“You were there?” I ask.
“I was a rookie back then. Spent a cold night tromping through the woods out there by his house. We didn’t find so much as a single footprint.”
He licks his finger and turns the page. “We didn’t know if he’d left or collapsed or if there was foul play involved. Next morning, deputies began interviewing people. Family. Friends. Neighbors. Most were Amish. We learned pretty quick the old man was on the outs with an Amish dude by the name of Ezra Bowman, who was deceased. He’d been shunned or whatever it is they do. Evidently, that caused bad blood between the son, Jonas Bowman, and Stoltzfus. We looked into that and learned there had been an altercation between the victim and Bowman a couple of months before Stoltzfus disappeared. Multiple witness statements say Bowman threatened Stoltzfus.”
“What was the nature of the threat?”
He frowns as if I’m questioning his assessment, so I quickly add, “I’m curious. The Amish are pacifists. A physical threat would have been unusual.”
Even as I make the statement, Jonas’s words come back to me.
I lost my temper. I shouted.
I’m not proud of it.
Gainer squints down at the file in front of him. “According to one witness, Bowman told the victim something like: Your time is coming, old man. Sooner than you think. When it does, you won’t be going to heaven.
“Witnesses paraphrased, but that’s how the threat was framed.”
“Got it.”
“We also have the vandalism charge. It was enough to pick up Bowman for questioning. We conducted an interview, and he was released without charges. He paid a fine.” He flips the page, looks at the back side. “By then, we were pretty sure Stoltzfus was dead. Whether his demise was from natural causes or foul play, we had no way of knowing. All we had was a missing elderly man and a handful of circumstantial evidence. We had no body. No witnesses. We didn’t have enough to make an arrest, so the case went cold.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his leg over his knee. “Of course, the case remained open. Every year or so, we’d look at the file. Send a cadaver dog out to the woods around the Stoltzfus farm. We kept an eye on Bowman. He never gave us cause to take any kind of action.” He slips off the eyeglasses, puts an endpiece in his mouth. “Until that muzzleloader was found, anyway.”
I let my eyes flick to the file. “It would be tremendously helpful if I could read the file.”
“Some elements of the case weren’t made public, Chief Burkholder. I’ll check with the sheriff and get back to you.”
A polite way of saying no without having to say no. “Are the state police assisting?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ve brought in a forensic anthropologist?”
He sits up a little straighter, tilts his head in a way that tells me he’s surprised that I can pronounce the term let alone that I’m familiar with it. I hold on to my neutral expression.
“We worked with a guy out of the university up in Buffalo,” he tells me.
“Was he able to determine official cause and manner of death?”
“Ananias Stoltzfus sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the torso. One to the head. Manner of death is homicide.”
“Can you tell me anything about the muzzleloader found at the scene?”
“Evidently, both the body and the gun were buried in a shallow hole. Back then, the area had been wooded, but it was cleared a few years back. Anyway, we took a metal detector out there and found the gun straightaway.”
“Spent bullets? Casings?”
“A single ball. Fifty-cal. Buried a few inches in the ground.”
I think about that a moment. “But there were two wounds?”
He lifts one shoulder, lets it drop. “Investigators figured one hit him while he was standing and the ball got away. The other—the one we found—when he was on the ground.”
I nod. “How did you identify the muzzleloader?”
“It was a damnedest thing.” Smirking, he scrubs his hand over his shorn head. “A couple of deputies took it out to Bowman and the guy admitted the gun was his. He’s like: ‘Oh, that’s mine. Thank you for returning it.’” The sergeant punctuates the statement with a laugh. “At that point, we had motive, means, and opportunity. We had a body and a suspect. So we secured a warrant and made the arrest.”
It doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that while they do, indeed, have a case, it’s not rock solid. For example, why would Jonas leave his muzzleloader at the scene and so readily admit it was his?
“We searched the Bowman house, too,” the sergeant adds. “We found a half-empty box of fifty-caliber balls. Same brand as the one found at the scene.”
“Is there any other information you can share that hasn’t been released to the public?”
“Not at this time.”
I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s not telling the truth. And that he doesn’t mind that I know.
The sergeant glances at his watch, which is my cue to wrap it up. “Is the DA going to stick with second-degree murder?” I ask. “Is there any chance the charge will be reduced?”
“Last I heard, the DA’s of the mind that Bowman threatened the victim and then made good on it. He’s gotten off scot-free for eighteen years. Rumor has it, he’s going to go with first-degree murder.”
CHAPTER 7
Jonas and his wife live in a modest midcentury frame house just outside Belleville. The property isn’t in town per se, but the place is a far cry from rural. There are no barns or pastures, no livestock or pens—just the low-slung house and a large metal building at the rear. An ancient hackberry tree shades the entire front yard. A sign next to the driveway tells me this is also home to Bowman Cabinet and Wood Design.
As I make the turn, I’m thinking about my meeting with Jonas earlier, the number of years that have passed since I knew him, and how little I really know about him and his family. I’ve no idea what to expect. The driveway takes me to a parking area behind the house and the red metal building. The door stands open and when I get out I’m met with the whine of a saw and what sounds like the rumble of a generator. I’m about to head that way when the slam of a door from the house draws my attention. I glance toward the house to see a boy of about ten bound down the steps of a small porch. He’s wearing dark trousers with a blue work shirt and single-strap suspenders. A banded straw hat is clamped down over a headful of curly red hair.
He freezes upon spotting me, his eyes going wide. I see a freckled face, a turned-up nose, and lips that are smeared with something purple. He’s cute in a puppy-dog kind of way. Hazel eyes dart from me to the Explorer and back to me.
“Wie geht’s?” I smile and start toward him. How’s it going?
His mouth opens. I can’t tell if he’s surprised because an Englischer spoke to him in Deitsch or if he thinks I’m about to grab him and cart him off in my spaceship.
“I’m Katie from Painters Mill,” I say. “Is your mamm home?”
The boy lets out a squeal akin to the screeching of tires, then turns on his heel and runs as fast as he can back into the house.