She’s thoughtful for a moment. “They were special, you know. Little Amos and sweet Bonnie. They were slow learners. Like Nettie. The doctor said it was too early to tell, but I knew.”
“They had Cohen syndrome?” I ask.
Nodding, she raises her hands, brushes tears from her cheeks. “The doctor said it was SIDS that killed them. That didn’t keep people from talking. You know how the Amish are. They may be pious, but they love their gossip—almost as much as they love God.” A bitter smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Vern and I heard every cruel word.”
I think about Sadie Stutzman. The minutes I spent with her at her small house on the river. Those poor babies … The midwife’s concern had not been ambivalent. Were her suspicions correct? Or is this woman telling the truth or some version of it? Is it possible Sadie Stutzman and the bishop did something unthinkable?
“And Nettie?” I say.
“I barely remember the birth. It was difficult and long and I was half out of my mind with pain and exhaustion. Afterward, Sadie told me she was gone. We didn’t question. We never got to see her. Or hold her. We were so grief-stricken it’s all a blur.”
“And the grave?” I ask. “The marker?”
She shrugs. “Someone dug the grave the night she was born. They put up the marker. I don’t know who.”
The sirens are closer now. Two of them, rising and falling in a weird harmonization. I stare at the Amish woman, my heart tapping a hard tattoo against my ribs.
“At some point, you realized the truth,” I say.
“Vern was always suspicious. I mean, after Nettie. A couple of months ago he ran into Elmer Moyer. They’d had a falling-out over money before. Elmer had accused Vern of shortchanging him. That night, Elmer was drunk and started taunting Vern, telling him he’d driven a baby up to Painters Mill. Vern came home in a state. Angry, you know. Furious, in fact.”
She closes her eyes, tears squeezing between her lashes. “He dug up the grave later that night and, dear God in Heaven, there was nothing there.”
“What happened to Elmer Moyer?” I ask.
“He left town. Ran away.”
I nod, find myself thinking about Patty Lou and that dumpy little bar in downtown Crooked Creek, and I wonder if Elmer will ever find his way back to her.
“If Vern had found him,” Rosanna tells me, “he would have killed Elmer, too. He’s the only one who got away.”
Putting her face in her hands, she begins to sob.
CHAPTER 28
Four days have passed since Tomasetti and I discovered a frightened and confused Elsie Helmuth locked in a bedroom at the Mullet farm. Over the course of several interviews, the girl revealed that Vernon Detweiler abducted her that day at the Schattenbaum place. After murdering Mary Yoder, he dragged Elsie to his truck and drove her to Crooked Creek.
In the following days, Rosanna Detweiler fed her, washed her clothes, cooked her meals, and took her for long walks in the woods. They’d called the girl Nettie, and they’d told her they were her family now and that she would never be going back to Painters Mill.
According to Elsie, the couple didn’t hurt her, not physically. But there are a lot of ways to harm a child. She’d been taken from her family, her loved ones, and everything she’d ever known. When she tried to run away—and find her way home—the Detweilers had locked her in the bedroom for hours on end. All of it had frightened Elsie terribly. Last time I talked to Miriam Helmuth, she told me the girl was having nightmares and couldn’t be left alone. I suspect little Elsie Helmuth will be dealing with her fears for some time to come.
Life is slowly returning to normal. Painters Mill is blissfully quiet. The Amish are busy cutting and bundling the last of the season’s corn. The Harvest Festival started this morning. The merchants and shopkeepers along Main Street are reveling in the influx of tourists.
I should be feeling celebratory. A little girl is safe and home with her family. I’m alive and being credited in part for solving one of the most heinous and complex crimes involving the Amish in the history of the state. The Boyd County sheriff’s deputy who was on scene that day at the Mullet farm survived a serious stabbing. Bishop Troyer is recovering at home now; he’s going to be around a few more years to keep all of us wayward souls in line. I’m thankful for all of it.
But I didn’t walk away from this case unscathed. I’ve spent too much time thinking about Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler, trying to answer the questions that continue to nag. According to the people who knew them, Rosanna Detweiler rarely left the property, venturing into town only to buy groceries and household goods. She spent her days tending her garden and walking in the woods.
Vernon Detweiler was a silent, brooding man. He doted on his wife and was vocal about the prospect of one day having a family. He also had a temper and, despite his being raised Amish, a propensity for violence.
From what little I’ve been able to piece together, Rosanna was, indeed, the daughter of Marlene Byler—and likely the baby she held in her arms when she jumped from the bridge. No one knows how she survived the fall. An Amish woman who’d been close to Ruby Mullet confirmed that Rosanna was raised by her grandmother and inherited the farm when her grandmother passed away.
