by P. L. Gaus
Branden nodded and asked, “What’s so special about Jonah Miller?”
The mug shot photos were delivered to Robertson, and he looked them over and then held them up for Branden. “Look, Mike,” Robertson complained, “most Amish don’t even know what court is. Never seen a judge. Wouldn’t know how to go about filing a police report.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Bruce,” and then, “That’s Jonah Miller?”
The sheriff nodded and then said to Niell, “You grew up around here, too, Ricky. You know of any real trouble with the Amish?”
Niell shrugged and said, “Not really, sir.”
Robertson handed the photos to Branden and kept at it. “Take those four boys last year that got caught busting up mailboxes at Halloween. Court date came up, no lawyers, no legal moves, nothing. Judge lined ’em up in front of his bench, read the charges, and asked how they pleaded.”
“And?” Branden asked.
“Didn’t know what it meant ‘to plead.’ So the judge explains, ‘Guilty or Not Guilty?’ Not one of those boys said a word. Probably too confused. Or embarrassed. Anyway, the bishop who brought ’em to court stood up in the back and said ‘They pleads guilty.’ End of case.”
“What’s the point, Bruce?” Branden asked.
“Point is, Mike, Jonah Miller is no longer Amish. He’s way past that, now, buddy, let me tell ya. Closest thing to wanton lawlessness I’ve ever seen from a Dutchman.”
“And?” Branden asked. He studied the front and side-view photos of Miller. Short black hair in a crewcut, long black mustache, a sullen expression on his face, with a hint of wild defiance in his eyes. He passed the photos to Niell, who studied them briefly and gave them back to Branden.
“And, if Jonah E. Miller were to show his face in these parts, there’d be no end of trouble, all around. Amish included.” Robertson leaned forward on his elbows and raised an eyebrow, adding, “Do you remember the Brenda Hostettler thing ten years back?”
“Brenda Hostettler—Jeff Hostettler’s sister, right? I was on sabbatical then. What happened to her?” Branden asked.
“Suicide.”
Niell looked startled and took a step forward. The sheriff waited for Branden to make the connection.
“Brenda Hostettler and Jonah Miller?” Branden asked.
“You’re starting to get the picture,” Robertson said indelicately. “Jonah Miller got Brenda Hostettler pregnant before he split.”
Ricky Niell said, “I knew Brenda in high school,” and sat down heavily in a chair in front of the sheriff’s desk.
Robertson continued. “Some say he didn’t know about the child, but plenty think he did. Something like ten years ago, now. You were still in the service, Ricky. You, my fine professor, must have been locked away in your ivory tower.”
Branden rolled his eyes and said again, “I was on sabbatical, Bruce, all year at Duke.”
“OK, whatever,” Robertson said. “Anyway, the kid was born. Brenda took care of it for a spell. Then she walked out to Bishop Miller’s house, left the kid on the back porch, stepped over the hill, and blew her brains out with a .357 magnum.”
Branden groaned, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and ran his fingers back through his hair.
Ricky Niell, shaken, muttered again, “I knew Brenda Hostettler.”
Branden thought for several minutes, staring at the floor. When he looked back to the sheriff, Branden said, “The child was Jeremiah Miller?”
“Right. So you do remember the case,” Robertson said.
“Not really. I just know the bishop,” Branden said, his mind racing. “Also, I’m looking for his son.”
“Brenda Hostettler killed herself?” Niell asked.
“I think you two are catching on,” Robertson said and smiled. Then he asked, “Why are you looking for Jonah Miller?”
“The bishop has asked me to find him,” Branden said, and offered no more of the puzzle.
“Then don’t you think it’s a bit strange that the bishop didn’t mention her to you?” Robertson asked.
Niell nodded once in agreement and turned his eyes on the professor.
“She wasn’t Amish?” Branden asked, fishing.
“No.” Robertson explained. “She was a bar-hopping tramp, but she came from a prominent family. Her father was dead at the time. Her mother has passed on, since. She has only a brother who survives her.”
“And?” Branden asked.
“And he has vowed to kill Jonah Miller on sight.”
