Her Last Breath

by Linda Castillo

  “Ten four.”

  I slam the driver’s side door and start toward Wengerd. “Enos Wengerd?”

  He stabs at the brush pile with the stick. “That’s me.”

  “Do you have a few minutes, sir? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “There’s no burn ban,” he says. “I checked.”

  I’m midway to him when I notice the truck parked at the side of the metal building. “Not too windy yet,” I comment.

  “It’ll do.”

  The truck is blue, but I can’t discern the make or model. I stop ten feet from Wengerd. “Is that your truck over there?”

  He leans on the stick, takes his time answering. “Yup.”

  He wears a straw, flat-brimmed hat, a faded work shirt, and gray trousers with suspenders. I guess him to be in his mid-twenties. Six feet tall. Two hundred pounds. I can tell from the breadth of his shoulders he partakes in a good bit of physical labor.

  “I hear it caused you some trouble with the deacon,” I say conversationally.

  “That’s not against the law, is it?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Unless you have an argument with the deacon and then he turns up dead.”

  “Wer lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.” It’s an old Amish sobriquet about gossip. If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults. “Andy Erb gossips like an old woman,” Wengerd says, but he doesn’t look quite as cocky now that he knows why I’m here.

  “Did you have an argument with Paul Borntrager?” I ask.

  He stares at me for a long time before answering. “We had a disagreement.”

  “What about?”

  “Paul and the bishop put me under the bann.” The muscle in his jaw begins to work and I realize the bad attitude is by design, perhaps to conceal just how much the excommunication has upset him.

  “Why?”

  “Because I bought a truck. It’s against the Ordnung.” He doesn’t mention attending Mennonite services. “But then you know all about breaking the rules, don’t you, Kate Burkholder?”

  I ignore the question. “Did you get angry?”

  Instead of replying, he stabs at the smoldering brush, sending a scatter of sparks into the air.

  “Where did the argument happen?” I ask.

  “At the auction. In Millersburg. You already knew that, though, or you wouldn’t be here.” He pokes harder, watching as new flames lick at the dry kindling. He’s got large, strong hands and forearms turned brown from the sun. He wraps his fingers around the length of wood so tightly his knuckles go white. “I didn’t run him over, if that’s what you’re going to ask me next.”

  “Where were you two nights ago?”

  “Here. Clearing brush.”

  “Was there anyone with you?”

  He sighs. “It was just me and all these goats.”

  “Do you mind if I take a quick look at your truck, Mr. Wengerd?” I say amicably. “Then I’ll get out of your hair and let you get back to work.”

  “It’s right there.” He motions toward the vehicle, but his attention stays riveted on me.

  “Thanks.” I start toward the truck, aware that he’s right behind me, stick in hand. Not for the first time, I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.

  “It run okay?” I glance over my shoulder. He’s less than three feet away. So close I can smell the smoke and sweat coming off his clothes.

  “Good enough to get me under the bann,” he grumbles.

  The truck is an old blue F-150. Not the model I’m looking for. I’m no expert, but it also looks older. “What year?”

  “Nineteen ninety-two.”

  I look at him over the hood as I round the front of the truck. There’s no damage. No recent body work. It’s not the right color, either, though I’m well aware how easily paint can be changed. But it doesn’t look freshly painted. The driver’s side door is covered with patches of primer. There’s no brush guard. No evidence the front end has been altered in any way. Both headlights are intact and covered with dried-on insects. Aside from a small crease and a few areas of rust, the bumper is undamaged. This truck was not involved in any recent accident, certainly not the kind that took out that buggy.

  “Do you own any other vehicles?” I ask.

  He gives me an are-you-kidding look and shakes his head.

  I make two complete circles around the vehicle and then turn to him, extend my hand. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Wengerd.”

  He looks surprised by the gesture, but quickly reciprocates the handshake. It makes me wonder if it’s the only gesture of kindness he’s received since his Amish brethren excommunicated him.

