Breaking Silence kb-3

by Linda Castillo

  The workshop isn’t large. Looking around, I see a dozen or so unfinished cabinet doors stacked neatly against the wall, and it strikes me that Solomon Slabaugh was also a cabinetmaker.

  “Did your datt make these cabinets?” I ask.

  Mose ventures closer to me, eyeing the cabinets. “Ja.”

  “He was very good.”

  “He liked to work with his hands.”

  “Did you help him?”

  “I made the one on the left. It’s red oak.”

  “It’s nice. I like the wood grain.” I walk to a half dozen intricately made Victorian-style birdhouses. “He make these, too?”

  The boy glances uncertainly at the men, then follows me. “Ja. The mailboxes, too.”

  “They’re really lovely.”

  We’re standing about ten feet from the men now. It’s the farthest away I can get him without being too obvious about getting him alone. “Are you doing okay?” I ask, lifting the roof of a birdhouse and peeking inside.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he mumbles something that sounds like yeah.

  “You feel up to answering a few questions?”

  He fixes his gaze on me and I see him resign himself to dealing with me, dealing with whatever reason I’m here. “What is this about?” he asks.

  “Did your datt and uncle Adam get along okay?” I say the words easily, but I’m watching Mose carefully now—his eyes, his body language, his hands.

  He looks confused by the question for a moment, then shrugs. “They used to.”

  “What about recently?”

  He shakes his head. “Datt wouldn’t let Uncle Adam come over to see us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he doesn’t keep the faith.”

  “Did they ever argue?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “What about?”

  Mose doesn’t want to answer; I see it in his eyes. Amish roots run deep. Though his uncle has been excommunicated, Mose still wants to protect him. But the boy was raised Amish and taught from an early age to respect and obey his elders. “Us kids.”

  “Did Adam ever get angry?”

  A lengthy pause ensues, then a reluctant “Sometimes.”

  “Did he ever threaten your mamm or datt?”

  “No,” he snaps.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “I don’t know. A long time, I think.”

  I move on to my next question. “What about your uncle Abel? Did he get along with your datt?”

  “Sure. They got along. They were brothers. They loved each other.”

  “Did they ever argue?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Any recent disagreements?”

  “No.” His brows go together. “Why are you asking me these things?”

  I don’t want to unjustly accuse the dead. But I know the possibility exists that the two brothers had some kind of confrontation before Rachael and the kids got to the barn. Abel could have struck Solomon with the shovel. They could have struggled and fallen to their deaths. Or maybe Abel pushed Solomon into the pit, realized what he’d done, and then attempted a rescue, only to succumb to the methane gas and become a victim himself. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been a cop long enough to know it’s an avenue that needs exploring.

  Ignoring Mose’s question, I move to the next. “What about your mamm and datt? Were they having any kind of disagreement?”

  He tosses me an indignant glare. “No.”

  “Did they argue?”

  “Mamm and Datt never argued.”

  The Amish are a patriarchal society. Even so, at some point in their marriage, husbands and wives have disagreements. Generally speaking, Amish women have a strong voice when it comes to decision making, but males have the final say. “You sure about that? No disagreements at all?”

  Shaking his head, he turns away and starts toward the two men. I snag his coat sleeve and stop him. In my peripheral vision, I see the two Amish men shift restlessly and exchange glances. “Did you see anyone else in or near the barn this morning?” I ask.

  “I told you before. I din see no one.”

  The two Amish men are within earshot and stare at us with rapt attention. Turning my back to them, I pull my notebook from my coat. “Mose, I need for you to start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember, okay?”

  He takes me through the same turn of events as he did this morning. “After Samuel came in screaming, Mamm and the rest of us ran to the barn. We were scared, because we knew something bad had happened. The first thing I noticed was that the barn door was open. I remember thinking Datt wouldn’t leave the door open, because it was cold and he was always trying to keep the barn warm so the water wouldn’t freeze.”

  Frustrated by the lack of new information, I sigh. “Is there anything else?”

  His brows go together again, as if I’ve posed some complex math equation. “I don’t think so.” He looks at me, his brows knitting. “Do you think someone killed my datt?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I promise you I’m going to find out.”

  * * *

  Salome is fifteen years old and beautiful in the way that young girls are. She has huge eyes the color of a forest at dusk and a complexion the beauty industry has been trying to emulate for decades and never quite managed. Wearing a sky blue dress with a white apron and kapp, she sits at the kitchen table, looking as broken as a baby dove that’s fallen from its nest.

  Next to her, young Ike spoons hot cocoa into his mouth. Samuel stares down at his empty cup, one elbow on the table, resting his chin on his palm.

  “I know you guys have had a rough day,” I begin, “but I need to ask you some more questions about what happened this morning.”

  Ike looks up from his cocoa, the spoon sticking out of his mouth. “Did the English doctor bring back my mamm?” he asks around the spoon.

  I’m not a big fan of kids in general. But this little guy is cute and sweet and moves me in a way I’m not accustomed to. Maybe it’s because he’s Amish, or maybe because the grief I see in his eyes is so damn pure. So real. The urge to go around the table and put my arms around his skinny shoulders is strong, but I don’t. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll feel something I can’t afford to feel. “No, honey, he didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Taking the spoon from his mouth, he lowers his head and begins to cry.

