Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

I wish I could handle this without Tomasetti. A salient distrust exists between the Amish and the English police, particularly the conservative Amish, such as the Augspurgers. But protocol dictates I include him. Whether I like it or not, he’s part of the investigation.

I go back to Bonnie and Ezra and we start toward the classroom. Tomasetti falls in behind us. I flip on the lights to see student desks, a green chalkboard where someone wrote the word shit, and a teacher’s desk covered with papers. I pull out a few plastic chairs and we sit.

“Do you know something about Ellen?” Ezra asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Do you have a recent photograph of her?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Most Amish do not believe in having their photographs taken, citing images as evidence of pride. Some believe photos and even paintings depicting faces violate the Biblical commandment, Thou shalt not make unto thyself a graven image . Some of the old order still believe a photo steals the soul.

“We do not have a photo,” Ezra says.

I take out my notebook. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

“The day she disappeared. I caught her smoking cigarettes in the barn. We had an argument . . .” Ezra shrugs. “She said she was going to see her cousin, Ruth.”

“Back when Ellen first disappeared, did you notice any strangers in the area? Maybe a car or buggy?”

Ezra’s thick brows snap together. “I remember seeing footprints in the snow. I did not know who made them.”

“Where?” My heart beats faster. This could be our first clue. Yet this man had taken it upon himself not to contact the police.

“Leading to the road.”

There’s no doubt any footprints are long gone by now. Still, if the killer was there, he may have left something behind. I glance at Tomasetti. “Get Pickles and Skid out there.”

“What’s the address?” he asks.

Bonnie recites a rural address. “Do you think someone took her?” she asks.

Rising, Tomasetti unclips his cell phone and goes to the back of the room to make the call.

I turn my attention back to Ezra. “Can you give me a description of Ellen?”

The man is at a loss, so I look at Bonnie and the words tumble out of her in a rush. “She is twenty-seven years old. Blue eyes. Dark blonde hair.”

“Height? Weight?”

“She’s about five feet three inches. One hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

The description matches that of the second victim. “Any distinguishing marks? Scars?”

“She’s got a birthmark on her left ankle. A brown mole.”

I write everything down, aware that Tomasetti watches my every move. My phone rings. I look down to see Glock’s name on the display and I snatch it up.

“I’m outside the door with the photo,” he says.

Rising, I look at Bonnie and Ezra. “I’ll be right back.”

In the hall, Glock is pacing. I click the door closed and cross to him. He hands me the fax. I stare down at the black and white image. The photo was taken at the morgue. I’m sure that in life Ellen looked nothing like the corpse lying on the gurney. But I think there’s enough of her left so that her parents will recognize her.

“You think it’s their daughter?” he asks.

“I think so.” I pull out my phone and hit the speed dial for Doc Coblentz. I get voice mail at his office, so I dial his home number. His wife picks up on the first ring. I wait impatiently for him to come on the line.

“I think we’re about to identify the second vic,” I say. “I need to know if you recall a brown mole on her left ankle.”

The doc sighs. “I recall a large mole on the inside of her left ankle and made a notation of it.”

I close my eyes briefly and tell him about the Augspurgers.

“God help them,” he says.

“They’re going to want to see her, take her home. Have you finished the autopsy?”

“I’m typing my report now.”

“Can you meet me?”

“Sure. Give me half an hour.”

I hit End and stand there for a moment looking down at my phone. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to go back in that classroom and break the news to the Ezra and Bonnie Augspurger.

“It’s her,” I say to Glock.

“Damn.” He looks around, then back at me. “You want me to go back in with you?”

I shake my head. “Head out to the Augspurger place. See what you can find. Pickles and Skid should already be there.”

“What about the suit?”

I almost smile when I realize he’s referring to Tomasetti. “I’ll take him with me.”

“Keep an eye on him. That fucker’s got shifty eyes.”

“I will.” Taking a deep breath, I start toward the classroom.

CHAPTER 18

I enter the classroom to find the Augspurgers huddled at the back window, staring at me as if I hold the secret of the universe in the palm of my hand. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, looking expectantly at me.

Ezra’s eyes beseech mine as I cross to them. As if forgetting her place, Bonnie pushes past him. Within the pale depths of her gaze, I see a tangle of desperation and hope laced with the kind of fear a mother should never have to feel.

“The body of a young woman was discovered this morning.” I pass the faxed photo to Ezra. “She has a mole on her left ankle.”

His hand shakes as he reaches for it. Bonnie puts her hand over her mouth, but it doesn’t smother the sound of anguish. Ezra stares at the photo, the paper rattling violently.