  * * *

  The people I’m closest to have told me I have an obsessive personality, particularly when it comes to my job. I argue the point, but my defense is usually halfhearted, because they’re right. When I’m in the midst of an investigation—especially a horrific and baffling one like the Borntrager case—I think of little else. I have difficulty focusing on other things that are going on in my life. I’ve been known to brood.

  I’ve always chalked up my obsessive behavior to my work ethic, my black-and-white stance on right and wrong, or maybe my intolerance of people who hurt others. It wasn’t until I worked the Plank case last October—the murders of an entire family—that I was forced to take a hard look at myself and examine my shortcomings. I stepped over a line in the course of that investigation. I did some things I shouldn’t have. But I hate injustice. Even more, I hate the thought of someone getting away with murder.

  I’m on my way back to the station when I drive by the Hope Clinic for the Amish. It’s the medical facility where Paul had taken his children the afternoon of the accident. On impulse, I pull into the lot and park opposite a shedrow designed to shelter the buggy horses. A single black buggy is parked inside, the sorrel horse standing with its rear leg cocked, swatting flies with its tail. Six parking spaces are marked not only with the buggy symbol, but a handicapped sign as well, and I’m reminded the clinic deals mainly with children afflicted with some of the genetic disorders plaguing the Amish. It opened a few years ago to study several rare genetic diseases that apparently aren’t so rare among the Amish.

  The facility is housed in a small farmhouse that’s been completely refashioned to look like an Amish home, with hanging planters, a porch swing, and even an old-fashioned clothesline in the side yard. The owner of the original property, Ronald Hope, passed away four years ago. His son, Ronald Jr., rather than sell the entire farm, donated the house and outbuildings to the clinic while maintaining ownership of the land for farming. People still talk about the appropriateness of the donor’s last name.

  I park adjacent the shedrow, cross the parking lot to the house, and ascend the steps to the porch. The facility is wheelchair friendly with a ramp stenciled with horseshoe prints. A sign in Pennsylvania Dutch written in an Olde English font proclaims Welcome to All.

  A bell jingles merrily when I enter the homey reception area. The receptionist is a fifty-something woman with curly brown hair and blue eyes. She’s wearing pink scrubs with a tag telling me her name is NATALIE. Beneath her name are the words THERE’S ALWAYS HOPE.

  “Hi! May I help you?”

  I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m working on a case and was wondering if someone can talk to me about Paul Borntrager.”

  “Oh my goodness.” She presses her hand against her matronly bosom. “That was awful about Paul and those sweet little children. Just horrible. I cried my eyes out when I heard what happened. All of us here at the clinic were just crushed.”

  A door that presumably leads to the interior of the clinic opens. A young blond woman, also clad in pink scrubs, steps out and then holds open the door for an Amish woman pushing a wheelchair. A boy of about eight or nine sits in the chair, playing with a stuffed bear. He’s wearing trousers and suspenders and a white shirt. Through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, I see that he suffers with what used to
be referred to as lazy eye.

  I offer both of them a smile. The Amish woman takes in the sight of my uniform, gives me an obligatory smile, and continues on. The boy, however, hits me with huge, lopsided grin that’s so infectious I find myself grinning back.

  “Chief Burkholder, Doctor Armitage has a few minutes until his next appointment,” the receptionist tells me. “He can speak with you now if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  She stands and calls out to the Amish boy. “See you next week, Jonas! Bye, Sweetie!”

  The boy turns in his chair and waves vigorously. “Bye!”

  Still smiling, the receptionist motions me through the door. “Third door on the right, Chief.”

  My boots thud dully against the hardwood floors as I make my way down the hall. I pass three examination rooms with paper-covered exam tables, laminate counters, and sinks. But all semblance of clinical ends there. Framed photos of farm animals—horses and pigs and ducks—cover the walls. An oil winterscape of Amish children frolicking on a snowy hillside. A second painting depicts a horse and sleigh and a group of children ice skating on a frozen pond.

