Shamed

by Linda Castillo

  Tomasetti says nothing.

  “I don’t want to be right about this.” I look around. “If Sadie Stutzman was concerned about the welfare of the children, if she thought Rosanna was somehow unfit, I can understand her going to the bishop. I can see the bishop stepping in.”

  He looks away as if digesting the dark undercurrents, his eyes skimming the surrounding land, the fields, the woods beyond. “We don’t know what happened here.”

  “No, but we have a theory.” A theory that’s so hideous, neither of us says the words aloud …

  Tomasetti’s phone chirps. He looks down at it. “Kentucky Department of Criminal Investigation. Hang tight.” Turning away, he sets it to his ear.

  I glance toward the barn. The big sliding door stands open. There’s no sign of the deputy. I leave the cemetery and walk back to the house. The curtains at the window are parted by a couple of inches, so I go to it and peer inside. The interior is murky. I see light blue cabinets. An old-fashioned porcelain sink. Gas stove. Farther, I can just make out the corner of a kitchen table. I’m about to turn away when I hear a resonant thump from inside the house.

  Turning my head, I set my ear against the glass. I hold my breath and listen. The faint sound of pounding reaches me. Cupping my hands, I look, try to see past the grime and dim light. There’s no one there, but I’ve no doubt I heard something.

  Muttering a curse, I try the knob, find it unlocked. I push open the door and step inside. There’s a row of windows to my right. A bench seat to my left. The room is dirty. There are clumps of dried mud, leaves, and grass on the floor.

  “Hello?” I call out loudly. “I’m a police officer. Is someone there?”

  The house reeks of mildew and dust and day-old garbage. I continue on, enter the kitchen. It’s tidy and a bit cleaner, with a table and four chairs. A dozen or so mason jars sit on the counter next to an old-fashioned bread box. A towel is draped over the edge of a sink.

  The sound of pounding startles me. It’s muffled; I’m not sure where it’s coming from. Rounding the table, I move to the living room. Beyond is a murky hall with two doors. One opens to a bathroom. The other door is closed. There’s a padlock, shiny and new and starkly out of place.

  The pounding sounds again.

  Senses on alert, I go to the door, set my ear against the wood. “Who’s there?”

  The tempo of the pounding increases. “Let me out!” A little girl’s voice, high-pitched and panicked.

  “Elsie?”

  “Let me out! Let me out! I promise to be good!”

  A hundred thoughts tear through my brain. I lift the lock, but it’s engaged. I look around for the key, but it’s nowhere in sight.

  Caution makes me hesitate. I don’t know if there’s anyone else in the house. I don’t know if the girl is alone. If there’s someone with her. If they’re armed …

  “Are you alone?” I call out.

  “Yes! I’m scared! Pleeeeeeease lemme out! I promise not to run away!”

  “I’m a policeman,” I tell her. “Stay calm and keep quiet, okay? We’ll get you out.”

  Either the girl doesn’t hear me or she’s too panicked to comprehend my words. The pounding becomes frenzied. I can hear her crying, little fingernails scratching the door. No time to comfort her.

  I spin and dash through the kitchen. I tug out my .38 as I go through the mudroom; then I’m on the porch. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, on the phone. “I got her!” I say to him.

  He whirls, a collage of emotions playing in his expression. He’s already moving toward me. “Anyone else in the house?”

  “I don’t know. She said she’s alone.”

  Reaching into his jacket, he pulls his Kimber from his shoulder holster. “Let’s go get her.”

  We burst into the house, run through the kitchen. Tomasetti reaches the door first.

  “Can I come out now?” comes a tiny voice. “I want my mamm.”

  “Stand back,” he tells her. “I’m going to break down the door.”

  Silence.

  We exchange a look. “Are you away from the door, sweetheart?” I ask.

  “Ja!”

  Stepping back, Tomasetti raises his right leg and slams his foot against the door, next to the knob. Wood cracks, but holds. He kicks it again. On the third try, the wood jamb splits. The hasp holds. A final kick and the door flies open.

