Breaking Silence Page 4

  He gives me a nod, then motions for the two paramedics standing by to bag the bodies for transport.

  * * *

  Having grown up Amish, I have mixed feelings about the lifestyle. Like most things in life, there was some good and some bad, with a whole lot of in-between thrown in. Leaving was the right decision for me, the only one I could have made at the time. But it wasn’t done without some regret. One of the things I loved most about being Amish was the sense of community, of belonging, of being part of something bigger than myself. I loved the way my Amish brethren pulled together in the face of tragedy. It didn’t happen that way when disaster struck my family, but looking back, I realize now that we were an anomaly.

  By the time I leave the barn, the Amish have begun to arrive in force. Men wearing work clothes and insulated coats congregate near the barn. I know they’re here to feed the livestock, clean the pens, and keep the farm up and running. The women will busy themselves with household chores—laundry, cooking, and caring for the children. In the coming days, the Slabaugh house will be overflowing with the help of a community that is as generous as it is selfless.

  I spot the bishop’s buggy parked near the back door as I head toward the house. A boy not much older than the youngest Slabaugh child tends the old horse. Two additional buggies I don’t recognize are parked behind the bishop’s. Beyond, the windows of the house are illuminated by yellow lantern light.

  I enter to the aromas of kerosene, wood smoke, and cinnamon. T.J. stands near the back door, looking out of place and uncomfortable. His relief is palpable when he spots me. “Bishop Troyer arrived, Chief.”

  I give him a nod. To my left, two plump Amish women wearing traditional garb—homemade dresses with white aprons, their hair tucked into organdy kapps—stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen counter. One of the women rolls out a round of lard and flour pastry crust. The other slices apples into a large plastic bowl. I’m not surprised to see that they’re making pies. If food were a cure-all, the Amish would be the healthiest culture in the world.

  Moving into the next room, I see Bishop Troyer and a silver-haired woman sitting in straight-backed chairs someone dragged in from the kitchen. All four Slabaugh children sit side by side on a sofa, lined up like sad little ducks. One of the cushions has a hole in it. I see a closely matched piece of fabric has come loose, and I know at some point Rachael Slabaugh had tried to patch it. It was probably one of a thousand things on her list of chores. A chore she will never get the chance to complete.

  “Katie.” The bishop stands and extends his hand to me.

  “Thank you for coming.” I take his hand and we shake. “I’d like to speak to you if you have a few minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  The bishop looks over his shoulder at the woman. She gives a minute nod, telling him without words that she’ll remain with the children.

  I’m keenly aware of the children’s eyes on us. They’re wondering about their fates, I realize. Where will they live? Who will take them in? Will they be kept together or will they be separated, the family shattered once again? Little Ike still looks at me as if I might be able to conjure forth his dead mamm. I know it’s self-defeating, but I feel guilty because I can’t.

  The house is getting crowded, so I motion toward the front door and we step onto the porch. For the span of several heartbeats, the only sound comes from the tinkle of sleet against the roof.

  I break the silence. “Do the Slabaughs have relatives?” It’s so cold, my breath billows when I speak.

  “There is a brother.” The bishop looks out across the darkened field. “We will take care of those children.”

  I wait for more information on the brother, but he doesn’t offer it. “What’s his name?”

  “Adam.”

  “Does he live around here?”

  “Millersburg, I believe.”

  I stare at his profile, wondering why he’s so reluctant to offer information about Adam Slabaugh. “I need to notify next of kin.”

  The bishop turns his attention back to me. “What of the children, Katie?”

  “Children Services will probably place them with relatives. Or the brother.”

  The bishop shakes his head so hard, his jowls jiggle. “Not Adam.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is not Amish. Solly would not have wanted his children raised by a man who has been excommunicated.”

  The reason behind his earlier reluctance suddenly becomes crystal clear. “Is there any other family?”

  “No.”

  “Bishop, with all due respect—”

  He cuts me off. “These children were raised Amish. An Amish family would feel blessed to take them in and raise them as their own.”

  “This isn’t a matter of Amish versus English.”

  The bishop gives me a sage look. “Yes, it is.”

  It’s an old argument, one that’s taken on a painful new twist this morning because four young lives hang in the balance. “The decision isn’t mine to make,” I tell him. “Nor is it yours. I’ll have to involve Children Services.”

  For the first time, the bishop looks alarmed. “No, Katie. Do not do that. Your English government does not care about the Amish way. They do not care about the broken hearts of those children.”

  I’ve known Bishop Troyer since I was a child. He was tough on me when I was an unrepentant teenager and made the decision to leave the plain life behind. We’ve had many disagreements over the years. But my respect for him is high. I’m old enough now to know he’s a decent man with a good heart and a fair mind. None of those things changes my responsibilities.

  “Can you see to it that someone stays with the children until we get this settled?” Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t ask. In fact, I would have already notified Children Services and asked for a social worker to assist with placement in temporary foster homes. But because these children are Amish, I know they will be safe and loved in the hands of their brethren.