  The last door on the right is partially open, and a brass nameplate reads: DOCTOR MIKE IS IN! I push open the door and find myself looking into a large office with a double set of French doors that open to a small deck. Judging from the size of the room, I suspect it was originally a master bedroom. It has gleaming hardwood floors and plenty of natural light. An old-fashioned banker’s lamp sits atop a lovingly distressed cherrywood desk, the surface of which is littered with papers and forms and files. On the wall, a dozen or more tastefully framed diplomas and certificates are prominently displayed.

  Through the French doors, I see red-stained Adirondack furniture. Two chairs, a lounger, and a table. Beyond, in a small patch of manicured grass, is an old-fashioned rocking horse and a sandbox filled with plastic shovels and colorful buckets. A man in a white lab coat and blue jeans sits on one of the wooden chairs, thumbing something into his phone.

  I cross to the French door and push it open. “Dr. Armitage?”

  The man startles, and only then do I realize he’s smoking a cigarette. I almost laugh when he makes a feeble attempt to conceal it. He stands and drops the cigarette, sets his foot over it. “Oh, hello.” Hand extended, he starts toward me. “You must be Chief Burkholder.” He glances down at the butt. “I guess I’m busted.”

  “It’s not against the law to smoke,” I say.

  “Well, it should be. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. You’d think I’d know better.” He chuckles. “Stupidest damn habit I ever started.”

  We shake. His grip is firm, but not too tight. The lack of calluses tells me he doesn’t do much in the way of manual labor. He maintains eye contact with me, his expression intelligent and full of good humor.

  “Never too late to quit,” I tell him.

  “I plan to.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “As soon as the divorce is final. Which should be any day now.”

  I nod. “Sorry.”

  “Ah, it was my own doing. All work and no play made me a pretty bad husband.” Shrugging, he motions toward the door. “I’ve got about five minutes before my next appointment. Would you like to sit out here or would you be more comfortable inside?”

  “Outside is fine.”

  “It is a nice day, isn’t it?” He settles back into his Adirondack chair.

  I sit opposite him and take a moment to look around. The yard is small and fenced with white pickets. A big maple tree shades the corner where an old-fashioned swing set sits. A basketball hoop and backboard has been installed in a gravel area, the mesh net swaying in the breeze. It’s the perfect retreat for kids and stressed-out parents. “This is a nice facility,” I tell him.

  “I love this clinic. I love the people—the Amish in particular. I love this part of Ohio.” He grins. “Even the long winters. For the first time in my life I can honestly say the work I do is important—and not only to me.”

  “It must be very gratifying.”

  “It is. Immensely.”

  “I remember reading about the grand opening of the clinic,” I tell him. “I understand most of your work involves genetic disorders.”

  “Almost exclusively.” He smiles. “Though I’ve been known to treat a sore throat when indicated. Through the work done here, we’ve identified some genetic disorders that are almost unheard of elsewhere in the world.” That he uses “we” instead of “I” tells me he’s a modest person, content to share his achievements with his colleagues, the mark of a man who loves his work and whose mind enables him to see not only the big picture, but the end goal.

  “The Amish are unique in that the gene pool is relatively small,” he adds, leaning forward and gesturing. “Most of our patients are special-needs children. We’re talking quality of life disorders. Cohen Syndrome. Ellis-van Creveld syndrome. Dwarfism. Founder effect inheritable diseases mostly.”

  “Founder effect?”

  “Disorders that can be attributed to a limited gene pool,” he replies. “We’re working with community leaders on a way to broaden the scope of that pool, and I think we’ve had some success. My colleagues have been in touch with the bishops of church districts in other states. Colorado and upstate New York, mainly. To a lesser degree, Indiana and Illinois. We’re trying to get a relocation-and-exchange program up and running, which is difficult because the Amish are so family oriented. And, of course, the church districts have different rules.” He leans closer to me. “But, if we can overcome those things, if we can get young men and women of marrying age to emigrate to out-of-state Amish communities, marry, and have children in their new locale, we could broaden the gene pool and, in effect, eliminate some of these genetic disorders. Of course, only time will tell if—” He stops himself short. “Sorry. Once I start talking about my work here, it’s hard to shut me up. Used to bore my wife to tears.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  “Or maybe you’re just too polite to tell me I’m boring you to death.”

