PL Gaus

by Amish 01 - Blood of the Prodigal (v5)

  As they came around the courthouse and passed the war monument, the clouds opened and heavy drops began pelting down. Niell and Branden sprinted across the small lawn in the downpour and ducked into the north door of the jail, the rain pinging loudly on the hand-hammered tin moldings over the jail’s windows and doors. Shaking rain off his cap, Niell commented, “The sheriff’s not gonna go for this at all.”

  An hour later, Branden glanced ruefully at Niell, having come to regard the young deputy as an accomplished master of understatement.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Robertson was saying, calmer now, but still clearly incensed.

  Ellie Troyer had not mustered the wherewithal to press her ear to the wall boards. Until now, she hadn’t needed to.

  “I couldn’t risk it, Bruce,” Branden said, defending himself. “We only had suspicions about the boy. Nothing to go on, and, for all we knew, it was Isaac, or someone close to the family, who had Jeremiah. If I had pushed too hard on that, we might have precipitated something unintended.”

  Robertson scowled bitterly, not liking any angle on the matter. He paced behind his desk, eventually retrieved his overturned swivel chair from the corner, and sat down heavily.

  “You couldn’t have trusted me to handle it?”

  Branden gave his friend a look that answered, gently, no. Then he said, “Until now, I thought it best to proceed as the bishop had wanted. He had brought me in on those terms, and I figured he would know the problem better than anyone.”

  “Well he didn’t!” Robertson shouted. He reached for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, and crushed it out. “What’s Caroline doing out at the Millers’?”

  “We called her from a gas station. She’s going to talk with Mrs. Miller. Their youngest daughter apparently saw a policeman in a car on the lane the day Jeremiah was taken. Maybe Caroline can get her to remember some more details.”

  Robertson listened and tried to relax. Eventually he took another Winston out of its red and white pack and leaned back in his chair, smoking without comment. From time to time he pulled his gaze down off the ceiling and shot Branden a look.

  Then he got up and went out to the front counter, spoke with Ellie for several minutes, came back to his chair with something like a smile on his face, lit another smoke, and sat down. At his desk, he sorted, again, through the items retrieved from Jonah’s truck and from reports brought in that day by the deputies. Branden and Niell waited, Niell in the straight wooden chair in front of the sheriff’s desk, Branden in the soft leather one to the side.

  Robertson thumbed out his cigarette, blew smoke and said, “I’ve questioned your little waitress friend this morning, Mike.”

  Branden nodded. “I told you about her at dinner last night.”

  “Did you know that she had seen Jonah recently?”

  Branden shrugged.

  “And just when were you going to tell me that?”

  Branden didn’t answer.

  “Well, she ran into Jonah up in Cleveland this spring, and told him he had a son. Said it shook him up plenty. Also said she’d told Jeff Hostettler about the whole thing.”

  Branden rolled his eyes and sat back with a groan. After an uncomfortable interval, he rose, moved to the window, and stared out. Traffic had slackened on the courthouse square as the afternoon had progressed. Eventually, Branden reclaimed his seat and sprawled in it.

  Ellie Troyer carried in a fresh pot of coffee, poured for the sheriff, and offered to Branden and Niell, who both declined. She lingered, standing beside Niell’s chair, somewhat back, eyeing the sheriff.

  “What am I gonna do here, Ellie?” Robertson said. “The professor thinks I should wait for his wife to come in.”

  “Perhaps,” Ellie said.

  Robertson thought for a moment while tapping a book of paper matches on his desk and then asked, “Who’ve we got on patrol this evening, Ellie?”

  “Schrauzer, Wilsher, Jones, and Nelson,” Ellie said.

  “And who’d you recommend to send out to the Millers’?”

  After a pause, Ellie said, “I think Wilsher.”

  “Right,” the sheriff agreed. “But tell him to handle things slowly with the Millers. He’ll understand. He’s to stay there with them. I don’t want his unit parked on the lane, so have Schrauzer or Jones run him out. Tell him I’ll be out after we’ve finished here. Might be late tonight. Got it?”

  Ellie said, “Got it,” and waited.

