The Dead Will Tell

by Linda Castillo

  I give him the details of Johnston’s confession. “I’ll get with the county prosecutor and see how he feels about charging him with a complicity charge. But Johnston was a minor and intimidation was involved. At the very least, he’s finished as councilman.”

  He nods, but I can see his mind already moving on to the other cases. “Do you think Blue’s responsible for these more recent murders? I mean, if one or more of them decided to blackmail him. That’s a pretty strong motive.”

  “I thought of that. But they would have risked incriminating themselves. Plus, he’s got an alibi for the Rutledge murder.”

  “He could have hired someone.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t know, Glock. Something doesn’t feel right about that.”

  “So who else do we have?” He thinks about that a moment. “Hoch Yoder?”

  “According to the police report, Hoch stated the perpetrators wore masks. He never saw their faces.”

  “Maybe he’s been doing a little investigating on his own and figured it out.” Glock shrugs. “Or someone said something to him.”

  “Maybe.” Lowering my head, I rub at the ache building behind my forehead. “We’re overlooking something.”

  “What about the missing woman?”

  “You mean if Wanetta Hochstetler survived and came back for a little revenge?” I say.

  “If Johnston is telling the truth, that means Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, Jerrold McCullough, and Blue Branson murdered her husband and caused the deaths of her children.”

  “I agree that’s a powerful motive, but Wanetta Hochstetler would be almost seventy years old now.”

  “Stranger things have happened. If she had some way to subdue them. A stun gun. Something like that.”

  “Or help.” But I’m not sold on the theory. “I’m going to talk to Blue, see if I can get him to admit to being there. Even if he doesn’t, we’ve got enough for an arrest.”

  Glock nods. “Let me know if you need me to beat his ass for you.”

  I rise from my desk. “You always know just the right thing to say.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me.”

  * * *

  I find Blue Branson sitting at the same table where I spoke to Norm Johnston and his attorney just an hour ago. Thornsberry’s Polo aftershave still lingers in the air.

  Blue’s wearing his trademark black suit jacket, white shirt open at the collar. The big silver cross glints at his throat. Creased black trousers brush the tops of his wingtip shoes. Before coming in, I turned the heat up and changed out the cushioned chairs with the old wooden ones from the storage room. Comfort never makes for a productive interrogation. That said, I’m not sure those old police tactics will work on Blue Branson.

  I hand him the laminated Miranda rights card and recite them to him from memory. “Do you understand your rights?”

  “I do.”

  I round the table and sit opposite him. “Jerrold McCullough is dead.”

  He starts slightly, then looks down and shakes his head. “God bless him,” he whispers, and then looks at me. “How?”

  “Murdered.” I pause and then ask, “Where were you between three P.M. yesterday and six A.M. this morning?”

  “I was at the church with two volunteers from noon until eleven o’clock last night. Then I went home. Alone.”

  I pull my pad from my pocket. “I need the names of the volunteers.”

  “Rick Baker and Ralph Sanderson.”

  He gives me their contact info, and I write down their numbers.

  “If you’re wondering if I killed McCullough,” he says, “the answer is no.”

  “Your alibi for the time when Julia Rutledge was murdered checked out.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  For a minute or two, neither of us speaks. I break the silence with, “The last time we spoke, I told you I was going to find out what you were hiding.”

  “And I told you I have nothing to hide.”

  I stare hard at him. “You’re a good liar for a pastor.”

  He stares back, unflinching.

  “I know you were at the Hochstetler farm the night Willis Hochstetler was shot and killed. I know the others were there, too. You went in to steal cash. It should have been an easy hit. Amish family. Pacifists. A quick in and out. But something went wrong, didn’t it?”

  Shock resonates in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that there’s no statute of limitations on murder,” I tell him.

  “I think I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “I think you’re going to need one.” I look down at the file in front of me, letting the silence work. Then I ask, “Do you know who murdered the others?”

  “No.”

  “What happened to Wanetta Hochstetler?”

  A ripple moves through his body. His fingers twitch on the table in front of him. But he doesn’t reply.

  “Did you kill her, Blue? Was it an accident? Did you bury her body somewhere? Leave her for dead?” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “I will get to the bottom of it. You help me now, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Setting my hands on the table between us, I partially rise and lean toward him so that my face is only a foot away from his, close enough to smell the meaty odor of his skin. “I have a witness who can put you at the scene. It’s over. You’re done. Do you understand?”

  He stares at me, saying nothing.

  I move away, work the handcuffs from the compartment on my belt. “Stand up and turn around. Give me your wrists.”

  Blue Branson rises and turns his back to me and offers his wrists. I thought I’d draw some small sense of satisfaction from this moment—solving a thirty-five-year-old open case and taking a killer into custody—but the only thing I feel in the pit of my stomach is a great deal of emptiness.

  CHAPTER 23

  Someone always knows something.

