The Dead Will Tell

by Linda Castillo

  “We went in. Faces concealed. Got the parents out of bed. We were in the kitchen, getting the cash. We hadn’t counted on all of those little kids showing up. That was when the woman got … hysterical. We were all screaming at her to sit down. We started losing control of the situation.…” A single drop of sweat slides from his temple to a crease in his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “McCullough panicked and … shot him.”

  “Willis Hochstetler?”

  He nods.

  “What happened next?”

  “We freaked out. I’d never been so scared, and I mean really scared. All of a sudden, everything was real. I couldn’t believe McCullough had done it. I went after him, and we got into it. But it was done. The guy was dead.”

  “What about the woman?”

  Blue looks at the wall behind me, as if there’s a window there and he can see through the darkness and rain to the promise of freedom beyond. But there is no window. There’s no escape for him, and he knows he won’t be walking out of here a free man.

  “We took her with us.”

  “Why?”

  He shakes his head, doesn’t answer.

  “Whose idea was it?”

  He turns his gaze to mine, and in that instant I see the depth of his shame. The breadth of his disgust and self-loathing. “Mine.”

  I’m so taken aback, I lose my train of thought. With the others dead, he could have blamed them. Only he didn’t.

  Time to face the music …

  He continues, his voice flat and low, like a robot. “We put her in the trunk and just drove. Like I said, we were scared. We didn’t know what to do. Somehow we ended up in Pennsylvania. Found a dirt road out in the middle of nowhere. We were going to leave her there. But she got her hands untied and pulled off Dale’s mask. She saw his face.”

  Abruptly, he leans forward, puts his face in his hands, and rubs his eyes. “She got away. Ran into a cornfield. McCullough went after her. By the time I got there, he was on top of her. We raped her.”

  I stare at him, sickened. “What else?”

  He looks at the wall again, at the window that isn’t there, and I know he’s wishing he were out there, far away, in that imaginary place. “We argued. Figured we could intimidate her into keeping her mouth shut.”

  “She saw your faces?”

  He nods. “We couldn’t let her go.” He makes a sound, a sigh that ends with a moan. “Dale strangled her right there on the ground.”

  “Did you try to stop him?”

  A long pause. “No.”

  “You thought she was dead?”

  He nods.

  “What did you do next?”

  “Put her back in the trunk. Drove her to an abandoned farm and threw her into the well.”

  He paints a scene so vivid, so horrific, I can feel the acid churn in my stomach, the bile climbing up my throat. I can hear Wanetta Hochstetler crying out for her children. Sense her terror and panic. I can hear her tumbling down that terrible shaft. Her body striking the stone walls on the way down. The splash of the final impact. The shocking cold of the water. Had she been conscious? In pain? How long had she lain there before someone found her? Hours? Days?

  I look at Blue, and a wave of revulsion moves through me. I’m well aware that there are boundaries a cop can never cross. I know that once he does, there’s no going back. I feel myself venturing close to that line now. I’m keenly aware of my .38 pressing against my hip. Of how easy it would be to turn off the recorder, pull my firearm, and put a bullet between his eyes. I have a full confession. There’s no doubt in my mind I could come up with a believable story that he attacked me. I’m not the first cop to entertain such a dark fantasy.

  I go to my next question. “Which one of you threw the lantern into the basement?”

  He gives me a sharp look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Hoch Yoder said one of you threw that lantern down the steps, which started the fire that killed those kids. The fire marshal’s investigation corroborates that.”

  “We locked them in the basement, but no one threw a lantern.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe one of the others did it and you didn’t notice?”

  “No one threw a lantern into the basement. That’s all I got to say about that.”

  There are more questions to be asked, more details to be recorded. But I need to get out of there. Away from him and the ugliness of the things he’s done. I turn off the recorder. Scooting my chair away from the table, I rise and start toward the door. But I stop and turn to him; there’s one more question that won’t leave me alone.

  “You could have lied about it being your idea to take Wanetta with you. Why did you admit to that?”

  “There are times when the punishment is less painful than the secret.” He pauses, stares hard at me, his eyes pleading with me to listen. “I know this isn’t going to end well for me. I know I’m going to jail for the rest of my life. But if you believe anything I’ve said, believe this: I’m not the person I was back then.”

  “If you’re looking for absolution, you’re not going to get it from me,” I say coldly. “You’ll have to find another way to live with yourself.”

  I turn my back on him and go through the door.

  * * *

  Glock follows me to my office. As I settle in behind my desk, he takes the chair adjacent.

  “You look like you just lost your best friend,” he says.

  “I lost something,” I tell him. “Another little piece of my faith in humanity, maybe.” I intended the words lightly, but that’s not the way they come out. “That son of a bitch has been preaching in this town for twenty years. Right under our noses. A rapist and murderer.”

  “Not the first phony to grace the house of God. Not even the first murderer.”

  “That’s the thing, Glock. He’s done so much for so many people. Why did he have to turn out to be a murdering son of a bitch?”

  “Maybe he figured that by saving others, he could somehow save himself,” he says. “Do you think he’s lying about the kids? About tossing that lantern?”