  It’s a tiny bedroom. Windows covered with plywood. Little Elsie Helmuth stands a few feet away, tears streaming, her hands over her face. It’s a heartrending sight. I want to go to her, put my arms around her. Let her know she’s safe. But we’re not sure what we’ve stumbled upon, so I hold my ground.

  Tomasetti enters the room, goes to her, bends to her. “We’re the police,” he says gently. “We’re here to take you home.”

  The girl rushes to him. Tomasetti sweeps her into his arms. I see her arms go around his neck, her legs wrap around his waist.

  “I want Mamm,” she sobs.

  For the span of several seconds, he holds her. He presses his cheek to the top of her head. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  The sight of him with the child in his arms moves me so profoundly that for a moment I have to blink back tears.

  Still wearing her dress and kapp, the little girl clings to Tomasetti, her arms tight around his neck, her legs around his middle, her face pressed against his shoulder. Tomasetti is holding her against him with one arm, the Kimber in his other hand.

  “I’m going to take her to the Explorer and call this in.” He flashes me a look, his expression a mosaic of relief and trepidation. “Get that deputy. Keep your eyes open.”

  Taking a final look at them, I turn and jog through the kitchen, go out the back door, and sprint toward the barn. The door stands open, but the interior is dark.

  “Deputy!” I call out.

  No answer.

  I reach the doorway, give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. It’s a huge structure with a low ceiling and support beams as thick as a man’s waist. To my right are tumbledown stalls with sliding doors in the front, Dutch doors that likely open to the outside pens. Some of the stall front boards are missing and have been piled on the floor. To my left are stairs that lead to the loft. Ahead, an old water trough is filled with wood planks and steel T-posts. Next to it, a tangled roll of rusty barbed wire lies in the dirt.

  “Deputy!” Gray light slants in through grimy windows; some of the panes are broken or gone. A large sliding door at the back of the barn stands open. I’ve just reached the door when I spot the deputy outside, sprawled on the ground, arms and legs splayed. A copious amount of blood covers his jacket.

  My .38 at my side, I start toward him. I’m midway there when I spot the pickup truck in the trees twenty yards away. Tan. Short bed. Tailgate down. A man stands on the other side of the truck, looking at me, his rifle leveled right at me.

  A gunshot sears the air. I spin, run back to the barn, throw myself against the nearest beam. Another shot rings out. The wood inches from my face explodes. Shards pierce my cheek, my temple, and my scalp. I reel backward, stumble, nearly fall.

  Through the open door I see the man round the truck. Rifle at his side.

  “Police!” I scream. “Drop your weapon!”

  He doesn’t obey my command.

  I raise the .38 and fire three times.

  The man wobbles, goes down on one knee. He looks my way. Face a mask of rage. He raises the rifle. The gunshot sears the air. I turn and run. Thoughts of Tomasetti and the girl flash. But I know he heard the gunfire.

  I look wildly for cover, sprint to the nearest stall, throw myself inside and to the floor. I speed-crawl to the front rail, peer between the wood planks. The shooter stands silhouetted at the door, rifle in hand, looking around. He’s a large man, tall and heavily built. Black jacket.

  Vernon Detweiler.

  He doesn’t see me, but I’m not well hidden. Slowly, trying to stay quiet, control my breathing, I kneel and shift into
position for a shot. The light is bad; the angle is worse. He’s forty feet away. This is my only chance. I have two bullets left. I set the .38 between the planks.

  If he looks in my direction, he’ll spot me. I’m visible between the rails. I take a deep breath, release it slowly. He walks into the barn and stops thirty feet away. He glances at the stairs to the loft, tilts his head, listening.

  He looks right at me, brings up the rifle. I pull off two shots. The man goes to his knees. Blood blooms on his shirt, but he doesn’t fall.

  I watch in horror as he struggles to his feet. Blood streaks down the right leg of his trousers. A red stripe on his hand where he holds the stock. He starts toward me.

  “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy,” he says.

  Panic slams down on me. I’m out of ammo and facing an armed killer. No place to hide. My only chance is to run and pray I don’t get shot in the back.