As he left the jailhouse, Branden pocketed the photos of Jonah Miller and wrestled with the nature of the problem he had been handed. Clearly Miller would not be able to come home to stay. Evidently, he’d not likely try. And clearly it was obvious to everyone that Bishop Miller would stop at little, if anything, to retrieve his grandson. Also, clearly, the bishop did not want the disappearance of Jeremiah, a kidnapping really, placed into the hands of the law.
Branden drove the narrow, steep streets of Millersburg, thought about that, and realized he agreed with the bishop, at least for the moment. Even aside from the bishop’s inherent distrust of the law, Branden knew instinctively that Bruce Robertson’s gruff approach would be wrong for the delicate task of locating the bishop’s grandson. And yet, without more to go on, there was little he could do, beyond what they had already planned, to find Jonah Miller and his son Jeremiah.
As he drove slowly up the hill to the college heights, Branden wondered what the bishop expected them to do. He had ruled out access to the resources of the Sheriff’s Department, and, on their own, they had learned precious little. Jeremiah was with Jonah Miller, who would not likely appear in Holmes County any time soon. And Bishop Miller had decided to sit on the farm for a month, waiting for whatever leads a couple of English folk might turn up.
“There’s nothing there,” Branden mumbled as he turned onto the short street where they lived near the college. Nothing to lead them to Jeremiah. He also realized as he parked at the curb that, apart from the fact that he wanted his grandson back, the bishop had given him practically nothing to work with. There was just Jonah Miller’s note, and that was cryptic enough. “Back by harvest” was how it had read. He wondered how he could ask Bruce Robertson to run some criminal records checks, without violating his promise to the bishop.
Then, as he walked into his brick colonial, set close to the curb, he asked himself the pivotal question in the puzzle they were working. Why, given the facts, or lack of them, was the bishop not content simply to wait it out, for Jeremiah to come home for the harvest?
11
Monday, June 22
9:00 A.M.
CAROLINE rose from the small wooden breakfast table, carried dishes to the sink, came back to the round table, took Cal’s cup and saucer, added hot water at the stove, set it in front of Cal and said, to him and to her husband, “I can’t explain all the reasons why, Cal. I just know Donna Beachey thinks she’s the cause of most of Jonah Miller’s early troubles.”
She sat back down at the table, wondering privately when her husband intended to speak of the FedEx envelope that lay unopened on his desk at the college. When he’s ready, she told herself, sorry now that his secretary had ever mentioned it to her.
Cal said, “Jonah Miller had more troubles than can have been started by any fifth-grade teacher.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Caroline asserted, “She still carries remorse over Jonah. A great deal of remorse.”
“So what have we got here?” Branden asked. “A young dreamer of a student put too tight a roll on his trouser cuffs and ended up a smoking, drinking, fast-living scoundrel who deserted his pregnant girlfriend, drove her to suicide, kidnapped his own son ten years later, and is being hunted by his father who shunned him, and by the girl’s brother, who has vowed to kill him. That about cover it?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Caroline complained.
Cal rolled his eyes and shook his head. He sipped his tea and remarked, “There seems to
be something missing. Something important.”
“Something rather subtle,” Branden said. “Did either of you get the impression that people were surprised to hear mention of Jonah Miller?”
“Very much so,” Caroline said. “It took me all morning, and the better part of the afternoon, to find Donna Beachey. Until then, people were surprised even to hear mention of Jonah’s name.”
Cal said, “Same here. Most were uncomfortable to speak of him at all.”
“I got something like that same reaction from Bruce Robertson,” Branden added.
“So what’s that tell us?” Cal asked.
“First, it tells us what the internet suggested right off,” Branden said. “He hasn’t moved back into the county. Also that he has not allowed himself to be seen, and that we might just as well start looking for him elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere could be anywhere,” Caroline said.
The phone rang, and Branden rose to answer it.
“Something else’s been bothering me,” Cal said to Caroline. “Why would the bishop ask Mike not to try to get the boy back if he found him? To leave him with his father? Everyone I spoke to acted as if it’d be obvious that he’d search for Jeremiah and demand his return. Relentless was a word someone used.”
