Fallen

by Linda Castillo

  The vast majority of Amish men are well behaved when it comes to their female counterparts. They’re aware of appearances, particularly if they’re married. That said, I’m not blind to the reality that Amish men are as mortal as their English counterparts. They step over the line. They behave badly. Sometimes they break the law. Am I too close—not only to my brother, but to the young Rachael Schwartz I’d once known—to see the truth?

  It’s afternoon when I enter the corporation limit of Killbuck. Amos Gingerich’s settlement is located west of town on a county road that’s riddled with potholes. The vegetation is lush and overgrown in this low-lying area. Massive trees crowd the shoulders of the road, the branches scraping the doors and roof of the Explorer.

  Tomasetti made good on his promise to forward images of the letters Amos Gingerich sent Rachael Schwartz. His takeaway is spot-on. While the letters aren’t overtly threatening, it’s clear Gingerich wasn’t happy with her. The question in my mind now is: Did he act on all the anger simmering between the lines?

  Generally speaking, the Amish are pacifists and live by the canon of nonresistance. When under threat, they will not defend themselves or their property. If they have an unresolvable problem with a neighbor or town, they’ve been known to simply move away. In times of war, they are conscientious objectors and refuse to bear arms. I know the Amish charter by heart; I was raised with it and lived by it through my formative years. I may not agree with every aspect, but I am certain of one thing: The Amish are a good and decent society. They’re hardworking, family oriented, religious, and they are good neighbors.

  Amos Gingerich may have Anabaptist leanings, but I know enough about him to know he isn’t Amish, and I would be wise to use extreme caution when dealing with him, especially since I opted to come alone.

  Half a mile in, a wall of trees rises out of the ground and the road dead-ends. I bring the Explorer to a stop and sit there a moment, puzzled.

  “Well, shit.”

  I’m in the process of turning around when I spot the narrow opening between two walnut trees that’s shrouded with a tangle of wild raspberry bushes. The derelict remains of a mailbox slant up through hip-high bramble at a precarious angle. The number matches the address I have on file.

  I pick up my police-radio mike. “I’m ten-twenty-three.”

  “Ten-four,” comes Lois’s voice. “Be careful down there, Chief.”

  “That’s affirm.”

  I rack the mike and start down the lane, cringing when the branches scratch at the paint on my doors. The Explorer bumps over potholes and puddles, mud and gravel slinging into the wheel wells. I’ve traveled another half mile, wondering if I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere, when the trees fall away. The lane widens and I drive into a large clearing. A dozen or so small, clapboard buildings, the kind used for construction-site offices, form a half circle. The units are closely grouped, each with wood stairs and a porch adorned with a potted plant or lawn chair. To my left, I see a large swatch of what looks like a community garden, where two women wearing ankle-length dresses and winter bonnets hoe the soil between rows of tiny spring corn, caged tomato plants, and other, indistinguishable greens. Beyond, an old bank barn that was here long before the other structures lends a sense of character the rest of the place lacks. A couple of draft horses graze in a small pasture. In another pen, several pygmy goats stand on giant wooden spools, bleating. A black buggy—oddly adorned with an orange roof—is parked outside the barn. I take in the scene with the sense that it has been staged.

  I idle across the clearing to a hitching post in front of the nearest residence and shut down the engine. The two women don’t look up from their work as I get out of the Explorer, but I feel eyes on me as I make my way up the steps and cross to the door. I’ve barely knocked when the door cracks open several inches. I find myself looking at a woman, barely into her twenties. She’s hugely pregnant and wearing a longish print dress, and a head covering that’s neither Amish nor Mennonite.

  Her eyes widen at the sight of my uniform. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  I show her my badge. “I’m looking for Amos Gingerich,” I tell her.

  She blinks, her eyes darting left. “Amos?”

  It’s a dumb response. One designed to delay. She’s not quick enough to think of a viable stall off the top of her head, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Amos Gingerich,” I tell her. “I need to speak with him. Right now. Where is he?”

  She visibly swallows, then raises her hand and points toward the old bank barn. Before I can say anything else, she shrinks back inside and closes the door.

  “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” I mutter as I trot down the steps.

  I reach the open area where my Explorer is parked and keep going at a brisk clip toward the barn. To my left lies the garden. It’s a large chunk of land, an acre or so. The two women have stopped what they’re doing. They lean on their hoes, watching me. I raise my hand to wave, but they don’t return the gesture. I can’t help but notice both women are pregnant.

  The barn door stands open. I enter; the smells of cattle, horses, and freshly sawn wood lace the air. A few yards away, a man is bent over a table, working on something unseen. He’s broad shouldered and dressed in black. A ponytail dangles to midback. I stand there a moment, taking his measure. He’s well over six feet, two-fifty, with a muscular build. The flat-brimmed straw hat speaks of Amish leanings. The ponytail curtails any such misconception.

  I’m about to announce my presence when he turns. Whether he heard my approach or merely sensed my presence, I can’t tell, but when his eyes land on mine he’s not surprised by me or the sight of my uniform.

