as pleased as he is amused. “That’s two miracles in one day,” he exclaims. “First triplet goats and then an Englischer speaking Deitsch!”

  Breaking into laughter, he follows me from the stall. Once we’re in the aisle, I hand him the cookies. “From your wife.”

  Smiling down at the plate, he rubs his fingers together and selects the biggest one. “She’s stingy with the sweets.”

  “Probably for your own good.”

  “It is.”

  Narrowing his eyes, noticing the bruises on my face, he proffers the plate. “You look like you could use a little kindness.”

  I take a cookie without answering and we eat in silence for a moment. I don’t know this man from Adam, but I find myself liking him. He’s got gentle eyes filled with jollity and a discerning intelligence.

  “I understand you’re the newly ordained bishop,” I say.

  “The voice of the church spoke, and I was struck by the lot,” he says, referring to the Amish practice of selecting their bishop from the ordained leaders by lot.

  “I’m working on a case, Bishop, and I need your help.” I tell him about the murder of Mary Yoder and the kidnapping of Elsie Helmuth.

  His expression sobers. “I will pray for them,” he says quietly.

  “I think Bishop Schwartz may have been involved in … an unofficial adoption of a newborn infant seven years ago.”

  “Unofficial adoption?”

  “I have reason to believe a baby born here in Scioto County was, for unknown reasons, taken from her mother and transported to Painters Mill to be placed with another Amish family. Bishop Schwartz and a midwife, Sadie Stutzman, were involved.” I pause, grapple with the words. “As you know, Bishop Schwartz was killed a couple of weeks ago. Sadie Stutzman was murdered sometime this morning.”

  “Sadie? Mein Gott.” My God. The Amish man steps back, presses his hand to his chest. “You know this for certain?”

  I nod. “I just left the scene.”

  He looks down at the ground, troubled, his brows knitting. “Sis en gottlos ding.” It’s a godless thing.

  I watch him carefully, gauging his responses, trying to discern if he’s already familiar with the information I’ve relayed. The only emotions that come back at me are shock and the grief of a man who already bears a heavy load.

  “I believe someone living in this area knows what happened seven years ago,” I tell him. “I believe that person traveled to Painters Mill, murdered the girl’s grandmother, and took the child. I think this individual may be a family member or parent. That little girl is in grave danger.”

  The bishop lowers the cookie he’d been nibbling and sets the plate on a bale of hay next to him. “I will pray for her safe return.”

  “Does the name Marlene Byler mean anything to you?” I ask.

  He sags, as if the memory is a physical weight on his shoulders. “Her story is a sad and terrible one.” He raises his gaze to mine. “It was a long time ago. Do you think what happened to Marlene has something to do with this missing child?”

  I tell him what little I know. “She was Mary Yoder’s sister.”

  The bishop sighs, resigned. “I didn’t know Marlene, but I heard the stories. She was … disturbed.” He taps his temple with a fingertip. “Here. She suffered with headaches and fevers. Thought she was possessed by the devil. Narrisch, you know.” Insane.

  “Did she seek treatment?”

  “From Amish healers mostly. A local chiropractor. I heard she went to the Brauch-Doktor in Pennsylvania a couple times.”

  “Brauch-Doktor” is the Deitsch term for “powwowing,” which is basically faith healing, using incantations, amulets, or charms to heal. The rituals are mysterious, often used as a last-resort type of treatment. Most Amish today condemn the practice; many of the young aren’t even aware of its existence.

  “There were all sorts of rumors,” he tells me.

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “About men. English, Amish. She wasn’t living a godly life.”

  “Does she have any children?”

  “Rumor had it when she jumped fr
om that bridge, she took her last child with her.”

  It’s a tragic, haunting tale. The question foremost in my mind is: Does it have anything to do with the abduction of Elsie Helmuth and the murder of her grandmother?

  “Do you know if Bishop Schwartz kept any writings or letters?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I’ve not seen such a thing. Noah’s death came so suddenly … no one was prepared. You’ve checked with Lizzie?”

  I tell him as much as I can without revealing anything she wouldn’t want disclosed.