After a pause, Caroline said, “Maybe ‘why’ isn’t the question. Maybe we should be asking ‘who’ the bishop doesn’t want to learn he’s searching for Jeremiah.”
Cal glanced at Branden, still on the phone, and looking troubled.
To Caroline Cal said, “Among all of the people we’ve interviewed, it seems that Jonah has only one former teacher, Beachey, and one former friend, Coblentz, who might be inclined to think well of him. Eli Miller must be worried that Jonah will harm the boy.” He thought a moment longer and then added, “Or that someone will make a run at Jonah, and Jeremiah will be caught in the middle.”
Caroline grimaced. It was a good point. Almost anyone could be waiting for a chance at Jonah Miller.
Cal looked at his watch. “I’ve got to catch a plane tomorrow, and I haven’t packed.”
“Your conference?” Caroline asked.
“Yes,” Cal said, “but Mike’s going to need help finding this boy. Wish I weren’t going now.”
“He’ll be fine,” Caroline said. “Besides, he has Bruce Robertson if he really needs help.”
“He said Bruce Robertson thought Jonah would be in danger for his life if he were to come home,” Cal said, arguing the point.
Caroline said, “I’ll help. Don’t worry about going to the conference.”
Branden returned from the phone and overheard. “It doesn’t matter now, Cal,” he said. “You can take all the time you want, and it won’t matter to Jonah Miller.” He sat down heavily, laid his palms flat on the table top, and studied the backs of his hands for several seconds. “That was Bruce Robertson on the phone. Jonah Miller is dead. Shot in the head less than half a mile from Bishop Miller’s house.”
12
Monday, June 22
10:30 A.M.
“ANDY!” Robertson bellowed, glowering into the ditch from the berm above, “You’ve got enough pictures!”
Andy Shetler snapped off another six frames, clearly annoyed, wanting more. Impatient, aren’t you, Robertson, he thought, irritated. Always in such a hurry. Wound too tight for police work, aren’t you, Robertson, Shetler thought. It takes time to do things right, in case you didn’t know. The shots were difficult. Body two-thirds buried in muck. Weeds obscuring all of the best camera angles.
Shetler squeezed off three more frames and then, with an audible groan, eased his foot into putrid goo at the bottom of the ditch. Bubbles of sulfurous gas gurgled up around his ankles, and cold muck seeped into his shoe. He pushed forward through the cat tails and shot several more frames of a body in Amish attire, lying on its side, arms tangled strangely, the back of the head destroyed by an apparent gun shot.
“How about it, Shetler? You going to let us get a look at that body or not?” Robertson had been pacing somberly along the berm, but now stood with his feet apart, hands planted decisively on his hips. Everyone had turned at the bark of his voice.
“All done,” Andy said, gloomily pulling his shoe out of the mud. As he scaled the bank, he held the Nikon high over his head and said, “All yours, Sheriff. No need to hurry. He’s a mess.”
Robertson pulled two pairs of latex gloves out of his back pocket and shouted in the direction of a deputy standing guard at the yellow police ribbon, “Let the professor through.”
Branden eased past a cluster of Amish folk gathered silently on the roadside. He ducked under the yellow tape and walked, hands stuffed into his pockets, to the side of the road where Sheriff Robertson stood amid a tangle of orange day lilies, glaring down into the muddy ditch. Only a light drizzle remained of the morning’s storm. The skies were bleak, winds gusting, sun laboring ineffectively behind a drab cover of gray. If not for the green of the luxuriant crops that lay under the clouds in every direction, it could easily have been mistaken for a day late in fall.
Robertson handed Branden a pair of the rubber gloves and said, “Notice how the arms and legs sprawl?”
“You think he was dead before he landed?” Branden asked.
“Went limp before he touched down.”
Branden grimaced, snapped his hands into the rubber gloves, and followed Robertson down into the ditch. Robertson pushed the cat tails aside and studied the face, washed clean by the rain. “Lousy job of shaving, wouldn’t you say, Mike?”
“You mean the nicks?” Branden asked. The skin was ashen, mousy gray, and the open eyes were vacant. Tiny nicks in the skin showed around the mouth, shaved recently smooth above and below the lips. A small hole showed under the chin, ringed by a patch of black powder and burnt skin.