  I scramble to my feet, fling myself to the Dutch door that will take me to the pens outside. I slap off the hook latch. Hit the door with both hands. It doesn’t budge. I ram my shoulder against it. I step back, kick it. The door refuses to open. Something blocking it on the other side. I unfasten the hook latch of the top door, slap my hands against it, shove. The door doesn’t move. I glance to the next stall, but there’s no way to reach it. Boards go all the way to the ceiling. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  I hear him at the stall door, just ten feet away. I glance over my shoulder, see him standing in the doorway of the stall, looking at me, the rifle at his shoulder, finger inside the guard.

  Dear God he’s going to kill me.

  A horrific sense of helplessness assails me. I turn to face him, raise my hands, knowing they won’t stop a bullet.

  “Ich vissa si nemma deim bobli!” I scream the words. I know they took your baby!

  A tremor passes through his body. He lowers the rifle, cocks his head, stares at me as if I’m some apparition that can’t be explained.

  I don’t know if it’s my use of Deitsch or the mention of his daughter that kept him from pulling the trigger. All I know is it worked. I’m alive. I keep talking.

  “I know they took Nettie.” My voice is breathless and high, my breaths labored. I’m shaking so violently, I can barely stand. I can’t believe I’m still alive.

  “They shouldn’t have taken her,” I choke.

  Confusion suffuses his expression. “They told us she died. Our sweet Nettie. But they took her. They left us to mourn the way we’d mourned the others. All this time. Such a wicked thing. They knew, and yet they said nothing. They let us suffer.”

  I stare at him, my mind racing for the right words. “Vernon, I don’t blame you for being angry. I would be, too. But this isn’t the way to make things right.”

  “Some things cannot be made right. Too much time has passed. Too much grief.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “The cruel things they said about my wife. All the talk. So vicious. I cannot stand for it.”

  “Put down the gun,” I say.

  “I won’t let you take her.”

  “I’m not going to take her. I’ll help you. Please put down the rifle so we can talk.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for your daughter. Do it for Nettie.”

  “Too late for talk, Kate Burkholder. You should’ve stayed in Painters Mill.” He raises the rifle, levels it at my chest.

  Everything grinds to a horrifying slow-motion clip. His finger curls inside the guard. On the trigger. Tomasetti …

  “No!”

  The scream shatters the air. An Amish woman runs to him from behind. Forty years old. Gray dress. Black winter bonnet. Rosanna Detweiler.

  “No more killing,” she cries.

  Detweiler looks at her over his shoulder. “They are going to take Nettie from us.”

  A gasp escapes her when she notices the blood on his jacket. “This is not the way,” she says breathlessly. “It’s not our way. Not this.”

  When he doesn’t lower the rifle, the woman steps around him. Even from ten feet away I see her shaking. Her hands. Legs. Shoulders. Tears streaming, she levers down the nose of the rifle.

  “Those who use swords are destroyed by swords,” she says.

  “We are her parents.” He shakes off her touch, raises the rifle. “They cursed our lives. Caused us untold grief.”

  “What about the grief you’ve caused?” she cries. “All this killing. When will it stop?”

  “I did it for you, Ros. For us. All of it.”

  “It’s too late.” The words are the howl of a wounded animal. “That poor child has been crying for her mamm since the day she arrived. We’re not her family. I’m not the one she needs. We are not the ones she loves.”

  The Amish man chokes out a sound that’s part sob, part gasp. “It was God’s will,” he whispers. “The way things should have been all along.”

  “We have to let her go,” the woman says.

  He sways, sets his hand against the stall door. A collage of emotion infuses his face. Grief. Resignation. All of it overridden by pain, both physical and psychological.

  Movement at the door draws my attention.

  “Drop the rifle! Do it now! Drop the weapon!” Tomasetti stands at the sliding door, his Kimber leveled on Vernon Detweiler. “Drop your weapon and do not move. Do it or I will shoot you where you stand!”

  For an instant, I think the Amish man is going to follow through on the feral light in his eyes; he’s going to raise the rifle, kill his wife, finish me—or Tomasetti. For an interminable moment he stands frozen, labored breaths hissing between clenched teeth, eyes wild, rifle steady in his hands.

  He looks at the woman. “They shamed you.”

  “I am not ashamed,” she whispers.

  Another flash of emotion in his eyes, sharp edges cutting.