  The smile that follows is so heavy and filled with grief that I feel the weight of it in my own heart. “There’s a saying among the Amish. Wu schmoke is, is aa feier.” Where there is smoke, there is fire. “I will ask around, look for the answers you need. If I find something, I will let you know.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Seventy-four hours missing

  It was nights like this that tested a man’s faith. Nights that were as dark and cold as the devil’s heart—if indeed, the beast possessed any semblance of a heart at all.

  Bishop David Troyer didn’t think so. Mary Yoder was dead. The little girl was probably gone, too. He didn’t know how it had come to this. He didn’t know what he could have done to stop it or change it. He’d prayed for God to send him the wisdom and the strength he needed to make things right. Somehow, he’d failed. He’d failed all of them. God. Himself. The Helmuth family. He’d especially failed little Elsie.

  He left the Helmuth farm just ten minutes ago. Miriam and Ivan had spent most of the day praying for the safe return of their daughter. They’d prayed for Mary Yoder. For their children. The bishop thought maybe they should pray for forgiveness, too—all of them—but he didn’t say it. That was on him and he would bear the load alone—even if it crushed him.

  His faith was the one thing that had always made him strong, given him joy in times of sorrow, light when there was only darkness. He held his faith dear and he used it to serve. It made him a better man, a better father and husband; it made him a better bishop. His faith in the Heavenly Father was his whole heart. It was his peace. His guidance.

  This evening, Bishop Troyer was troubled and questioning decisions he’d once been so certain of, namely the decision he’d made seven years ago regarding the fate of an infant at risk. Had he done the right thing? Had he been honest with God? Had he been honest with himself? The questions pummeled him and yet he had no answers.

  Clucking to the horse, he snapped the lines against the gelding’s rump and sent the animal into an extended trot. Around him the early evening was windy, cold, and damp. The kind of cold that seeped to the bone.

  “God, this hidden sin eats away at my heart.” He whispered the words from memory. “I have no peace because of it. Help me to give it to You.”

  At the intersection of County Road 150 and Township Road 104, he made the turn toward home and headed north. The clip-clop of the horse’s shoes echoed among the treetops. A gust of wind made the branches clatter like bones.

  He was thinking about the notes, about a little girl who might have left this world all too soon, when a tremendous slug of pain exploded in his side. He thought he heard a crack of thunder. The breath left his lungs. Fire burned and spread, hot wax boiling in his chest.

  He slumped forward, reached out, tried to break his fall. The strength leached from his muscles. One of the reins slipped from his hands. Then he was falling. His right shoulder struck the floorboard. An earthquake of pain in his chest. The cold grit of dirt and wood against his face. Blood on his hands, running like rain.

  The buggy stopped. Cold silence all around. The hiss of the wind. A volley of pain with every drumbeat of his heart. He couldn’t move. Wasn’t sure what had happened.

  Footsteps sounded, heavy on the asphalt. The labored breaths of someone nearby. The scuff of shoes. The bishop opened his eyes. Relief washed over him when he saw the Plain man. He tried to speak, but there was too much blood, and he managed little more than a gurgle.

  The man came to him. Hands touching his arm, his coat. “If thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain,” the man said in Deitsch.

  Only then did the bishop realize the man wasn’t there to help. Words flared in his brain. He had to stop this terrible thing he himself had helped put into play. “Forgive them,” he ground out. “For they know not what they do.”

  “Avvah shpoht,” came the voice. Too late.

  “Kumma druff!” The man slapped the horse’s rump.

  The buggy leapt forward.

  The bishop listened to the horse’s shoes against the ground, frightened and moving fast. Take me home, my heavenly Father, and he tumbled into the waiting darkness.

  CHAPTER 18

  Seventy-five hours missing

  I’m eastbound on US 62 west of Killbuck when my Bluetooth jangles. Glock’s name pops up on the display screen, so I hit answer.

  “Auggie didn’t send out a search party for me, did he?” I ask.

  The beat of silence that follows lasts an instant too long, and I know the news is bad. “Chief, I’m out at David Troyer’s place. He’s been shot. Wife found him twenty minutes ago. It’s bad.”

  The words hit me like the blade of a shovel in my chest. “Shot?” I repeat dumbly. “Bishop Troyer?”

  “He’s alive. Ambulance just left. He’s en route to the hospital. I’m here at their farm, trying to figure out what the hell happened. Tomasetti’s on the way.”