Murder is rare in the Amish community. Most often, death is from natural causes. It’s viewed as a final surrender to God and is received gracefully. Grief is a quiet and private event. The sound that erupts from Ezra Augspurger’s mouth reminds me that not all Amish are stoic. They are human beings, and the loss of a child begets unbearable pain. His cry of outrage and grief goes through me like cold steel. Bowing his head, he presses the photo to his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” I touch Ezra’s shoulder, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

Bonnie sinks into a chair and puts her face in her hands. Feeling my own emotions winding up, I turn away to find Tomasetti staring intently at me. His expression is grave, but he’s not moved the way I am. But then he doesn’t know the kindness that was inside Ellen Augspurger’s heart. He doesn’t know this community. He doesn’t know the innate goodness of the Amish the way I do.

I think of the trip this grieving couple must make to the morgue. I think of the questions they’ll ask and how unbearably painful it will be to answer. They’ll want to take Ellen’s body home, dress her in white and place her in a simple hardwood coffin. I’ll inform them beforehand that an autopsy was performed. The procedure clashes with basic Amish values, but they won’t complain.

“How did she pass?” Ezra’s ravaged eyes bore into mine.

“She was murdered,” I reply.

Bonnie gasps. “ Mein gott .”

Ezra stares at me as if I’m lying. I’ve known him most of my life. He’s a decent, hardworking man who’s had more than his share of hardship. But I know he’s got a temper.

“I do not accept that.” Though the room is cold, I see sweat on his forehead. Red blotches climbing up his neck.

“I’m sorry,” I offer.

He bows his head, places his fingers against his forehead and presses, as if he’s trying to shove his nails beneath the skin.

“Ezra, who is the bishop of your district?” I ask.

“David Troyers.”

A church district is made up of about twenty to thirty families. A bishop, two or three preachers and a deacon share leadership roles within each district. I know David Troyers. And I know he’s one of the few Amish who has a telephone.

Ezra raises his head and struggles to compose himself. “We want to bring Ellen home.”

“Of course,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Where is she?”

“The hospital in Millersburg.”

“ I want to bring her home .” A sob escapes him even as he struggles to square shoulders bowed beneath the weight of unbearable grief.

“Let me drive you to the hospital,” I say.

“No.”

“Ezra, Millersburg is nearly ten miles away.”

“No!” He shakes his head. “Bonnie and I will take the buggy.”

He is so immersed in grief, I doubt he realizes the round-trip will take hours. I look at Bonnie for help; she stares back. Unshed tears glitter in her eyes. She has her hand over her mouth as if trying to hold in the screams that echo inside her.

“It’s twenty degrees outside,” I say. “These are special circumstances, Ezra. Please, let me drive you.”

Bonnie rises abruptly. “We will go with you.”

“ No! ” The Amish man slams his fist down on the desktop. “We take the buggy!”

I’ve had plenty of bad days in my life. For the most part, I take the bad with the good and hold close the belief that in the end it all balances out. It’s going to take a lot of good days to zero out today.

I couldn’t convince Ezra to let me drive them to the morgue. So I did the only thing I could and followed them in the Explorer. The trip and the identification of Ellen’s body took over three hours. It’s after midnight now. I’m tired and discouraged and so cold I can’t imagine ever being warm again. I should go home and try to get some sleep, but my mind is wound tight. I have no desire to waste precious hours tossing and turning.

“Notifying next of kin is always the worst.”

I glance at Tomasetti in the passenger seat and frown.

He doesn’t notice. “When you see some dipshit gangbanger lying in pieces on a gurney, you think the world’s a better place. But something like this . . .”

“That’s cynical,” I reply.

“Yeah, but it’s the truth.”

“I don’t share your view.”

“You just haven’t been a cop long enough.”

Tomasetti has been my shadow tonight. A quiet presence I resent more than I should. The irony that I will be the one to bring him up to speed on the case doesn’t escape me.

“You going to follow them home, too?” he asks.

“The roads are bad. I don’t want them out on a night like this.”

He turns his attention back to the window where winter-dead cornfields crowd the road. The night is clear and still, with the temperature falling to near zero. The stars play peekaboo as high clouds skid across the sky.

I called David Troyers, the Augspurgers’ bishop, on the way to the hospital. One of the things I loved about being Amish was the support families receive from their neighbors, especially when tragedy strikes. It comforts me knowing there will be a family waiting for Ezra and Bonnie when they arrive home. Tomorrow, that family will assume the farm and household chores, feeding the livestock and cooking meals and helping to plan the funeral.

Ezra’s horse maintains a steady clip all the way to the Augspurger farm. When the buggy turns into the long lane, I flash my headlights in farewell and head toward town.

“Where to now, Chief?”

I glance over to see Tomasetti looking at me with those dark, intense eyes. Eyes that are difficult to meet, but once you do it’s even more difficult to look away. I see damage in those eyes, and I wonder briefly about its source. I wonder if mine reveal the same thing. It’s tough to be a cop without sustaining some kind of damage.

I’m certain I’ve never met him before tonight, but his face is familiar. “I can take you to your motel or back to the station,” I say. “Your choice.”

“The station’s fine.”

“You a night bird?”