  When I was a rookie patrol officer in Columbus, I partnered up with a veteran cop by the name of Howie Sharpe. He was old school and just six months away from retirement. I worked my first major case with Howie. A six-year-old girl, little Melissa Sussman, had gone missing, and the entire police department worked around the clock to find her. Like so many missing child cases, Melissa’s story didn’t end happily. But I learned more in the course of that case than at any time in my career. Howie always told me: “Someone always knows something.” It was one of his favorite idioms, and that case proved it true, albeit too late for the child.

  I never forgot that weeklong frenzy of good old-fashioned police work. I never forgot little Melissa Sussman or the life that would never be. And I never forgot the things wise old Howie—who got his retirement, by the way—taught me.

  I’m at my desk, combing through the Hochstetler file for the dozenth time when it strikes me how few Amish people were interviewed in the course of the investigation. Ron Mackey had been the chief of police back then and retired shortly after. I didn’t know him personally, but I’ve heard that in the late ’70s there was a good bit of friction between the Amish and “English” communities. Most disputes were over the use of slow-moving vehicle signs, building codes, and taxes. I can’t help but wonder if, because of the tension and that cultural divide, Mackey ruled out turning to the Amish for help.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in the Explorer and heading toward Bishop Troyer’s farm. He’s been the bishop for as long as I can remember, but I don’t know if his tenure goes back to 1979. Even if it didn’t, he probably had a grasp on what was going on in the Amish community. I’m hoping he can tell me something I don’t already know.

  I make the turn into the narrow gravel lane of the Troyer farm and park near the sidewalk. Most of the Amish in Holmes County have extraordinarily neat yards with shorn grass and manicured shrubs. Many go so far as to plant flowers, display potted plants, and landscape their yards. Not the Troyers. Both t
he front and back yards are plain. No flowerbeds or potted plants or even shrubs. Just a small garden and a birdhouse mounted on a fence post in the side yard, but even that is unadorned.

  I’m midway to the house when someone calls out my name. I turn to see the bishop trudging toward me from the barn. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since last fall, when I was working the Borntrager case. Though it’s been only a few months, he looks years older. I’ve never seen him use a walking stick, and I can’t help but notice that his legs seem to be even more bowed.

  “Bishop.” I start toward him, wishing him a good morning in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder mariye.”

  “I’m surprised you still speak the language,” he says, a hint of reproach in his voice.

  I withhold a smile. Bishop Troyer may be old, but he’s got a keen mind and a sharp tongue. He’s clad in black trousers. Black jacket. White shirt. Flat-brimmed black hat. His long beard is wiry and gray with small bits of alfalfa hay in it. I stop two feet away from him. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Bishop, but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

  “I’ve not heard those names in a long time,” he says. “Such a terrible thing. So many young lives lost. It makes the heart hurt.” His gaze meets mine. “Why do you ask of them now?”

  “I’m working on another case that may be related.” I pause. “Were you bishop back then?”

  He shakes his head. “Eli Schweider was.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “Eli lives in the house next to his son’s farm out on Rockridge Road.”

  “I know the one,” I tell him. “Not too far from Miller’s Pond.”

  “He’s very old now, Katie. Ninety years old, I think. His fluss is bad and he’s frail.” Fluss is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for “rheumatism.”

  “Danki,” I tell him, and start toward my vehicle.

  “You watch your manners with him, Katie Burkholder,” he calls out after me.

  “Don’t worry, Bishop. I’ll behave myself.”

  I leave him standing on the sidewalk with his walking stick in his hand, a frown on his face.

  * * *

  Minutes later, I turn onto Rockridge Road. Half a mile in, I pass by a plain metal mailbox with the name SCHWEIDER finger-painted in black on the side. I turn into the gravel lane and bounce over potholes as I head toward the big white farmhouse. I crest the hill only to notice the smaller cottage-style home on my left, and I realize it’s probably the original farmhouse, where the elders would live now.

  I drive past the larger house and park near the cottage. Though it’s midday, the sky is low and dark and spitting rain. As I pass by a mullioned window, I see the glow of lantern light inside, telling me someone is there. I step onto the porch, knock, and wait. I’m about to knock a second time in case Eli Schweider is hard of hearing, when the door creaks open.

  I find myself looking at a bent, white-haired man who’s at least a foot shorter than me. Tiny eyes peer out at me from the folded-leather creases of eyes set into a face that’s brown from the sun and mottled with age spots. Wire-rimmed glasses sit on a lumpy nose, and he tilts his head back to look at me through Coke-bottle lenses.

  “Who’s there?” comes a crushed-gravel voice.

  “I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police of Painters Mill.”

  He stares at me long enough for me to notice cloudy irises that had once been blue, and a mat of drool in a beard that reaches all the way to his belt. “You’re an Englischer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have no business with you.”

  He starts to close the door, but I stop him. “Please, Bishop Schweider. Bishop Troyer sent me.” The statement is out before I can amend it. I add in Pennsylvania Dutch, “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

  As always, my fluency in the language garners his attention. “Burkholder is a good, strong Amish name.”

  Raindrops begin to tap on the ground behind me. When he doesn’t invite me inside, I ask, “May I come in? I promise not to stay too long.”