  He’s got a thin, expressive mouth. A hook nose. Salt-and-pepper beard that reaches nearly to the waistband of his trousers. If he were Amish, the beard would tell me he’s married and has been for some time. With this group, I’m not so sure. Pale eyes the color of an overcast sky. Amos Gingerich. I recognize him from the photos in Rachael’s book.

  “Ah, the police.” Good-naturedly, he presses his hand to his chest. “Am I in trouble?”

  Something about him I can’t quite pinpoint unsettles me in spite of his friendly tone. His accent tells me he’s not originally from this area. That Deitsch is likely not his first language.

  “That depends.” I approach him, tug my badge from my pocket, and introduce myself. “Amos Gingerich?”

  He nods. “What can I do for you?”

  Something disingenuous peeks out at me from behind his eyes, the curl of his mouth. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.

  Taking his time, he sets down the sander and plucks off his leather gloves. “This is about Rachael Schwartz?”

  “So you’ve heard.”

  “Word of death travels fast, especially when you’re Amish.”

  I don’t point out that his Amishness is debatable. “You knew her?”

  “She came to us, here in Killbuck. Stayed for a time.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Eleven or twelve years, I think. She’d been put under the bann by the bishop in Painters Mill. She was a troubled young woman.” He touches his chest. “Inside, you know. She was alone. Confused. She had nowhere to go and so we took her in. We offered her refuge and counsel. A place to live. We offered her hope.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “Six months or so.”

  “That’s not very long.”

  He shakes his head. “She was a restless soul. Searching for something she couldn’t name. After a time, she realized she could not abide by our ways.”

  “What ways is that?”

  “I don’t want to disparage her. That’s not our way. But she was … difficult.”

  “How so?”

  He shrugs. “She was … disruptive. As bishop, my community comes first. When I asked her to leave, she became angry.”

  “Was she angry with anyone in particular?”

  “Me, of course.
But she also turned on some of the womenfolk. Some of the girls she lived with. Accused them of spying.” He dismisses the word with a wave of his hand. “Strange things like that.” He shakes his head. “She tried to come back, get into our good graces. But I wouldn’t have it. A couple of years later that book came out. I was shocked by all the vicious lies. It caused problems for our small community. It seems young Rachael sold her soul for money.”

  I think about the rumors of polygamy, of children at risk, and the accusations that Gingerich is more cult leader than bishop. I ask anyway. “What kinds of problems?”

  “Reporters started sniffing around, accosting us here or in town, asking all sorts of questions. The police came, too, as did the social people with the government, wanting to know about the children.” His mouth tightens. “Our property was vandalized. People in town called us names or refused to do business with us. It was an outrage.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could we do? Like so many of our forefathers we put our fate in the hands of God and we weathered the storm.”

  “Did you blame Rachael Schwartz for any of it?”

  “I blame intolerance,” he tells me. “Ignorance.”

  I let it go, shift gears. “Was Rachael close with anyone in particular here in this community?”

  “She was only here for a short time. I don’t believe she got too close to anyone, really.”

  “What about you?” I ask.

  He tilts his head, the spark of something I can’t readily identify in his eyes. Irritation? Amusement? “What about me?”

  “Were you and Rachael close?” I ask.

  “No closer than any bishop and a member of his congregation.”

  I nod, look around, let the silence ride a moment. “So, you read her book?”

  “What I could stomach.”

  “Then you know Rachael claimed the two of you had a relationship.”

  “I’m aware of that untruth.” Another flash of pseudo amusement, darker this time, laced with anger. “The book was full of blasphemous lies. About me. My brethren. Written by a disgruntled and confused woman who in the end sold her soul for whatever the publisher paid her.”

  “You must have been angry,” I say.

  He gives me a pitying look, but there’s an unsettling glint in his eyes. Buried beneath all that righteousness and calm lies a cunning and indescribable menace that chills me, despite the .38 strapped to my hip.

  “I hold no anger toward anyone,” he tells me. “That’s not our way. Rachael Schwartz hot net der glaase.” Didn’t keep up the faith. “She made many unfounded and painful accusations. She tried to hurt those who only wanted to help. Yes, the police investigated, but then you already know that, don’t you, Kate Burkholder?”

  “I do.”

  A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It was a painful time for all of us.”

  “When’s the last time you had any contact with Rachael?” I ask.

  “I haven’t spoken to her since the day I asked her to leave.”

  “What about letters?” I ask.

  “Ah.” His mouth curls in such a way that I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a snarl or something in between. The one thing I do know is that it’s an unpleasant mien and it’s focused on me.

  “You obviously know I wrote to her. Simply to ask her to stop lying about us. Leave us be in peace.”

  “Did it escape your mind that you also threatened her?”

  “A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall perish,” he tells me. “In case you’re not well versed, and I suspect you are not, that passage is from the Bible. I thought it might help her see the error of her ways. That’s all.”

  “Where were you night before last?” I ask.

  “Here, of course.” He spreads his hands, encompassing the area around him.

  “Can anyone substantiate that?”

  “My wife. A few of the others here in our community.” He recites two names.

  I pull out my notebook and write them down.