  The old bishop nods and says, “Mer sot em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht,” which means “One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon his own.”

  I’ve heard the old adage before. Because I know life isn’t always that kind—even if you’re Amish—I don’t respond. “I’ve got to tell Adam about his brothers and his sister-in-law.” I turn to leave, but he reaches out and snags my arm.

  “These children have lost enough,” he says. “Do not take them away from everything they know. Do not take their faith from them. Solly would have wanted them raised Amish.”

  I leave with those words ringing in my ears.

  CHAPTER 4

  There are few things I’ve done in my life that are more difficult than telling someone they’ve lost a loved one. It’s a helpless, hopeless feeling to break that kind of news and not be able to do anything as the bottom drops out of that person’s world. In my nine years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve seen grief in all its insidious forms. Though I’m merely the messenger, I’ve been cursed, screamed at, threatened, spit on, and struck. Cops aspire to believe they’re not affected by such things. But it takes a toll. That’s one of many reasons I’ve never put the burden of notification on my officers. Still, I don’t ever go alone. This morning, I’ve got Glock with me.

  Adam Slabaugh lives on a well-kept farm on a quiet township road between Millersburg and Painters Mill. The old house is white, with a green tin roof, green shutters, and a wraparound porch that’s sheltered by a hulking spruce. The place sits on a hill, overlooking acres and acres of plowed fields. I park the Explorer in the gravel area between the barn and the house and shut down the engine.

  For the span of several heartbeats, Glock and I sit there, watching snow gather on the windshield.

  “Hell of a way to start someone’s day,” he says.

  “Hell of a way to start our day.”

  “Is this guy going to take the kids?”

  I tell him about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Might be some problems there.”

  “Tough situation for the kids,” he says.

  “And everyone else involved.”

  Neither of us wants to walk up to that house and knock on the door. Of course, we don’t have a choice. I reach for the door handle first. We’re midway to the house when the back door opens. A Border collie and a fat yellow Labrador bound out, tails wagging, tongues lolling. Behind them, a man shrugs into an insulated coat and closes the door behind him. He’s a tall, thin man who doesn’t look Amish. No beard. No hat or suspenders. But he possesses the kind eye I’ve come to associate with the culture.

  “Good morning.” He’s still buttoning his coat when he reaches us. “Is something wrong?”

  Glock and I start toward him. “Adam Slabaugh?” I ask.

  He has light blue eyes, which remind me of a summer sky, and a face that has seen a lot of years of Ohio’s sometimes extreme elements. He takes in our uniform parkas, and his eyes go wary. I see his shoulders stiffen in a brace, and I know at some point he’s done this before. “Yes?”

  I show him my badge and identify myself. “There’s been an accident. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Accident?” His gaze flicks to Glock and then back to me. “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so.” I motion toward the house. “Would you like to go inside and sit down, so we can talk?”

  “Must be bad if you want me to sit down.” He looks down at his boots, blows out a breath, as if preparing himself for the blow. “Who is it?”

  “Are Solomon and Abel Slabaugh your brothers?”

  “Yes.” He blinks rapidly. “What happened to them?”

  “Your brothers and sister-in-law were killed this morning at their farm.”

  “Aw, God.” He takes a step back. “Killed? All three of them? Are you sure?” He looks at Glock, as if expecting him to contradict me.

  “We’re sure,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”

  He makes a choking sound, takes another step back, as if to distance himself from us and the news we bear. “How in God’s name did it happen?”

  “We believe it was methane gas asphyxiation from the manure pit.”

  “My God.” Tugging off a glove, he bows his head, scrapes a trembling hand over his face. “I told Solly to keep that old barn ventilated. He never listened to—” He stops speaking mid-sentence and raises his gaze to mine. “The children?”

  “They’re fine,” I say. “Unhurt. Physically anyway.”

  He closes his eyes briefly, as if thanking God for sparing them, and I know that even though he’s no longer Amish, he’s still a religious man. “How did it happen?” he asks.

  I tell him what I learned from the kids’ statements. “Apparently, Rachael was trying to rescue her husband and brother-in-law. I suspect she succumbed to the gases, blacked out, and fell into the pit. The kids tried, but they couldn’t get them out.”

  “Poor, poor children. Where are they now?”

  “They’re still at the house. Bishop Troyer is there with them.”

  Adam’s face darkens. “Then you know I’ve been excommunicated.”

  “The bishop told me.”

  “I bet he gave you an earful.” His laugh is bitter. “What else did he tell you?”

  Knowing the value of silence, I say nothing.

  “They’re my nephews and niece, Chief Burkholder. They should be with family. With me.”

  I can’t dispute the statement. From all appearances, he’s a decent, hardworking farmer. More importantly, he’s a blood relative. Their only blood relative. The house and property are neat and well kept. I’ll run a criminal check on him, but I’m betting he doesn’t have any convictions. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t assume custody of his niece and his nephews. I don’t mention the bishop’s assertion that the children should be raised Amish. But I can tell from Adam’s reaction that he’s already keenly aware of this.

