“Whoever did that to your father deserves to be punished,” I tell him.
A knowing light enters his eyes. He gives a satisfied nod. “You’ve strayed far since leaving the church, no?”
“This has nothing to do with me.”
“If you were Amish, you would know it is God who makes the final judgment. Not the police or judge or jury. Certainly not a backslider like you.”
I take the insult in stride, keep going. “That may be true, Mr. Stoltzfus, but what if Jonas Bowman didn’t do it? He’s Amish. With a wife and children. The truth matters.”
“I leave the truth to God.”
“Even if the person who did it is still out there?” I say. “What if he kills again?”
He stops working and gives me his full attention. “You need proof that Jonas did this thing?”
“I’ll take any information you have.”
“Maybe you should ask my sister about the letter.”
I blink, confused. “What letter?”
A smirk slinks across his mouth. “Jonas Bowman threatened to kill my datt. Judging from the look on your face, I’d venture to say he forgot to mention it.”
It’s the first I’ve heard of the existence of a letter. “I talked to Mary Elizabeth yesterday. She didn’t mention it.”
“For having been Amish, you know little about our ways.” He bends and removes the last chicken from its crate. “Now leave me and my family in peace. Do not come back. I do not wish to talk to you or expose my children to your kind.”
* * *
“Well, that went swimmingly,” I mutter as I climb into the Explorer and start the engine.
I expected a certain level of mistrust, especially from the family of the victim. Forgiveness may be one of the most fundamental Amish tenets, but there are times when emotion transcends ideology. Evidently, if there’s any helpful information to be had, it’s not going to come from Henry Stoltzfus.
I’ve gone just a mile or so down the road when my cell phone chirps. I glance over, see a local number I don’t recognize.
“Chief Burkholder, this is Deputy Vance.”
“The deputy who didn’t write me a ticket for trespassing.” In the back of my mind, I wonder if Sergeant Gainer has relegated an underling to deal with me and my questions.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “Especially about the Stoltzfus investigation. But I’ve got something to say.”
I pull over and park. “Something bothering you about the case?”
“When we talked before, I told you I bought my kitchen cabinets from Jonas Bowman.”
“I remember.”
“Well, I spent some time with him and his kids the week they installed those cabinets and worked on my kitchen.”
“They’re a nice family,” I say.
“Yes, they are.” When he speaks again, his voice is so low I have to turn up the volume of my phone. “I shouldn’t be telling you what I’m about to tell you.”
“If you’re asking me if I’ll keep my mouth shut, the answer is yes.”
Another pregnant pause and then, “The investigator found human remains in that well. Bones.”
“They found another body?”
“Not a whole body. Just … hand bones.”
“Hand bones?” I mull the possibilities, come up short. “Who do they belong to?”
“We sent them to the lab up in Erie for DNA testing. It’s going to take a while, depending on how backed up the lab is.”
My cop’s antennae are cranked up and on high alert, my heart beginning to thrum. I know that even though the bones were sent to a police lab for identification, chances are the cops know more than they’re letting on or making public.
“You’re sure this is related to the Stoltzfus case?” I ask.
“You know it is.” The pause that follows is so long that for a second I think he hung up on me. Then he continues. “The detective in charge thinks those remains belong to Ananias Stoltzfus.”
“I thought his remains were found in the hayfield.”
“They were. Investigators never made it public, but the hands were missing.”
“Someone … ostensibly the killer … cut off his hands?”
“Both hands were severed at the wrists.”
I’m so gobsmacked that I can’t find my voice. I break the silence by posing the obvious question. “Why would someone do that?”
“No one has a clue,” he tells me. “I mean, usually when that sort of thing is done, it’s to hide the victim’s identity. You know, fingerprints or whatnot. But Stoltzfus was local and missing. With or without hands, he’d be identified the moment he was found. The whole thing’s a mystery.”
“What’s the theory on how the hands ended up in the well?” I ask.
“The general consensus is that Bowman panicked. He removed the hands thinking it would make the identification process more difficult.”
“But why would he hide the evidence on his own property?”
“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t make sense. Hence my call to you.”
“How did you guys know the bones were in the well?” I ask.
“I’m not privy to the details, but from what I understand an anonymous tip came in.”
“Kind of convenient, don’t you think?”
“I’m not calling you because I’m buying in to all of this, right?”
“Any idea who the tipster was?”
“No clue and no one’s talking.” He sighs. “The thing is, Chief Burkholder, the sheriff is up for reelection this year. Word has it, he wants a slam dunk on this case.”
“Whether he has the right man or not.”
“No comment. Look, I need my job. Word gets out that I called you and I’m done.”
I think about my conversation with Henry Stoltzfus. My mind trying to connect dots that simply don’t connect. “I understand Ananias Stoltzfus received a threatening letter from Jonas Bowman. Do you know anything about that?”
“Don’t know anything about a letter.”
Which makes me wonder if Henry Stoltzfus was just blowing smoke.
Vance heaves an unhappy sigh. “Look, you didn’t hear any of this from me.”
“Kris who?”
His laugh is short-lived. “I don’t like what’s going on. I sure don’t feel good about calling you. But I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“I’ll keep this between us,” I tell him.
He ends the call without responding.
* * *
One of the most difficult aspects of investigating any crime is not knowing if you’re on the right track. Early on, there’s always a certain amount of wheel spinning, false leads, and incorrect assumptions, all of which leads to hours and days and sometimes weeks of wasted time and energy. It’s part of the process. When I arrived in Belleville, I had my doubts about Jonas’s innocence. There is, after all, a fair amount of physical evidence against him, namely the muzzleloader. He had motive, means, and opportunity. Add the circumstantial evidence—bad blood between Jonas and the victim—and the police had just cause to make the arrest.