  Robertson glanced at his deputy with an air of decisiveness. He pushed back from his desk, opened its center drawer, withdrew a note pad, wrote several lines, tore off the top page with a flourish, folded the page, handed the note to Ellie and said, “You and Niell work on that.”

  Ellie opened the note, read, motioned for Niell to follow, and left with him.

  Branden stood up awkwardly after the long spell in the low chair and paced in front of the sheriff’s desk, hands in his pockets, easing the stiffness out of his legs.

  Robertson rocked back in his swivel chair and studied the high, ornate, hammered-tin ceiling tiles. Then he pulled up to his desk and sorted through the accumulating evidence. To Branden he said, “I’ve had deputies checking roofing crews in the area since I talked to Missy about the smudges on Jonah’s boots. But everything we’ve got from the truck points to Lake Erie, instead.”

  Branden tried the straight wooden chair, found it uncomfortable, and returned to the low leather one. He dropped into it and slouched with his feet stretched out, his back low to the seat cushion, struggling to relax, thinking it typical of Robertson to have tracked down every lead he had. So he had spoken to Ester Yoder. Probably also to Isaac. Maybe he had actually interrogated them as suspects.

  Outside the sheriff’s window, the thunderstorm had dropped the temperature by twenty degrees. Leaves, broken twigs, and branches lay randomly about the lawn and the sidewalks. Only a single buggy remained, and the usual complement of tourists had departed in their air-conditioned bus.

  Eventually Caroline arrived with Deputy Schrauzer and laid the ransom notes, in a brown envelope, on the sheriff’s desk. Robertson read them without comment.

  Branden held to his leather chair and Caroline took the straight one. Schrauzer stood. They all waited on the sheriff, who sat thoughtfully at his desk. Time passed.

  Robertson sorted through details in his mind, shoved the Jon Mills evidence around on his desk with a pencil, and eventually spoke with a tone of restless irritation. “Jon Mills has got himself a speeding violation out of Port Clinton, up on Lake Erie,” he said, indicating the general scatter of documents on his desk. “That fits with other items from Jonah’s truck. Still doesn’t give us much to go on, finding the boy, that is.”

  Robertson picked up the ransom notes again, reread them and said, “We still can’t be sure that these were written by anybody up at Port Clinton.” He sounded negative. He wondered, momentarily, how Ellie was coming along with his instructions.

  “None of the Millers can have done this,” Caroline asserted.

  “Maybe so, but neither is any of them gonna be the least little bit of help,” Robertson retorted. He stood, stepped to one of the windows in his office and looked out onto the courthouse square.

  “They don’t know what to do,” Caroline said. “You can’t blame them, Bruce.”

  “Their grandson’s been kidnapped and they can’t think what to do?”

  “They’ve been praying.”

  “Great, that’s a marvelous comfort to know,” Robertson said with intense sarcasm.

  “Knock it off, Bruce,” Branden said, openly irritated. “What would you expect them to have done?”

  “They could at least have come to me, or have gotten some cash together,” Robertson declared, glaring out the window at nothing in particular. Then he twisted at the waist to glare at Branden. “You think they wouldn’t have paid anyways. That sound at all normal to you?” It was spoken scornfully.

  “That sounds Amish to me,” Branden said.
“That’s what makes me think the people who kidnapped Jeremiah can’t be Amish. Who’d expect Old Order Amish to have that kind of money?”

  “Then they could sell some land!” Robertson exploded.

  “You know better than that, Bruce,” Branden argued. “You wouldn’t have advised them to pay, at any rate.”

  Caroline said, “Selling land is something they wouldn’t readily do. You know that, Bruce. Their salvation’s mixed into it. To give up land would be to put them all at risk, not just Jeremiah. That’s why Michael’s right. The kidnappers cannot have known the Amish.”

  Robertson scoffed, “How about someone like Isaac Miller, who stands to benefit from Jonah’s death, and won’t return Jeremiah until he has the farm?”

  Branden challenged him instantly. “Name one case, here or anywhere else, Bruce, that such a thing has happened among the Amish.”