  “My God.” I almost can’t wrap my mind around the notion of Bishop Troyer becoming a victim of violence. He’s been a constant in my life—for better or worse—for as long as I can remember. He’s larger than life. Untouchable. Impervious to all the ills that plague us mere mortals. In the back of my mind, a little voice reminds me that he was there the night Bishop Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman brought a baby to Painters Mill.

  “I’m ten minutes out.” I hit my emergency lights, crank the speedometer to eighty. “What’s the bishop’s condition?”

  Another hesitation. “I don’t know yet. But it’s serious, Chief. Get here as quick as you can.”

  * * *

  I arrive at the Troyer farm to an ocean of emergency vehicles. The road in front of the house is blocked off on both sides by Holmes County Sheriff’s Department cruisers. A deputy sets out flares. I yank out my badge, roll down my window. He motions me past and I speed by without speaking.

  As I barrel up the lane I see an Ohio State Highway Patrol Dodge Charger. Two more cruisers from Holmes County. Tomasetti’s Tahoe is parked at an odd angle behind a buggy to which a horse is hitched. There’s an ambulance and a fire truck with the Painters Mill volunteer fire department. Glock’s cruiser is parked a few yards away. Half a dozen cops mill about.

  I park behind the Tahoe and throw open my door. I’m out and running before I even know where I’m going. I spot Glock standing next to Sheriff Mike Rasmussen. Both men give my bruised face a double take as I stride toward them.

  “Chief?” Glock says, looking concerned.

  “What happened to Troyer?” I ask.

  “Kate.” Rasmussen’s expression is grim. He’s looking at me as if he isn’t quite sure he can give it to me straight, so I make an effort to tone it down, yank back my emotions, stuff them back in their hole.

  “All we know is that he was shot,” the sheriff tells me.

  He motions toward the buggy a few feet away. “Wife said he was over at the Helmuths’. He was late getting home. She walked out here and found him in the buggy. Troyer was slumped over, unconscious. We’re still trying to figure things out, but it looks like he was shot elsewhere and the horse brought him home.”

  “His wife ran half a mile to the neighbors, and they called 911,” Glock adds.

  Beyond him, I see Tomasetti; he’s talking to a trooper, but he’s caught sight of me. Abruptly, he ends his conversation and heads my way. “Chief Burkholder.”

  I start toward the buggy. I’m midway there wh
en he sets his hand on my shoulder, turns me around. Concern sharpens his features, tightens his mouth. “What happened to your face?”

  “I got jumped,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “Kate…”

  “I can’t talk right now.”

  “You need to see this,” he snaps.

  I waver, turn to him. I watch as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a clear plastic bag. There’s something inside. A smear of blood on the plastic. The ground swells and dips beneath my feet when I recognize the eyeglasses inside. They’re small and round with thick lenses. Lenses that are cracked and covered with blood.

  The sight is a jab to my solar plexus that takes my breath. For a moment, I can’t speak. Finally, I manage, “They’re Elsie’s. Where did you find them?”

  “Buggy. On the seat.” He shakes his head. “We don’t know if Troyer had them for some reason or if the shooter left them.”

  “He left them for us to find,” I say. “The son of a bitch.”

  “I’m going to rush them to the lab. Have the blood analyzed, check for latents.”

  “Dear God if he hurt that child,” I hear myself say, trying to breathe, get oxygen into my lungs.

  He grimaces, looks away. “I’ll have Ivan confirm the glasses belong to the girl.”

  It’s not going to be easy. I want to be there, I realize. But I can’t leave. “I need to talk to the bishop’s wife.”

  “Go,” he says. “I’ll take care of this.”

  I start toward the buggy. I’m ten feet away when I spot the pool of blood on the gravel. There’s more inside the buggy, dripping down the side. Someone has set up mini orange cones demarking the pool. I walk around the buggy, taking in details. There’s an afghan on the seat, also stained with blood. A thick smear on the seat front. Dear God …

  I look over my shoulder toward the men. Glock and Rasmussen have followed me over. “Where did this happen?” I ask.

  “We’re trying to figure it out,” Rasmussen says. “We’ve got a trail of blood. Deputies are tracing it now.”