Rosanna and Vernon claim they are the biological parents of Elsie Helmuth. They claim Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz convinced them their infant child was stillborn—and then transported that child to Miriam and Ivan Helmuth. At some point, DNA testing will be done to determine parentage. I told the Helmuths it might be wise for them to retain an attorney, but I don’t believe they’ll do it. The Amish are a nonlitigious group.
There’s one unanswered question that continues to haunt. The one that keeps me awake nights. According to Rosanna, she lost two newborns. The death certificates listed SIDS as the cause of death, but no autopsies had been performed. I can’t help but wonder: Did Rosanna Detweiler harm her children? Or was Sadie Stutzman wrong? They are profound and disturbing questions that may never be answered.
It’s late afternoon when I take the Explorer down the lane of the Troyer farm and park next to the bishop’s buggy. Around me the day is cold and gray. The smell of woodsmoke drifts on the air as I take the sidewalk to the door.
Freda Troyer answers. Emotion flickers in the depths of her eyes at the sight of me. She says my name softly. “You’re here to see David?”
I nod. “How is he?”
“He’s a grouchy old goat. I’ll be glad when he’s up and about so I can put him to work outside.” She pushes open the door. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
I enter an overheated kitchen that smells of lavender and lye. Soapmaking items—measuring containers and forms lined with plastic sheeting—are spread out on the table.
“He’s in the next room, resting.” Freda goes to the counter and picks up a dishcloth. I wouldn’t have discerned that her surliness was an act if I didn’t notice her hands shaking when she dried them.
I’m midway to the door when she whispers my name. I turn to her, shocked to see her frozen in place, tears on her cheeks. Looking annoyed, she swipes at them with the dishcloth, comes to me, takes my hand.
It’s the first time in all the years I’ve known her that Freda Troyer has shown any kind of affection—toward me or anyone else. She grips my hand hard, trembling, her eyes holding mine. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something. Instead, she releases me, stiffens her spine, and turns back to the sink.
“Don’t keep him long,” she says. “He gets tired.”
In the living room, a gas lamp hisses, casting yellow light on a brown sofa, two rocking chairs, a rustic coffee table. A cast-iron woodstove squats in the corner. The bishop lies on a cot, his head and shoulders propped on pillows, an afghan thrown over his legs. He’s dressed, less his usual jacket and hat. He’s always been larger than life to me, especially those piercing eyes that miss nothing. This afternoon, clutching an ancient copy of Martyr’s Mirror in hands that aren’t quite steady, he
looks fragile and pale as he takes my measure.
For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, unspeaking. “How are you feeling?” I ask after a moment.
“Stronger,” he tells me. “Thankful.”
I move closer, trying not to notice the needle marks and scabs on the backs of his hands. “Vernon and Rosanna Detweiler are being extradited to Holmes County,” I tell him. “They’ll face an array of felonies here, not the least of which is murder. I thought you should know.”
“I will pray for them.” The old man nods, thoughtful. “The Amish community will support them.”
Forgiveness is one of the hallmarks of the Amish faith. I’m well aware that the capacity to forgive is a virtue, but I knew at an early age that it was a tenet I would never be able to put into practice.
“Bishop Troyer, I know what you did. I know Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz took a newborn infant from Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler. I know they brought that baby to you here in Painters Mill. I know you took her to the Helmuths and asked them to raise her as their own. I know that infant is Elsie Helmuth.”
The old man stares at me, impassive. “Es voah Gottes wille.” It was God’s will.
“How much did the Helmuths know?”
“I told them nothing.”
“Bishop Troyer, you can’t take a baby from someone and just give it to someone else.”
“She was taken to a family member. It was up to them to work things out.” His expression doesn’t alter. “What we did, Katie, it was the only way to save the life of the child.”
“You should have gone to the police. There are laws in place to protect children at risk.”
“And have the child taken by the social services people?” His voice clangs like steel against steel. “To be raised by strangers who do not understand the Amish way? I think not. It was an Amish matter to be handled by the Amish.”
I’ve heard the sentiment a hundred times over the years. Every time it grates on my sensibilities. This time, it’s particularly painful, because this man’s rigid adherence to Amish doctrine may have contributed to the deaths of four people.
“Had you gone to the police, Mary Yoder would still be here,” I whisper. “Sadie Stutzman. Noah Schwartz. That wasn’t God’s will.”
He stares at me, the steel gone from his eyes, his expression faltering. “It’s done, Katie. We can’t go back and change it.” Wincing, he leans forward and sets the book on the coffee table. “I prayed to God for the wisdom to do the right thing. I did the best I could. We had no way of knowing this would happen. Had we not acted, Elsie Helmuth might have died before she ever had the chance to live.”