  Robertson made a disagreeable expression that grudgingly acknowledged Branden’s point. Then the sheriff thought again of Ellie and Ricky Niell. They should be almost ready, he mused. After a few restless moments in front of the window, Robertson asked Caroline, in a gentler tone, “What did you learn out there, anyways?”

  “Their youngest daughter, Ruth, might have seen something the morning Jeremiah was taken,” Caroline said. “A policeman. Stopping by the mailbox.”

  “That’s it?” Robertson asked.

  “The girl’s only six,” Caroline said. “The family knows to take things slowly, if she is going to be able to remember anything more.”

  Branden sat more upright in his leather chair and took up an earlier point. “It’s not that they wouldn’t sell land, Bruce. Rather, they’ve been slow to come to the conclusion that they might actually have to do it. Slow to pray it through. Cautious. Thinking slowly. Not knowing what to do, or whom to trust. For all they know, one of us might have the boy. English are English, so to speak.”

  Caroline said, “I agree. There’s not a soul out there who doesn’t want to see Jeremiah brought home. From what the women have said, they’ve checked with the families in the district. Totaled their funds.”

  “And?” Robertson asked, while noting that Branden had taken the ransom notes and was studying them, slouched again in his leather chair.

  “And there isn’t a family who would withhold a cent. The Millers have got the funds. All they have to do is ask, and dozens of buggies would appear in their yard that very day, cash in hand.”

  “A hundred thousand?” the sheriff asked.

  “More if they needed it. Everybody’s waiting for the bishop to decide.”

  “He wouldn’t spend a hundred thousand to save his grandson?” Robertson asked.

  “He feels he’s responsible for deciding if the safety of one is to be balanced against the well-being of all,” Caroline said.

  Robertson grimaced as if he thought the decision obvious. He watched curiously as Branden read the ransom notes.

  “We’ve still got Jeff Hostettler,” Deputy Schrauzer offered.

  “I’ve always liked him for this one,” Robertson said. “How’s this sound for our precious Amish saints? The way Hostettler tells it, Brenda Hostettler tried talking to Eli Miller before she killed herself. She begged him to send after Jonah. Figured it was her only way of getting him back. Brenda Hostettler begged Eli Miller to ask his son home. And Miller wouldn’t so much as lift a finger.”

  Caroline answered, “They lead separated lives for a reason. You can’t have part of the Amish and not the whole.”

  “This is one part of the Amish I can do without.”

  “It’s their faith, Bruce.”

  “No, Caroline, I’m sorry. It’s a boy’s life,” Robertson said, quarrelsome. “Mike, I want you to tell me why I shouldn’t charge you for not reporting the missing kid the first thing you knew about him.”

  Branden rose, paced along the windows and defended himself. “As far back as we go, Bruce, you’re not going to charge me with anything.”

  “How about interfering with a sheriff’s investigation?” Robertson griped.

  “You didn’t have an investigation involving the boy.”

  “That’s my point, Professor. I should have had one.”

  “When I first got involved in this matter, there was only a family dispute, maybe not even that, over Jermiah’s spending time with his father. Bishop Miller would have denied there was a problem, if I had taken the matter to you. We know that now, because of the ransom notes. His entire approach was to try to find the boy without drawing attention to the search.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Robertson said. “You knew there was a problem once Jonah turned up dead. You should have brought the case to me then, at the very least.”

  “The bishop wouldn’t let me.”

  “Oh, that’s supposed to impress me?” Robertson shot back.

  “At that point, at most, it was a case of a missing child. And the bishop told me he’d deny the matter if I talked to you. Now we know why. The ransom deadline hadn’t expired. I didn’t know that then, but I made a judgment call. Either I could bring you in, and lose the Millers’ cooperation, or I could try to do some good in the three days Miller had given me. And what if it had been someone close to the Millers who had the boy? Then what, Bruce? At the most, you can charge me with bad judgment.”

  “You concealed a kidnapping.”

  “That’s not true!” Branden snapped. “I brought you the case as soon as I knew about the kidnapping. Ask Niell.”

  Robertson shouted, “Mike, I swear I’m gonna . . . ,” and stopped.