  He shuffles back and I step into a small room with low ceilings and exposed beams. The odors of woodsmoke and toasted bread fill the air. But the room contains the slightly unpleasant smells of mildew, cedar, and old things, too. From where I’m standing, I can see into a small kitchen with stone walls and a two-burner stove. Atop a table, a mug of something hot sits next to a paper plate with a single piece of toast.

  “I’ve interrupted your lunch,” I begin.

  He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if it’s because he didn’t hear me or he chose not to. Turning his back to me, he shuffles toward the kitchen, sliding his feet across the wood planks a few inches at a time.

  “You speak Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch and yet you’re an Englischer,” he says. “There’s something wrong with that.”

  “I left the Amish when I was young.”

  He tries to look at me over his shoulder, but his neck is too stiff. He continues shuffling toward the table. “Who is your father?”

  “Jacob Burkholder.”

  He turns and looks at me. “You must be Little Katie.”

  I smile. “Not so little anymore.”

  “What is it you need?”

  “I’m working on a case. From a long time ago. It’s about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

  A quiver goes through the old man’s body, as if he’d been hit with a brisk wind and the cold took his breath away. “They are with God,” he says. “The children, too.”

  “Except for William.”

  “God spared Billy.” He starts toward the table, shuffling. The soles of his shoes scrape across the floor, sounding vaguely like a saw through wood. “Are you going to catch the men responsible, Katie Burkholder?”

  “I’ve taken one man into custody. The others were murdered.”

  “God will make the final judgment.”

  His progress is slow and uncomfortable to watch. I have to resist the urge to help him into the chair. I wait until he’s settled in before continuing. “Did the police talk to you about what happened that night?”

  “The English police.” He says the words with disdain. “They don’t care about the Amisch. Not then. Not now.”

  “I care.”

  He meets my gaze, but he is unmoved. “What is it you need from me?”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about the night Willis Hochstetler was killed?” I ask. “Do you know of anything unusual that happened in the days before or after? Or did you hear any rumors?”

  “What happened in the house that night was gottlos.” Ungodly. He sets down the toast as if realizing it’s covered with maggots. “When we found the boy, he was … shattered. It was a painful time for all of us.”

  “Did you know Wanetta and Willis?”

  “I baptized them when they joined the church. I spoke to them many times. Saw them at worship.” He nods. “Willis es en faehicher schreiner.” Willis was an able carpenter. “Wanetta—” He shakes his head.

  “What about her?”

  “I talked to William after … what happened. He was a boy. Only fourteen years old and innocent. But even then, he knew things.”

  “Like what?”

  He raises his gaze to me. “Those men … they took Wanetta. They used her. Soiled her. Forced her to break her vows to her husband. Her sacred vow to the church.”

  The words, the meaning behind them, light a fire of outrage inside me, a mix of anger and disbelief and the sense of unfair judgment levied upon the innocent. “She had no choice in the matter.”

  He raises rheumy eyes to mine. “Some things are so broken, they cannot be mended. It is the way of the world.”

  “I don’t agree with that.”

  He gives me a sharp look. “I thought it best that she didn’t return.”

  I stare at him, incredulous, and so taken aback by his narrow-minded arrogance that for a moment I’m rendered speechless. “I don’t underst
and.”

  “It’s not for you to understand. It’s done. In God’s hands.”

  Before I realize I’m going to move, I’m hovering over him. “Do you know something about what happened to her?” Despite my efforts, my voice has risen.

  His eyes roll back in their sockets slightly when he looks at me. “A few years after Willis and the children were killed, I received a message from the bishop of the Swartzentruber Amish in Pennsylvania.”

  The Swartzentruber clan are the most conservative Amish. The group emerged after a split of the Old Order back in 1917 over a conflict between two bishops regarding Bann und Meidung, or “excommunication and shunning.” Several Swartzentruber families live in Painters Mill. Generally, they’re stricter with regard to the use of technology, rejecting conveniences like milking machines and indoor plumbing. Their buggies are windowless. Even their dress is plainer, especially for the women.

  “What message?” I ask.

  “One of the families in Cambria County had taken in an Amish woman who’d been in an accident and had severe injuries. The woman had no memory. She didn’t know her name or where she lived. The family nursed her back to health, fed her, clothed her, and opened their home to her.” He looks down at his gnarled fingers. “Months after she arrived, the woman began to remember things. She was fluent in Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch. She knew she had a husband and children and wanted to come home. The Swartzentruber family began contacting Amish bishops all over Pennsylvania and, later, Ohio.”

  “The woman was Wanetta Hochstetler?”

  “All I can tell you is that she was not the woman who had been married to Willis Hochstetler.”

  I can’t tell if he’s speaking figuratively or literally. “What happened?”

  “The Swartzentruber Amish do not permit a community telephone booth, as we do here. It took several weeks, but she was finally able to contact me.”

  “You spoke with her?”

  “On the telephone.” He hesitates. “She didn’t know that Willis and the children had passed. When I told her, she became very distraught. She accused me of lying and used ungodly words.” He touches his left temple. “Sie is ganz ab.” She was quite out of her mind.