  When I look up, he’s tilted his head, looking at me as if I’m some fascinating science project. Some small animal that’s about to be dissected by a kid who enjoys cutting a little too much. “I understand you’re fallen, too, Chief Burkholder. Perhaps you have something to confess as well.”

  For an instant, I’m startled that he knows I’m formerly Amish. Quickly, I settle, reminding myself that Painters Mill isn’t far from Killbuck. That gossip has wings. And that he probably knew at some point I’d drive down and talk to him.

  Taking my time, I drop the notepad and pen into my pocket. “I appreciate your time,” I say.

  And I walk away.

  CHAPTER 19

  I’ve just entered the corporation limit of Painters Mill when my cell lights up. Seeing HOLMES CNTY CORONER on the dash display, I hit ANSWER. “Hey, Doc.”

  “I’ve completed the autopsy of Rachael Schwartz. Report is in the works, but since time is of the essence, I thought you’d want to hear my findings,” he says.

  “Cause and manner of death?” I ask.

  “She died from multiple cranial-bone fractures, subdural and subarachnoid hemorrhages of the frontal, parietal, and temporal regions. Any one of those injuries could have been fatal.”

  “In English?” I say.

  “Skull fractures.” He heaves a sigh and for the first time I get the impression that this particular autopsy has exhausted him in a way that has little to do with a lack of sleep or physical stamina.

  “All of it from blunt-force trauma?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “Manner of death is homicide,” he finishes.

  “Were you able to narrow down the time of death?” I ask.

  “Between one and three A.M. That’s as close as we’re going to get, Kate.”

  “What about the rape kit?”

  “No semen.”

  I think about that, once again the question of motive swirling. “Is there a preliminary report you can send me, Doc?”

  “I’ll email you what I have. Won’t be finalized until tomorrow. I won’t close out until tox comes back in a couple weeks.”

  I’m about to thank him when he speaks again. “Kate…” He makes a sound that’s partly the clearing of his throat, but for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s emotion tucked away somewhere in that sound. “That girl had seven broken bones. Internal hemorrhaging. Facial injuries. In all the years I’ve served in the capacity of coroner, I’ve never seen so much trauma as the result of a beating.”

  I wait, vaguely aware that I’m holding my breath. That I’m moved by his reaction, the unusualness of it, and part of me knows this moment is important. Not only for me, but for Doc Coblentz.

  “I don’t know if what I’m about to tell you is relevant in terms of the perpetrator or if it will be helpful to you in any way as you investigate this crime, but even after this victim was down and unable to protect herself or move, her attacker continued to strike. Those blows continued long after the victim’s heart stopped beating.” He pauses and I hear the hiss and flow of his breaths. “Speaking not as the coroner, but as a citizen? You need to find this guy, Kate. You need to stop him and quickly. None of us will be safe until you do.”

  Before I can assure him that I plan to do exactly that, the connection ends.

  * * *

  Rachael Schwartz was no angel, but she didn’t deserve the fate that met her. No one deserves to die like that, especially at the hand of another.

  … even after this victim was down and unable to protect herself or move, her attacker continued to strike.

  The overkill indicates a high level of emotion. Intense and personal hatred. An all-consuming rage. A complete loss of control. Who hated her enough to beat her with such violence that they broke seven bones? Inside their twisted mind, what had Rachael Schwartz done to deserve it?

  I’m in my office at the police station. It’s after four P.M. now. Glock came in earlier for his
end-of-shift reports and Skid came on board to relieve him. Lois went home for the day and my new dispatcher, Margaret, has spent the last hour cleaning and rearranging the credenza behind her workstation. I’ve read Doc Coblentz’s preliminary autopsy report twice now. The picture that emerges is a thing of nightmares. In the early stages of the attack, Rachael Schwartz had tried to protect herself. Defensive wounds indicate she fought back; she was a fighter, after all. When those efforts proved fruitless, she tried to escape. But by then she was too injured to get away. While she was down, crawling or pulling herself along the floor, unable to defend herself, her killer stood over her and beat her to death.

  I’m thinking about the baseball bat found in the ditch, in the process of reading the report for the third time, looking for details I might’ve overlooked, when the bell on the exterior door jangles, telling me someone has entered the station. A moment later, Tomasetti appears in the doorway of my office. He’s carrying a record storage box. His laptop case strap is slung over his shoulder. He looks tired. Glad to be here. The knot in my gut loosens at the sight of him.

  “You lost?” I say.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Tomasetti,” he says.

  I stand, ridiculously pleased by his use of the as-of-yet-unofficial title, liking the way he’s looking at me, the half smile curving his mouth. “I don’t think that’s a done deal just yet,” I tell him.

  “Say the word, and we’ll make it happen,” he says.

  “Thinking about it.”

  I’ve lost track of how many times he’s proposed. Of course I plan to marry him; he’s the love of my life. Even so, I haven’t given him the answer he deserves. While marriage is an institution I believe in, the notion of tying that knot scares the daylights out of me. He’s been a good sport about it. I’m a work in progress.

  He enters my office. “Shall I close the door?”