The exchange drives home the myriad reasons I left my Amish faith behind. While I will always hold close a great deal of love for the people, the culture, and the religion, I’m once again reminded of how far I’ve strayed, and that I made the only decision I could have.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer, words best left unspoken passing between us. After a moment, I turn and leave the room.
CHAPTER 29
One of the most satisfying aspects of closing an investigation is that golden moment when the facts come together and you finally figure out the how and why. It’s not always a pleasant moment, but rewarding nonetheless.
I’m trying hard to believe that as I make the turn into the lane that will take me home. I pull up behind the house to find Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in its usual spot. I sit there a moment, watching the snow fall, drinking in the simple beauty of my surroundings. The barn with its peeling paint. The farmhouse with its drafty windows and a porch that’s in dire need of a new railing. A dozen or so Buckeye hens peck around on the ground outside the Victorian chicken house Tomasetti built for me last month.
The snow is coming down hard when I get out and take the sidewalk to the back door. I find Tomasetti sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, a cup of coffee at his side.
His eyes find mine. “How’s the bishop?”
“He’s going to be all right, I think.”
Rising, he crosses to me, relieves me of my laptop case, sets it on the floor next to the coatrack, and eases my coat from my shoulders. “How about you?”
I turn to him. “I’m glad this godforsaken case is over.”
He goes to the counter, pours coffee for me, and sets it on the table. “Have a seat.”
I take the chair across from him. “The Helmuths didn’t know,” I say.
“Bodes well for them.” He sips coffee, looking at me over the rim.
“The bishop chose them because they’re blood relatives,” I tell him. “Ostensibly, they could work out any custody issues among themselves. He knew they were a good, solid Amish family. Their home was a place where the baby would be safe, and grow up with traditional Amish values, surrounded by family and community.”
I think about the cemetery plot at the Mullet farm. “I don’t know what Rosanna did or didn’t do. Some of it may come out during trial. But I get the sense that, as an Amish woman, she felt a certain amount of pressure to conform to all those societal roles, to have children, raise a large family.”
“That can be a lot of pressure.”
“Especially for someone not equipped to handle it. Someone with no support system.”
“As twisted as all of that is, it fits.” Tomasetti sips coffee. “You’ve been dwelling in some dark places.”
“I knew the truth was in there somewhere.”
His gaze meets mine. In their depths I see comprehension and the insights of a man who has experienced the many facets of life, both good and bad. “You and I have been around long enough to know that Lady Justice doesn’t always get it exactly right.”
“Tomasetti, what they did was incredibly … misguided.”
Leaning forward, he reaches across the table and takes my hand. “That’s true, Kate. But however misguided or wrong or immoral, they may have saved the life of a child. All things considered, I don’t think that’s such a hard thing to live with.”
Rising, I go to him. He gets to his feet. I fall against him. Something settles inside me when his arms wrap around me.
“Do me a favor?” Setting his fingers against my chin, he tilts my face to his. “Stay out of those dark places.”
“I’m working on it.”
My cell vibrates against my hip, the ring that follows tells me it’s Dispatch.
“I’ve got to take it.” Pulling away, I put the cell to my ear. “Hey, Lois.”
“Chief, I just took a call from Mr. Shafer with the Buckeye Credit Union on the traffic circle. He says there are a bunch of teenagers parked in his customer parking spots.” She sounds frazzled. “He says he asked them to leave and they refused.”
“Let Mr. Shafer know I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Copy that.”
Tomasetti picks up our cups and sets them in the sink. “Sounds serious.”
“You have no idea.” I soften the words with a smile. “I have to go.”
Behind him, outside the window above the sink, snow swirls down, lending a magical quality to the fading afternoon light.
“Want some company?” he asks. “I hear the Harvest Festival is in full swing. Once you’re off we could drink some hard cider and check out the new antique shop on the south end.”
“Tomasetti, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Standing on my tiptoes, I pull his face to mine and press my mouth to his. “Let’s go.”
ALSO BY LINDA CASTILLO
Sworn to Silence
Pray for Silence
Breaking Silence
Gone Missing
Her Last Breath
The Dead Will Tell
After the Storm
Among the Wicked
Down a Dark Road
A Gathering of Secrets
About the Author
Linda Castillo is the New York Times bestselling author of the Kate Burkholder novels, including
Sworn to Silence, which was recently adapted into a Lifetime Original Movie titled An Amish Murder, starring Neve Campbell as Kate Burkholder. Castillo is the recipient of numerous industry awards, including the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence and the HOLT Medallion, and she received a nomination for the RITA. In addition to writing, Castillo’s other passion is horses. She lives in Texas with her husband and is currently at work on her next novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Also by Linda Castillo
About the Author
Copyright
Shamed Page 26