  Sitting next to him, Salome sets her hand on his shoulder. She’s got pretty hands. They’re soft and dimpled at the knuckles, like baby hands. I give them a moment, then move on to the purpose of my visit. “I wanted to go over a few things about this morning.”

  Salome raises her head. Her eyes find mine, and for an instant I’m taken aback by her natural beauty. “Things like what?”

  I know how easy it is to plant thoughts in a young mind, so I phrase my questions carefully. Without prompting her, I need to know, in her own words, every detail of what happened this morning. “I want you to think back to this morning again for me. I want you to tell me everything that happened. Everything you saw or heard. Details, even if you think it’s not important.”

  Salome pats her brother’s back as if she were burping a baby, then folds her hands and stares down at them. The wash of pain over her features is so profound, I feel the same emotions knocking at the door to my own psyche.

  Looking at her, I find myself thinking of my own life when I was her age. Until the age of fourteen, I was a typical Amish girl—happy, innocent, chock-full of a young girl’s hopes and dreams. I had all of those things stripped away in the summer of my fourteenth year, when a man by the name of Daniel Lapp introduced me to violence. By the time I was fifteen, Salome’s age, I was well on my way to eternal damnation—drinking, smoking, making out with guys I barely knew. I even did some shoplifting at the local drugstore—cigarettes, nail polish, makeup; things I didn’t need but couldn’t seem to live without. I got into a lot of trouble in my fifteenth year, and most o
f the time I didn’t get caught.

  The contrasts between me and this girl are stark. Looking back, I don’t think I was ever as innocent. As I stand here and wait for her to recount a scene no child should ever have to endure, I feel guilty because I know I’m at least partly responsible for the death of her innocence. I don’t let that keep me from asking the questions that need to be asked.

  “We were just sitting around the table, waiting for our scrapple,” she tells me. “We were hungry, waiting for Samuel to come in with Datt and Uncle Abel so we could say our before-meal prayer and eat.” She picks at a nail with intense concentration. “Then all of a sudden, Samuel came in, screaming. At first, I thought he was playacting, like he does sometimes. But Mamm got scared. She grabbed him and asked him what was wrong, and I knew something terrible had happened.”

  “What happened next?” I ask, pressing her.

  “We ran outside. I remember seeing that the barn door was open. Datt never left it open. He scolded us when we did. There was lantern light inside. We ran to the barn.”

  “Why do you think the barn door was open?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  She shakes her head. “It was just us kids. And Mamm.”

  “Was anything out of place?” I ask.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Did you see any vehicles? Or buggies?”

  “No, but I wasn’t really looking or paying attention. We were just so scared.” She looks at me as if she’s somehow failed me, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I smile to reassure her. “You did good.”

  I can tell by the way her eyes slide away from mine that she doesn’t believe me. She may be only fifteen years old, but she knows these are not idle questions.

  I query Ike and Samuel, but aside from the barn door being left open, neither boy remembers seeing anything out of place. In the backwaters of my mind, I find myself thinking of Adam Slabaugh, the estranged uncle, and I can’t help but wonder if he wanted a relationship with his niece and his nephews badly enough to kill for it.

  I spend the next ten minutes going through every detail of the morning again, step by terrible step. But the kids are unable to offer anything new. I’m in the process of tucking my notebook into my pocket when another line of questioning occurs to me. “Did your datt ever hire anyone to help him around the farm?”

  Salome nods. “Once or twice. He preferred to do the work himself, but sometimes it was too much for him and he would hire someone, when he had money to pay or goods to trade.”

  “Who did he hire?”

  “I don’t know their names.” She lifts her shoulders. “Men or boys in need of work.”

  “Were they Amish or English?”

  “Amish, mostly. Except one time he hired an Englischer.”

  I look at the boys. “Do any of you remember the names of the people your datt hired?”

  Two heads shake in unison.

  I move on to my next question. “Did your parents keep money in the house?” It wouldn’t be the first time some day laborer decided stealing money was easier than working for it and turned on his employer.

  The two boys defer to their older sister. “Datt kept some paper bills in a canning jar in the basement,” she says.

  I rise. “Can you show me?”

  “Sure. I know exactly where it is.” She gets to her feet. “You think one of the workers came back to steal the money?”

  “I think it’s worth checking.”

  I feel the Amish women’s eyes burning into my back as Salome takes me to the mudroom. They don’t trust me; they want me to leave the children alone. I wish I could, but at the moment, these kids are my best source of information.

  The mudroom is a large, drafty room with half a dozen windows and a plywood floor. A defunct potbellied stove squats in the corner, its door hanging open like a slack mouth. Behind it, an ancient hunting rifle with a glossy wood stock leans against the wall.

  “It’s always cold in the mudroom,” Salome says with a shiver.

  In the dim winter light creeping in from the windows, I see that her hair is very shiny. I’m so close, I can smell the clean scent of it, see the soft perfection of her skin. Lifting a lantern from the sill next to the door, she lights the wick. “It’s dark in the cellar. Watch your step.”