  The rifle clatters to the ground.

  “Get your hands up!” Tomasetti is halfway to us, crouched, moving fast, cautious. “Do not move! Get on your knees! Do it now!”

  Never taking his eyes from the woman, Vernon Detweiler raises his hands and drops to his knees. Beaten, he lowers his head as if in prayer.

  I get to my feet. My body quakes with such intensity I have to grab on to the rail as I make my way to the stall door.

  Weapon trained on Vernon Detweiler, Tomasetti nudges the rifle away with his foot, out of reach. “Get down on your belly,” he tells the Amish man. “Spread your hands and legs.”

  Vernon Detweiler obeys.

  Tomasetti casts a look at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. The deputy is down.”

  He curses. “County is on the way.”

  I cross to the woman. “Rosanna Detweiler?”

  “Yes.” The Amish woman raises shaking hands, like a child reaching out to break a fall, and looks at me. “Where’s Nettie?”

  A hundred questions boil in my brain. But I’m ever cognizant of my status as a civilian here in Boyd County, Kentucky. I can’t Mirandize her. I can’t ask the things I so desperately need to know. Conversely, neither can I keep her from speaking if she so wishes to do so.

  “Safe,” I tell her.

  While Tomasetti puts the zip ties on Detweiler, I perform a cursory pat-down on Rosanna. Finding nothing, I motion to the ground directly in front of the stall. “Have a seat and do not move.”

  She obeys.

  Tomasetti walks over to me. “Keep an eye on him. I’m going to stay with the deputy until the paramedics get here.”

  Turning slightly, I position myself so that both Detweilers are readily visible and accessible if I need to reach them. While Tomasetti attends to the deputy a few yards away, I fish the speed loader from my duty belt, load the rounds into the empty cylinder of my .38, and I place the gun back in its holster.

  “You treated the girl well,” I say in Deitsch.

  “Of course we did. We’re not monsters.”

  The irony of the statement burns. I think about Mary Yoder. Noah Schw
artz. Sadie Stutzman. Bishop Troyer. Three lives snuffed out, a fourth irrevocably changed. And for what?

  The Amish woman looks up at me. “You’re Amisch?”

  “I was,” I say, hoping she’ll talk to me, willing her to talk.

  In the distance, sirens wail. Vernon Detweiler lies prone and unmoving just a few yards away. Outside the sliding door, Tomasetti kneels, speaking quietly to the injured deputy.

  I look at Rosanna Detweiler and I feel a hundred unasked questions pushing against the floodgate.

  “I know what it’s like,” I say to her. “All those rules. All the expectations.”

  She stares at me, saying nothing.

  “There’s a lot of pressure to conform when you’re Amish,” I say slowly. “A lot of cultural norms. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t abide. I couldn’t be the girl they expected me to be.”

  “The Amish and all their morals.” Bitterness rings hard in her voice. “How moral were they when they took my baby?”

  I wait, hoping she’ll continue.

  Her gaze settles on her husband. Pain flashes in her eyes at the sight of him facedown in the dirt, the blood on his clothes. Tears squeeze between her lashes. “All he ever wanted was to have a family,” she whispers. “Little ones, you know. It was the one thing I couldn’t give him. I tried, but … He went to them, you know.”

  “The Helmuths?”

  “Vern went to see Mary Yoder. A week ago in Painters Mill. He asked her to return the girl. The child that was rightfully ours.” Her mouth tightens. “The old woman refused. She threatened to go to the bishop. The police, even. Such a selfish, stubborn woman.” Her lips tremble. Tears stream down her cheeks. “I realize this must sound crazy now, but had things worked out differently, Vern would have been a good datt.”

  It’s an outrageous statement, but I let it go without a response.

  “Sadie thought I was hurting the babies.” She whispers the words as if she’s sharing some secret that’s so forbidden it cannot be uttered aloud. “She never said as much, but I knew. I could tell by the way she looked at me. All the questions.

  “I didn’t hurt them. I would never commit such a terrible sin. Maybe I wasn’t as good a mamm as I should have been. You know, cooing and kissing and the lot. I think Sadie must have picked up on that.”