“I’ll warrant he was not well practiced with a straight razor.”
“Clothes are new,” Branden said as they turned the body slightly.
The black vest hung loose, unhooked, and the plain white shirt was buttoned to the neck.
“They found a new straw hat nearby,” Robertson remarked as he used a pencil to lift a revolver out of the mud beside the body.
“You figure that’s the murder weapon?” Branden asked.
“Or suicide,” Robertson said.
“Out here? Surely this has got to be a murder, Bruce. Especially considering all the trouble Jonah Miller has caused over the years.”
“Can’t rule out suicide at this point,” Robertson replied.
“Check the hands,” Branden said.
Robertson straddled the body and pulled one hand from the muck in the ditch. “Coroner’s going to have to rule on powder residue,” Robertson said, showing Branden the thick mud that encased the right hand. Then he pointed to the left arm, pinned at a strange angle under the torso and said, “The left hand, too.”
Branden straightened beside the body and studied the crowd of curious Amish gathered on the road above. “Who found the body, Bruce?”
“Kids driving by in a surrey, as far as I understand it,” Robertson said, his attention still on the body.
“And how do we know this is Jonah Miller?” Branden asked, as he tried to superimpose the booking photos from ten years ago onto the face that lay in the ditch.
“Oh, it’s Miller all right,” the sheriff said, and then, “Hey, look at this, Mike. No wallet, no comb, no nothin’.” He had deftly pulled both of the pockets inside out.
Branden nodded bleakly. Robertson said, “Let’s get out of here,” and scrambled awkwardly up the bank to the road.
Once on top, Robertson hitched his pants up in back, gathered his shirttail under his sizable belly, and then waved for the deputy. “Coroner on her way?”
“Yes sir,” the deputy replied.
“We’re finished, here. She can have the body.”
Branden studied the faces in the crowd that had gathered behind the yellow ribbons and asked Robertson, as he peeled off his glo
ves, “You figure that’s a bullet hole under the chin?”
“No doubt, but I’ll want to hear what Taggert has to say, too.” The sheriff tilted his glance toward the back of the station wagon, where the deputies were sliding out a stretcher.
“You been over the road?” Branden asked.
“Yep. No skid marks here, if that’s what you mean.”
“Any idea what Jonah Miller was doing on this particular road?” Branden asked.
“No,” the sheriff said.
“Do we know why he’s dressed Amish?”
“No,” the sheriff said, with increasing impatience.
“Any eyewitnesses?”
“None,” the sheriff said, scowling.
Branden stood on the wet pavement, thinking. There were no witnesses and few details. And Professor Michael Branden was a man accustomed to details. Most of his cases had finally come down to them, one way or another. So, too, his research on the Civil War. The larger questions always fell into place only in context of the details. Here there were few. Instead of details, there was only a single, overarching implausibility: Although it was not uncommon for the Amish to become the victim of a careless driver on a country lane, it was decidedly uncommon for one to be shot, perhaps murdered—and that after a bishop had retained a private investigator to find him.
Branden studied the crowd that had gathered, glanced down despondently at the body, and struggled to frame the larger questions. Most of all, Branden distrusted the coincidences. “Bishop Miller,” he said to himself, “must have held something back.”
At the cruiser, Robertson leaned over, reached in for the microphone to his radio and made a call as he stood next to the black-and-white. “Ellie, I want Jeff Hostettler picked up for questioning.”
“Jeff Hostettler, right away,” Ellie answered.
“That’s the brother I told you about,” Robertson explained to Branden. “The brother of Jeremiah Miller’s mother.”
The mention of the boy’s name sent a shock through Branden. Where was Jeremiah? His thoughts whirled momentarily out of control. Branden seized on the hope that Jeremiah must now be home, and felt the urgency lessen. Jeremiah must surely be at his grandfather’s house, just up the road. First work the scene, then go to the bishop’s, he told himself, calmer. Take the time here to do things right, and then go to the Millers’. That’s where Jeremiah Miller will be. Back with his family.