  Branden turned from the windows and squared up to the sheriff, heated.

  “OK,” Robertson said. “OK,” the intensity rinsing out of him quickly.

  Branden relaxed and stood by the windows. Then he crossed the room and lifted a water-soaked matchbook from the evidence scattered across the sheriff’s desk. “You said most of this stuff from the truck comes from Port Clinton?”

  “The truck’s registered in Texas, but everything in it comes from Port Clinton and places around the Bass Islands,” Robertson said.

  Branden saw the traces of a satisfied smile on Robertson’s face. “What are those keys?” Branden asked, indicating a set on the sheriff’s desk, chained to a small red and white plastic float that resembled a marine buoy.

  “He had a boat on Lake Erie,” Robertson said, “and a trailer hitch on the truck to match.”

  “Then someone’s going to have to go up there,” Branden said. “How about you and me?”

  “Not me,” Robertson said with a chortle. “I’ve got to be here, working with the FBI.” A broad smile appeared on his face. It was a smile that said, “I’ve been ahead of you all along, Professor.”

  “You called in the FBI?” Branden said, sounding incredulous. “We’re too close, now, to have to stop and bring the FBI up to speed.”

  “I’ve got no choice, Mike. Kidnapping’s a federal offense. That’s what Ellie’s been working on.”

  Branden remembered the note Robertson had handed Ellie and said, “The FBI will not go about this the right way, Bruce. Not with the Amish.”

  “Not down here, they won’t,” Robertson chuckled. “As soon as they move into this case, we’ll have to do things their way, here. I figure that’ll be later tonight. At the moment, I’ve got Wilsher camped out at the Millers, and I’ve still to hear what the Miller girl might have seen. I’m not very hopeful, but most of our leads come from the items we recovered from that truck, and they all indicate Jonah Miller was living and working near Port Clinton. We’ve got restaurant matchbooks. Rent receipts. Boat repairs. Marine fuel receipts. Everything points to that.”

  “And?”

  “And, Professor,” Robertson said, “by the time the FBI gets anything out of the Millers, and then manages to drag the rest of it out of me, you and Deputy Niell, there,” nodding smugly at the door behind them, “will have had about a half-day head start, up on the lake.”

  They turned to the do
or and saw the deputy, equipped thoroughly for the work the sheriff had scribbled down earlier for Ellie. In his left hand he carried a bulking black canvas duffel. On his feet were high-lacing black leather boots. He was dressed otherwise in his gray and black Holmes County Deputy Sheriff’s uniform with gold trim and insignias. In his right hand he carried a Colt Gold Cup .45 ACP pistol mounted in a black leather shoulder harness with extra magazines. His sheriff deputy’s service revolver was strapped to his belt, as were a double set of speed loaders, handcuffs, flashlight, and a canister of mace.

  “I’m beginning to like that Ellie Troyer,” Robertson commented dryly. “Girl knows how to follow orders.”

  24

  Thursday, June 25

  11:30 P.M.

  AGENT Stan Walters, FBI, was trying his best to control his temper, but he felt a growing impatience with Sheriff Robertson. He had spent two inactive hours in the sheriff’s office, and although the Amish lore and the sheriff’s concern that matters be handled correctly made sense to Stan, he also realized that a good portion of those two hours had been “down time.” Time when the sheriff had not been focused on task. In truth, Stan Walters thought, they could have been out here much sooner. OK, so they weren’t locals, but really, two hours to bring them up to speed on the kidnapping and to give him advice about how to handle Amish folk? Either the sheriff and Ellie Troyer had been stalling, or they simply hadn’t gotten with the program. All right, a man had been killed. A cowboy, from what they had said, dressed Amish. And OK, he thought, that clearly connected up with the kidnapping. But really, sheriff, he thought, you could have given me that much on the ride out.

  Walters was thin, five-ten, dark-haired, and dressed in a plain gray suit, white shirt, and a simple red tie. His hair was cut medium short, combed neatly, and evidently always stayed that way. His badge was out on the breast pocket of his suit, and he held a cell phone in his left hand. He switched it off and pushed past Robertson in the dark, having decided enough was enough.