If he’s aware of my discomfort, he doesn’t let on. “You seem happy.”
“I am.”
“And yet here you are. You’ve put your life on hold to come here and help me,” he says. “When I’m little more than a stranger to you.”
“We spent some of our formative years together.”
“Played a lot of baseball.”
Old man Delaney’s field flashes in my mind’s eye and I smile. Too late, I realize I’ve opened a door I would rather have remained closed. “Besides,” I tell him. “I’m a cop and formerly Amish.” I shrug. “That makes me qualified.”
“I think there’s a saying among the English,” Jonas says after a moment. “Something about the elephant in the room.”
I smile, but don’t meet his gaze. I know if I do, he’ll see my discomfort. He’ll wonder about its source, same as me.
“Sometimes it’s good to get things out in the open,” he says. “Clear the air.”
“Whatever happened between us was a long time ago, Jonas. We were kids.”
“But that’s why you’re here, no?”
“I’m here to help you.” I force my gaze to his, hold it. “I think it’s best if we concentrate on that and not dredge up ancient history. It’ll just muddle things up.”
He leans back in his chair and nods. “All right.”
Needing a moment, I rise and take our glasses to the sink. As I wash and rinse them, I relay Amanda Garber’s story about Ananias’s middle-of-the-night visit to Levi Schmucker.
“I knew Ananias was a hard man … but that?” Jonas shakes his head in disbelief. “Katie, the bishop striking a man with a cane? Beating him with enough force to break a bone? It’s almost too crazy to believe.”
“I’m going to find Schmucker.” Back on track. Safe ground. The past tucked back into its corner where it belongs. “If that actually happened, we’ll know something important about Ananias we didn’t know before.”
“That he was a violent man?”
“If that’s the case, I have to wonder if that behavior was a pattern. Did he dole out similarly harsh punishments to others? Did someone he hurt hold a grudge? Did someone decide they didn’t have to take it? Stop it?”
“Katie, do you want me to—”
“I want you to keep a low profile,” I tell him. “Stay here with your wife and kids. Let me do my job.”
Frowning, he crosses his arms over his chest. “You were always full of vinegar. Too much in the eyes of some. Too much fight even when you were outnumbered. Some things don’t change, eh?”
“You should know, Jonas. You were the one who stood up for me when no one else would.”
He looks away, but not before I see the memory etched into his features, the raw affection for me, the same discomfort I felt earlier.
Moved more than I should be, I reach into my pocket for my keys. “Just FYI? I’m still a sore loser, too,” I tell him, and start for the door.
CHAPTER 19
A cop never knows when a seemingly mundane parcel of information will turn out to be important. Chances are the rumor about Ananias Stoltzfus taking a cane to Levi Schmucker is just that: a rumor that’s grown with time and been embellished upon over the years. An Amish bishop would never resort to violence to discipline a member of the church district. The Amish are pacifistic; submission and nonviolence are key tenets. The Amish will not defend themselves even if they are physically assaulted. Nor will they protect their property. During times of war, they are conscientious objectors.
In light of the myriad anomalies surrounding Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus, the allegation merits follow-up. The Amish are human, after all. We human beings are fallible, vulnerable to our imperfections, weaknesses, and emotions. That includes even the most ardent believers.
After leaving the Bowman place last night, I went back to the motel and spent a couple of hours with my laptop. I located Levi Schmucker at the Mennonite Faith Home for the Elderly in Lock Haven, which is about an hour northeast of Belleville. I should have slept well, but after the incident the previous night—and despite being in a different room with a functioning lock and security chain—I couldn’t sleep. I ended up propping a chair against the door and kept my .38 unholstered, my .22 mini Magnum in easy reach. This morning, I’m running on coffee.
Faith Home for the Elderly is located on the west side of town just south of the university. It’s a three-story, midcentury-modern-style building with mullioned windows and mud-colored brick. The grounds and landscaping are well tended. As I walk inside, I pass a bench where an elderly woman carries on a lively conversation with herself.
The interior falls somewhere between a public school and hospital. A brightly lit nurses’ station and set of elevators face the entrance. Beyond, two long corridors lined with doors sweep toward the rear. I head toward the nurses’ station, where a middle-aged woman in pink scrubs finger-pecks a keyboard.
“I’m looking for Levi Schmucker,” I tell her.
She hits a final key and turns a smile on me. “Are you family?”
I’m not sure what the guidelines are with regard to visitation. Hoping there won’t be a problem, I remove my driver’s license and shield and lay both on the counter. “I’m visiting from Ohio and working on a case in Belleville,” I tell her.
“Oh.” She seems intrigued. “We don’t get many police officers visiting our residents.”
“I won’t take up too much of his time,” I say, keeping it vague and light. “I just need to ask him a few quick questions.”
“Mr. Schmucker is in his room this morning.” She squints at her computer screen, clicks the mouse. “I’ll ask one of the NAs to take you in.” She gestures toward a sitting area. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
They don’t keep me waiting. I’ve just checked in with my dispatcher when an African American man in blue scrubs calls my name. The badge clipped to his shirt tells me he’s a nursing assistant and his name is Brent.
“You’re here to see Mr. Schmucker?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re in luck. He just finished with his PT and had breakfast.” He gestures toward one of the corridors. “I’ll take you.”
According to the information I found online, Levi Schmucker was born in 1938, which would make him eighty-four years old. As we walk along the tiled hall, its walls affixed with chrome handrails, we pass half a dozen rooms, the occasional wheelchair, and I find myself hoping his memory is still intact.
“Here we are.” The nursing assistant pushes open one of the doors and gestures me inside. “Good morning, Mr. Schmucker!” he says cheerily. “You’ve got a visitor.”
I walk into a hospital-like room that smells of disinfectant, menthol analgesic, and urine. Two twin-size beds with safety rails and dual wheeled dinner trays take up most of the space. In the corner, an orange Naugahyde recliner squats next to a laminate coffee table and lamp. Someone tried to make the room feel cozy but didn’t quite manage.
My heart sinks at the sight of the man sitting in the wheelchair next to the window. He’s neatly dressed in navy trousers, a blue shirt, and stocking feet. The sunshine streaming in reveals a bald scalp mottled with age spots, a yellowed beard that hangs off his chin like a sock, and talonlike hands that rest on a towel in his lap.