  The door creaks when she opens it. The odors of damp earth and rotting wood fill my nostrils as we descend the steps. Cold and darkness embrace me like strong, icy hands. Holding the lantern in front of her, Salome leads me into the bowels of the house. The basement is divided into several rooms with low ceilings, which make me feel slightly claustrophobic.

  “I heard the women talking,” she says as we enter the next room. “They said you used to be Amish. Is that true?”

  I walk beside her, hoping I don’t trip over some unseen object. “A long time ago,” I reply.

  I see curiosity in her eyes, the same kind of curiosity I felt when I was her age. The only difference is that hers is innocent; mine was not.

  “Did you do something wrong?” she asks.

  “I did a lot of things wrong.”

  “Like what?”

  I don’t have a canned answer ready for a question that’s so far-reaching, especially for an innocent. “It’s complicated,” I say, hedging.

  She appears to struggle with her next question, but in the end curiosity wins. “I heard you disobeyed the Ordnung and that Bishop Troyer put you under the bann.”

  “I wasn’t baptized,” I tell her. “I decided to leave.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I made a lot of mistakes.”

  “Oh.” She considers that for a moment. “Bishop Troyer is mean sometimes.”

  “He’s a good bishop.”

  She bites her lip, thinking. “Didn’t you miss your mamm and datt? Your sisters and brothers?”

  I still miss them, a whisper inside me replies, but I don’t give it voice. “I missed them a lot.”

  “If you missed them, why didn’t you confess your sins and stay? How could you leave them?”

  How could I, indeed? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times over the years. My answer is always the same: “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Her eyes flick to mine. In their depths I see the burn of curiosity. I can tell she wants to ask me about my transition from Amish to English. But Salome is too well mannered to pry any more deeply than she already has.

  “I think about what it would be like sometimes,” she says after a moment.

  “The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence.”

  Tossing me a sideways look, she laughs. “That’s a funny way to put it.”

  Because I don’t want to encourage her one way or another, I say nothing.

  Our feet are silent on the damp earthen floor as she takes me to a wall of shelving filled with dusty canning jars. Each is meticulously labeled: PEARS, APPLES, BEETS, GREEN BEANS, SAUSAGE, RHUBARB. I watch as she moves aside a jar and pulls one from the back. Unscrewing the lid, she peeks inside. “Oh no!”

  “What is it?”

  Eyes wide and searching, she shoves the open mason jar at me so I can look inside. “Datt’s money. It’s gone. Someone took it!”

  I mentally kick myself for having let her pick up the jar. “Set it down, Salome. I’m going to take the jar and have it processed for prints.” Even in the dim light, I can see recent smudges in the dust. Fingerprints, maybe. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  She looks distressed as she places the jar back on the shelf. “Who would do such a thing? How did they get down here in the cellar without us seeing them?”

  “I don’t know.” I think about that a moment. “Do you know how much money was in there?”

  She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t even know it was here if I hadn’t seen Datt drop in some money when I was getting sausage for Mamm.”

  “When’s the last time you saw
it?”

  She traps her lower lip with her teeth. “I don’t know. I never pay attention.”

  I pull a pair of latex gloves from my coat pocket, slip them on. I don’t have an evidence bag with me, but I pick up the jar anyway, decide to carry it out to the Explorer to bag it.

  Salome turns wide eyes on me. “Whoever stole the money,” she begins. “Did they kill my mamm and datt and Uncle Abel, too?”

  I look down at her, shocked that her mind had already made the leap. She stares back at me, her expression as guileless as a child’s. The lantern casts pin lights in her eyes. “I don’t know, honey, but I’m going to find out.”

  She blinks back tears, and for an instant her grief turns to anger. “I don’t understand why this had to happen. If someone needed money, Datt would have given it to them.”

  “These kinds of crimes never make any sense,” I tell her. But even to me, the words sound like a practiced understatement. She deserves a better answer. Because there isn’t one, I sigh and motion toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Mose is sitting at the table when we return to the kitchen. Salome takes her place at the table and puts her face in her hands. As if knowing something has changed, the younger children stare at her, wondering about the tears. They look up to her, I realize. And in that moment, I vow to do everything in my power to keep them from being separated.

  I remain standing. “If any of you remember anything about the men who worked for your datt, let me know, okay?”

  The request elicits four blank stares. After a while, Mose perks up. “The Englischer had a white dog. I remember because it killed one of our chickens.”

  “What kind of dog?”

  “It was a mongrel. Small. With wiry hair.”

  I make a mental note to canvass the area and ask about any day laborers with white dogs. “Did your datt keep records? Write things down?”

  Three heads shake in unison. Samuel pipes up with a solution. “Do you want us to look for his papers?” When I look at him, he smiles. He’s anxious to help, the kind of child who likes to please. He stares at me with the most innocent blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s got a smudge of dirt on his cheek, freckles on his nose. His lashes are still wet from an earlier cry. Before realizing I’m going to touch him, I lean forward and run my fingers through his mussed hair. “Thank you, Samuel, but I’ll have one of my officers do it,” I say.