  “I don’t know. He just confessed to kidnapping and rape and attempted murder. Why stop there?”

  He grimaces, gives me a moment to reel in my emotions, then hits me with a questioning look. “What do you know about this Ruth Weaver?”

  “Not much. White female. Thirty-five years old.” I shake my head. “You guys come up with anything?”

  “Nada. No records. No photo. Not even a driver’s license.”

  “I think she’s our killer. I think she’s going after the people who brutalized her mother.”

  “Powerful motive.”

  “We need to put out a BOLO.”

  “A lot of thirty-five-year-old white females out there.”

  “Wait.” I recall my conversation with the lab technician from BCI. “There was a long hair found on Dale Michaels’s body. We don’t know if it’s from the killer or if he picked it up in the course of his day. It’s a blond hair that’s been dyed brown. Lab is working on ID’ing the donor now.”

  “So now we have a thirty-five-year-old white female with brown hair.”

  “It’s all we’ve got. Let’s put out a BOLO. If she’s driving without a license or proof of insurance, we might get lucky.”

  “Could be using a stolen identity.”

  I try not to groan. “Tell Mona and Jodie to stay on it. Tell them to search for the names Hochstetler and Weaver. First names Wanetta and Ruth. Cambria County, Pennsylvania. Nicktown. Nanty Glo. Tell them to look at everything. Blogs. Photos. Videos. News items. Whatever they can find. I’ll take anything at this point.”

  “Got it.” Glock jots notes in the small pad he keeps in his uniform pocket. Without taking his eyes off the pad, he asks, “Chief, might not be a bad idea to try and smoke her out using Blue.”

  “I thought of that, but there’s this pesky little detail called procedure. Could get sketchy with the lawyer, too.” I f
eel his eyes on mine, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know I’d already seriously considered it.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time cops used a witness to nab a bad guy.”

  I meet his gaze and we stare at each other across the spans of my desk, our minds working over the logistics as we were considering doing something we shouldn’t be considering. “It’s a bad idea. Lots of things could go wrong.”

  “On the other hand,” he says slowly, “it might be our best hope of getting our hands on Weaver. We keep it simple. Drive him back to his place and stay with him, out of sight. Make sure he’s visible. See what happens.”

  “Things could go bad pretty fast, Glock. Blue could make a run for it. Weaver could take a shot at him.”

  “So we put a vest on him.”

  “Maybe an ankle monitor…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I did not just say that.”

  Glock grins. “Yes, you did. Sheriff’s Department has an ankle monitor, Chief. I can run over there and pick it up.”

  My smile feels like wax on my face. “You’re not making it easy to say no.”

  “This woman, this Ruth Weaver, is working fast,” he says. “We know Blue is a viable target. It could work.”

  I give a nod, but the decision leaves a jittery sensation in the pit of my stomach. “Put Blue back in a cell and go get that ankle monitor.” I look at my watch. “Meet me back here in an hour. I’ve got to break the news to Hoch Yoder.”

  CHAPTER 27

  It’s 11 P.M. by the time I turn into the gravel lane of Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm. The shop is closed this time of night, so I continue down the lane to the house and park adjacent a white rail fence. A single upstairs window glows with lantern light. After shutting down the engine, I leave my vehicle and go through the gate and take the sidewalk to the front of the house and knock.

  I wait several minutes before the door opens. Hoch Yoder thrusts a lantern at me, his eyes widening upon spotting me. “Chief Burkholder. Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong?

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late, Hoch. I need to talk to you.” When he hesitates, I add. “It’s important.”

  “Of course.” He opens the door wider and beckons me inside.

  I follow him through a darkened living room and into the kitchen. I take the same chair I took last time I was here. He goes to the counter, removes the globe of a second lantern, and lights the mantle.

  “Hoch?”

  I glance toward the kitchen doorway to see his wife, Hannah, enter. She’s wearing a blue sleeping gown with a crocheted shawl over her shoulders. She looks from her husband to me. “Is everything all right?”

  “I have some news for Hoch,” I tell her. “About the case from 1979.”

  They exchange looks, and then Hannah joins him at the counter, sets her hand on his arm. “I’ll make cider.”

  Giving her a nod, he crosses to the table and sits across from me. “Did you catch them?”

  “I believe all but one of the people responsible for what happened that night is dead.”

  “Dead? But…” Realization dawns on his face. “You mean those people who were murdered?”

  I nod. “The fourth man is in custody. He confessed.”

  “Confessed? Who is it?”

  “Blue Branson.”

  “The Englischer breddicher?” The English preacher? Incredulity rings hard in his voice. “But why … He … Mein gott. I have no words.”

  “Hoch, I can’t go into much detail, because the investigation is ongoing. But … I have some information for you.”

  Hannah approaches the table with three mugs of cider. “Chief Burkholder,” she begins, “are you certain about Pastor Branson?” She sets the mugs in front of us. “He seems like such a decent, God-loving man. He donated a hundred dollars when Chubby Joe Esh’s house burned last year. He came out and worked alongside the Amish to help rebuild.”

  “I have his full confession.” I turn my attention back to Hoch. “I know what happened to your mother. Some of this will be difficult for you to hear, but I think there are some things you need to know.”