  “Were you and the kids close?” I ask.

  “Up until four years ago, I was a big part of their lives.” Adam looks away for a moment, then raises defiant eyes to mine. “As you can see, I’m no longer Amish.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  “Lust, of course.” He gives me a wry smile. “I fell in love with an English woman.” The smile turns bitter. “We married, which is against the Ordnung, so I was put under the bann. I was unrepentant, refused to confess my so-called sins, so I was eventually excommunicated.” He shrugs. “Solly cut me out of the children’s lives.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It was a bad time.”

  “So you were estranged from the family,” I say.

  “Yes.” His sigh is tired and heavy. “Maybe this is God’s way of bringing those children back to me. Maybe it’s His way of punishing those with small minds.”

  The statement takes me aback. It seems odd at a time like this—when he’s just been informed of his brothers’ deaths. Anyone who’s ever lived any length of time knows God doesn’t even the score and that sometimes that bitch Fate gets her way, right and wrong be damned.

  “Are you married?” I ask.

  “My wife died. I’m a widower.”

  I look down at the dogs, letting that bit of information settle in my brain. For a moment, the only sound comes from the caw of a crow perched on the fence.

  “I would like to see the children,” Adam says after a lengthy pause.

  I know the Amish will not keep this man from seeing his niece and his nephews. But he will not be welcomed by them. He’s an outsider now, an interloper. As a cop, I know the Amish have no right to keep Adam Slabaugh from his own blood.

  “Are there any other relatives?” I ask. “Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?”

  He gives me a sage look. “You mean Amish relatives?”

  “I’m asking you if the children have any other living relatives,” I reply firmly.

  “Rachael’s mother, their grandmother, passed away just two months ago. She was old and frail. I am the only family they have left.”

  I nod, understanding all too well, and knowing everyone involved is destined for heartache. “Are you going to pursue legal custody?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Those children need to be with family. I’m their uncle.” He blinks, his eyes watery. “I love them.”

  I don’t expect any trouble from the Amish, but I know from experience that when kids are involved, emotions many times supersede civility. I offer the best piece of advice I can. “If you plan to pursue custody, you might want to get yourself a lawyer.”

  “Do you think I’ll need one?”

  “A lawyer will be able to help you navigate through the legal end of it. That’ll make things easier for you. Probably best to do things by the book in this case.” I reach into my pocket and hand him my card. “Let me know if you have any problems.”

  Back in the Explorer, I put the vehicle in gear and head down the long gravel lane. Glock breaks the silence with the same question that’s echoing inside my head. “You think there’s going to be a custody issue?”

  “I don’t think the Amish will fight him. Not legally anyway. They’re not big on the whole litigation thing. But that’s not to say there won’t be problems. People do crazy things when it comes to protecting their kids.”

  Glock nods, and I know he’s thinking about his own child, a little boy not yet a year old. “Maybe Solomon had a will. Maybe he specified provisions for the kids.”

  “Most Amish don’t use a legal will and testament. Everything’s almost always passed down to the children. Property goes to the eldest male child.”

  “Simpler that way, I guess,” he says.

  “No one ever expects to die young.”

  We’re two blocks from the police station when my cell phone erupts. I’m surprised to see Doc Coblentz’s name appear on the display.

  “Hey Doc,” I say, giving him only half of my attention.

  “I was about to begin the autopsy on Solly Slabaugh when I found an irregularity I think you’ll want to see.”

  “What kind of irregularity?”

  “During my preliminary examination, I found evidence of blunt-force trauma to his head.”

  The words yank my full attention to the call. A small part of my brain hopes I misunderstood. “What?”

  “Solly Slabaugh sustained a substantial blow to the head before his death.”

  For a moment, I’m speechless. Then my brain kicks back into gear. “Is it possible it happened in the fall? The sides of that pit are concrete.”

  “Judging from the location of the laceration, I don’t believe that’s the case.”

  Shock is like a battering ram against my brain. A hundred questions fly and scatter inside my head as the repercussions start to sink in. “Are you saying this wasn’t an accident?”

  “I won’t know the cause or manner of death until I complete the autopsy, so I don’t want to jump to conclusions at this juncture. But this is very suspicious, Kate. I thought you might want to see for yourself.”

  A glance at the clock on the dash tells me it’s already past noon. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  My mind is still reeling when I clip my cell phone to my belt.

  “That didn’t sound good,” Glock comments.

  I relay to him my conversation with the coroner.

  He looks as shocked as I feel. “Shit.”

  “Are you up to a trip to the morgue?”

  He grimaces. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  * * *

  With a population of about 5,500, Painters Mill is too small to have its own morgue per se. As Mayor Auggie Brock is so fond of saying in town council meetings, “We don’t have enough dead people.” Up until three years ago, autopsies were farmed out to either Lucas or Stark counties. Now, however, when there’s an unattended death or suspected foul play, Holmes and Coshocton counties have the option of utilizing the morgue facilities at Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg, which now receives funding from both counties.

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