“I’m innocent, Katie. I don’t need one. Lawyers charge a lot of money and I’m capable of speaking for myself.”
“The legal system is complicated,” I tell him.
“The truth is simple.”
“They’re going to assign you a public defender,” I tell him. “Will you at least work with him? Let him help you?”
“If you think it’s important, I’ll do it.” He studies me a moment. “I would like to go home. With my family. I’ve got a woodworking business to run. Customers who’ll be expecting their cabinets or whatnot.”
I don’t point out that his woodworking business is the least of his worries. “What about bail?” I ask. “Are you trying to raise bail?”
“I don’t know anything about bail.”
I think about the teenager I knew a lifetime ago. I think about everything I know regarding the case and I’m a hell of a lot more troubled now than when I walked into this room.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell him.
“All right.”
“Jonas, is there anything else you can tell me that might help me find out what happened to Ananias Stoltzfus?”
He considers the question, then shakes his head. “Most of the Amish thought he was a good bishop, Katie. But like I said, he was heavy-handed and set in his Old Order ways. He wasn’t open to change. Sometimes he took things too far. Like with Datt. Ananias wasn’t always fair, but no one wished him ill.”
Someone did, a little voice whispers.
I think about my own experiences growing up Amish. “What about excommunications?” I ask.
“You know as well as I do that most Amish straighten up when the bishop gets involved.” His thoughts seem to turn inward. “There were two I can think of that didn’t end well. Roman Miller and Duane Mullet. Neither man could change their ways and left.”
“Do you know what happened?” I ask.
“Roman is Mennonite now. Mullet … he’s English. Lives up in the hills doing God only knows what.”
“Did things get ugly?” I ask. “When Ananias put them under the bann?”
“They didn’t like it much. I don’t know the details. Dorothy probably knows more than I do.”
The sound of a door opening behind Jonas draws my attention. I look beyond him to see a corrections officer peek out at us, give me five fingers to let me know my time is almost up.
I nod at him and turn my attention back to Jonas. “Do you need anything?”
“No, I am fine.” His eyes skate away from mine, but he quickly forces them back. “If you could let Dorothy know I’m all right. She worries, you know.”
“I will.” I rise, anxious to get started, but there’s another part of me that’s hesitant to leave.
I want to say more. To reminisce about the past. To reassure him, bolster him, but there are no words. Instead, I set my hand against the plexiglass divider. He does the same and we stare at each other for the span of several seconds.
“I’ll let you know about bail,” I tell him.
His hand is still pressed against the glass when I walk away.
CHAPTER 6
The Mifflin County Sheriff’s Department is housed in the same building as the jail. Due to security, I have to exit the prison and reenter as a visitor. Before leaving Painters Mill, I tried to schedule an appointment with the sheriff or second-in-command, but neither man was available, so I’m relegated to meeting with whoever is on duty this afternoon.
Sergeant Rick Gainer keeps me waiting nearly twenty minutes. According to their webpage, he’s the fourth man down from the top of the organizational chart. Judging by his demeanor he’s well aware it’s nearly four P.M., official business hours are about to end, and he’s in a hurry to get this end-of-the-day meeting over with quickly.
He shakes my hand with a too-firm grip as I introduce myself. I guess him to be about forty years of age. He’s in full uniform. Still in good shape, but starting to go soft around the middle. His hair is cut military style. His biceps are the size of cantaloupes.
“And you’re a police officer where?” he asks, giving me only part of his attention.
“Chief of police,” I tell him. “In Painters Mill, Ohio.”
He utters a noncommittal “Huh,” and motions toward the door that will take us into the main part of the building. “How is it that you grew up with an Amish guy?”
“I used to be Amish,” I say as I go through.
He looks at me over his shoulder, curious now, as he leads me down the hall. “Never met a formerly Amish police chief before.”
“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
He takes me down a hall, then motions to a small, windowless office. “Sheriff got the view.” He gestures to one of two visitor chairs. “Have a seat.”
I take the chair and pull my notebook from my pocket.
“What exactly do you want to know about the Stoltzfus case?” he begins.
“I’m looking into it for the Bowman family,” I tell him. “Any information you can share would be helpful. Anything you’re comfortable sharing about the case.”
He studies me a moment. I can tell by his expression he’s not an information-sharing kind of guy. “If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Burkholder, what exactly is your reason for being here?”
It’s a simple question with a complex answer that likely won’t help my cause. I’ve been around enough law enforcement types to read between the lines. “I just want to get to the bottom of what happened,” I say simply. “Help if I can.”
He looks at me over the tops of his reading glasses. “Help who?”
In that instant, I see in his eyes that he considers me an outsider despite my badge. “I’m not here to second-guess or get in the way,” I tell him.
Nodding, he opens a drawer and pulls out a file. “You close to Bowman?” He asks the question in an offhanded manner, but there’s nothing offhand about it. He’s gathering information. Not only on Jonas, but me. Been there, done that, so I give him what he wants.
“Like I said, we grew up together,” I tell him.
“You must have been pretty tight for you to take time off and drive all the way over here to help him out.”
I tell him about the three elders who came to see me in Painters Mill. “Until this afternoon, I haven’t talked to Jonas in almost twenty years.”
“Ample time for someone to change,” he says.
I don’t respond.
He opens the case file and begins to page through. “Most of this information has been made public,” he tells me, letting me know in advance he’s not going to give me anything that’s not. “I’m sure you know there are some details I can’t share.”
“Of course.”
He outlines the timeline first, giving me the framework of events in the order they occurred. I put my pen to use and write down all of it.
“Stoltzfus went missing in October 2004. Widower. Eighty-six years old. Lived on a farm out on Indian Ripple Road. Son, thirty-five-year-old Henry Stoltzfus, went out to see his dad, couldn’t find him, and reported him missing the next day. We searched the area most of the day and into the night. Ananias Stoltzfus was elderly, so as you can imagine the family was concerned. There were dozens of volunteers, both Amish and English. We brought in dogs. The whole nine yards.”