  He opens his mouth, but no words come. For an instant, his lips quiver, like a mute man trying to speak. “It’s terrible?”

  “It’s bad,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

  Hannah sinks into the chair next to him, sets her hand on his forearm again, and squeezes so firmly, her knuckles turn white. “We value the light more fully after we’ve come through the darkness,” she murmurs in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  Bolstered by her words, Hoch looks at me and nods.

  As gently as possible, leaving out most of the sordid details, I convey to him the account of events that Blue relayed to me earlier. “She passed away two months ago,” I finish.

  He blinks at me, hurt and confusion twisting his features. “But if she was alive, why didn’t she come back?”

  “We may never know.” I shrug. “Maybe she suffered a traumatic brain injury. Sometimes those kinds of injuries can affect memory, and in some cases, the patient’s personality. She may not have remembered who she was or even her name.”

  “Blue Branson did that to her?” he asks, incredulous. “Forced her and then left her for dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Next to him, Hannah lowers her head and puts her face in her hands. “She is with God now. At peace. We can take comfort in that.”

  The Amish man sets both elbows on the table and looks down at the untouched mug of cider in front of him. “She was alive. All this time.”

  “Hoch, I know this is difficult, but there’s more.”

  “There’s more than that?” He raises his gaze to mine. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Was your mother with child when she disappeared? Had she mentioned it?”

  “With child? No.” He says the word with a defensiveness that tells me he knows where I’m going with this.

  “I believe your mother had a child. A daughter.”

  “What? But … When?” Making a sound of distress, he sets his fingers against his temples and massages. “I have a sister?” He raises his head. My heart twists when I see a tremulous smile on his lips. “A sister.”

  “Hoch, it’s more complicated than that. We’re looking for her. We think—”

  “Looking for her? You mean the police? But why?”

  “I’m sorry, but I think she may be involved with these murders.”

  He goes still. “You think she killed those three people?” His gaze searches mine. In their depths, I see his mind digging into all the dark crevices of the past. Remembering things he’s been trying to forget. “How old is this woman who claims to be my sister?”

  “She’s about thirty-five years old.”

  Hannah goes to the sink and begins to wash her mug.

  I see Hoch’s mind working over the time frame, and I know he’s doing the math. “So this woman … she could be my half sister.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “My mother endured much suffering.”

  “Yes. You, too.”

  From her place at the sink, Hannah looks at me over her shoulder, and I see tears on her cheeks. “Sell is en shlimm shtoahri.” That is a terrible story. “It breaks my heart.”

  “I’m sorry.” I look at Hoch. “Can I talk to you alone?”

  Wariness enters his eyes. At first I think he’s going to refuse; then he nods at his wife. “Leave us for a moment, Hannah.”

  She bows her head slightly, dries her hands on a dish towel, and leaves the kitchen.

  When we’re alone, I say, “In your statement, you told the police that one of the men threw the lantern down the steps and into the basement, causing the fire that killed the children.”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “Blue Branson claims none of them threw the lantern. That they forced all of you into the basement without any light.”

  He blinks at me, unspeaking.

  That he doesn’t deny Blue’s a
ssertion stirs a small ping of skepticism, of pain—and compassion. “Hoch, I’m not here to lay blame. You were the victim of a crime that night. I just want to make sure I have all the facts and that those facts are correct because it will have a bearing on the case. Is Blue telling the truth about the lantern? Is it possible the lantern was already in the basement and the children lit it?”

  “Why does it matter?” he snaps. “They’re with God now.”

  “It matters because if Blue was the cause of that fire, he’ll be charged with four additional counts of homicide.”

  The Amish man lowers his face into his hands and emits a single sob. “My brothers and sisters … they were frightened of the dark. Mamm kept a lantern on the workbench where she made soap. I lit the lantern. I thought … I thought they would be all right.”

  I steel myself against a rolling wave of sympathy. For him. For the children. And for the first time, I’m fully cognizant of the guilt he must have felt all these years. “It was an accident, Hoch. The kids may have panicked and somehow knocked it over.”

  “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t left them … they’d still be alive. I’ve prayed for God’s forgiveness. He has given me comfort. Still, those little ones are gone because of me.”

  “You couldn’t have foreseen what happened. You did your best, and that’s all any of us can do. It was an accident. God knows that, Hoch.” The words make me feel like a hypocrite; I’m the last person who has the right to talk to this man about God. Still, I believe the words. “You were trying to save your mother’s life. That was very brave.”

  “The children suffered because of me.”

  “Because of those men. Not you.”

  Hoch hangs his head. He doesn’t make a sound, but tears stream from his eyes. He wipes his face with his shirtsleeve. “I bragged about the money. To the Englischer. He was a couple of years older than me, and I … wanted to impress him.” He utters a sad laugh. “I wanted to be cool. Like him. I told him we had jars full of money.”

  “Who did you tell?” I ask.

  “He’s a government man now. Johnston. He worked for my father for a few weeks. I think he must have told the others.” Pain flashes on his features. “But it was my fault. I was … prideful. That’s not the Amish way.”