“Phone?” I ask. “Computer? Electricity?”
“All of it.” He laughs. “And that’s not to mention the tractor!”
We reach a gate. He unlatches the chain, opens it, and we go through. “Boy, did it cause a stir.”
“I bet.” To a non-Amish person, the purchase of a tractor doesn’t sound like a big deal. If you’re Amish, it’s huge. I think back to my own upbringing and I know that not only would such a bold act have been eschewed by the community, but Bishop Troyer never would have allowed it.
“Ezra argued that the tractor was fine because it was a diesel. He even modified the wheels so they were without rubber. Wasn’t good enough for the bishop. Ananias saw the purchase as worldly and claimed the tractor would do violence to the land. He told Bowman to get rid of it.”
Doyle casts a smile in my direction. “Those Bowmans are a stubborn bunch. Ezra used that tractor all spring. Plowed and planted every field. He bought implements, too. Worse, a couple of his Amish neighbors borrowed the thing. That’s when the bishop put him under the bann.”
Doyle shrugs. “What made all of this really bad is that people started taking sides. Some thought we should be able to use tractors—if the engines are diesel—to make life easier, you know. Others were put out by the idea. The situation got so bad Ananias stepped in and silenced Bowman.
“Two weeks later, Bowman died. Just keeled over when he was working in the field. English doctor said it was a heart attack. From what I hear it hit Jonas hard.” Doyle shakes his head. “It was a bad time. Everyone figured things would get back to normal. They didn’t.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Well, all those Amish who supported Bowman still wanted to leave and form their own church group.” Grimacing, he looks down at the ground, then at me. “You’d have a better understanding if you were Amish, I guess.”
“I was,” I say simply.
He gives me a lopsided smile, not sure if I’m pulling his leg.
“I left when I was a teenager,” I say in Deitsch.
“I guess you do know how it is then,” he says. “It’s not the bobblemoul you have to worry about.” The blabbermouth. “But the silent dissenters who leave.” He taps his chest. “They keep all of their discontent inside.”
I nod, understanding.
“I saw Jonas and Ananias go at it that Sunday after the preaching service. It was ugly. No one knew what to think. The one thing we did know, is that we didn’t like it.” He shoves both hands into his pockets and shakes his head, as if he still can’t believe the incident even happened. “In his defense, Jonas was young. Hurting, you know. Just lost his datt and all. He basically accused Ananias of killing his father.” He heaves a sigh. “A couple weeks later, Ananias Stoltzfus disappeared.”
We reach another gate. This one is steel pipe and held in place with a wire loop. Doyle lifts the loop and pushes open the gate, but he doesn’t go through.
“This is as far as I go, Chief Burkholder.”
It’s another pretty spot. The alfalfa is bright green. The fence is newish. Trees growing along the fence line. To my right, a rusty windmill tower lies on its side, the fan blades bent and entangled in hip-high weeds. Beyond, I can just make out the jut of a brick chimney where a house had once stood.
“This was once a farm back here?” I ask.
Doyle nods. “It’s been abandoned for as long as I can remember.” He points to the old chimney. “House burned down a few years ago. My datt and I tore down the barn. Windmill collapsed in a storm last spring.”
I nod. “Was anyone living here when Ananias disappeared?”
“No. ma’am. No one has lived here since before I was born. Land went up for sale a few years ago.” He motions toward the alfalfa field. “I bought that field there. Thirty-five acres. Abuts my own property. My datt and I cleared the trees and strung that wire fence. I planted alfalfa first spring I owned it. It’s given me a good crop every year since.”
“Where did you find the bones?”
He touches my shoulder and points. “About twenty feet from that end post there. I was cutting with my two jennies and I’d just made the turn for the final cut.” He makes a sound to indicate fright. “Never forget the way those teeth grinned at me when I turned it over in my hands.” He gives himself a shake. “I’d best get back to work.”
“I appreciate your bringing me back here and letting me look around. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time, Chief Burkholder.” Grinning, he mimics another shiver. “You might want to keep an eye out for kshpukka though.” Ghosts. “I hear there’s one haunts those woods when the sun goes down.”
CHAPTER 11
I’m not exactly sure what I hope to accomplish by coming here. Law enforcement agencies have thoroughly searched for—and extracted—every shred of meaningful evidence. According to reports, cadaver dogs and metal detectors and a small army of forensic anthropologists were brought in to sniff out, detect, and dig up anything that might have been part of, or related to, the human remains.
But while I won’t uncover anything earth-shattering or new, it can be beneficial to see the crime scene. It helps to visualize what might’ve happened and get a feel for the scale and proximity of the scene and surrounding area. Is this location private enough to murder someone and not be seen? Is it far enough away from neighbors so that no one would hear two shots? Is this location isolated enough to dump or hide a body? Ananias Stoltzfus was eighty-six years old. Did he walk from his farm to this location? Did someone drive him? Or was he killed elsewhere, his body dumped? Jonas and his wife own a home on the other side of Belleville. Is the distance between the two locations relevant?
The alfalfa is still stubby from being cut, and the sweet, green smell of it conjures a rise of nostalgia as I start toward the place where Doyle found the skull. The area has been thoroughly trampled, the alfalfa pounded to dirt in places by dozens of feet and the tires of official vehicles. A strip of yellow caution tape flutters atop an end post where someone had taped it off. A few feet away, a red stake flag is the only other sign this was a crime scene.
I stop next to the flag and look around. I’m in the corner of the field. The end post is about twenty feet away. To my right, the land sweeps upward toward the ridge. To my left is the wire fence that demarks the edge of the field. Beyond is a dirt two-track and a wooded area. According to Doyle, the hayfield had once been wooded, too. He and his father cleared the land to grow hay. If that’s the case, the place I’m standing was once wooded. Is the theory Deputy Vance laid out correct? Did the killer bury the body here in a shallow grave thinking it would never be found? Were the bones uncovered by the simple mechanics of natural erosion and plowing?
I walk to the fence and climb over. There’s a dirt road about ten feet wide and then a virtual wall of trees. I traverse a drainage ditch. Shadows descend as I enter the forest. Leaves from last fall crunch beneath my feet. Within just a few yards, I’m completely hidden from view. Is this what the field looked like eighteen years ago? If so, it would have been an ideal place to bury a body with a reasonable belief it would never be found.