  I smile, find myself liking him. “It’s good to be passionate about your work.”

  “Some might argue that I’m a little too passionate.”

  It’s obvious he’s married to his career—and that his soon-to-be ex-wife had had to compete. I see him as a hopeless workaholic, always coming home late, working weekends, sequestered behind his computer when he’s home at all. Hence the pending divorce. “How long have you been in Painters Mill?”

  “Going on eight months now. I came down from Cleveland. Different world up there. I needed a change after my wife filed. I’ll never go back to the big city. This area, this clinic, has been my salvation, so to speak. It’s exciting work, and I couldn’t ask for a better group of people to work with.”

  “The Borntrager children were patients here?”

  “They were.” His lips twist as if he’s bitten into something rotten. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened to them. I still can’t. Those poor kids. And Paul. My God, I can’t imagine what Mattie must be going through.” He gives me a direct look, and I see a layer of thinly veiled outrage in his eyes. “I heard it was a hit-and-run.”

  “It was.”

  “Any leads?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “I meant to get up to the hospital to see David, but I’ve been putting in long hours here and never made it. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s going to be fine.”

  “Great. I hear they’ve got an excellent trauma team at Pomerene.”

  “I’m wondering, Dr. Armitage—”

  “Call me Mike, please.”

  “Mike,” I say. “Can you tell me what the children were being treated for?”

  “All three were afflicted with Cohen syndrome, to differing degrees.”

  “What is Cohen syndrome, exactly?”

  “Like most of the disorders we treat here, it’s genetic in nature. Rare, but not so much among
the Amish. It causes a delay in mental and physical development. Neutropenia, or low white blood cell count. Hypotonia, which basically means low muscle tone. A whole array of symptoms that can impact a kid’s life in a negative way.” He shakes his head. “Mattie and Paul were good with those kids. It never seemed to bother them that they were special-needs. Hell, they barely noticed. Never complained or felt sorry for themselves or their children. Paul and Mattie loved those kids and raised them the best they could.”

  “How well did you know them? Paul and Mattie, I mean.”

  “Well, they’d been coming to the clinic since I arrived. It was a professional relationship, you know, just to talk about the kids enough for me to ascertain how they’re doing and gauge improvements or changes, if any.” Looking inward, he smiles. “First month or so we pretty much talked about the weather. Mattie and Paul were wary of me. You know, the whole outsider thing. Until I began working here in Painters Mill, I hadn’t had much contact with the Amish or their culture, so I was clueless. All of us had to open our minds, so to speak. Once that happened, they began to trust me. I think they realized I care, and they knew I’d do my utmost to help their children. They’re good people, Chief Burkholder. Nice family. Kids are well behaved and sweet. I hope to God you get justice for them.”

  The urge to tell him I plan to do just that is strong, but I don’t because I know better than to make some emotion-driven promise I may not be able to keep. “How well did you know Paul?”

  “He was a great guy. Quiet. Religious. To tell you the truth, he had a pretty wicked sense of humor for an Amish guy.” He chuckles as if remembering. “I only met him a handful of times, but he was terrific.”

  Something pings in the back of my brain. “I was under the impression that he had a standing appointment here at the clinic.”

  “Mattie was the one who usually brought in the kids. Every week like clockwork. For bloodwork, mostly. The children were on medication offered for free as part of a clinical trial. I like to keep a handle on the levels in the bloodstream. And the neutrophils, of course. We also discussed nutritional needs. Every month or so, I had a psychologist come down from Wooster and we did some problem solving and IQ testing.” He gives a nod. “Mattie was great with them. Attentive. Gentle with discipline. Good instincts. Patient.”