Mahlon grimaces. “Brother Jonas was arrested two weeks ago. For murder.”
The bishop stares down at his hands and sighs. “You didn’t know?”
The Amish grapevine has a surprisingly long reach. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I don’t want to tell him I’m not privy to Amish gossip. That some in the community prefer not to deal with me because I left the fold. So I simply shake my head.
I knew Jonas Bowman growing up. His father, Ezra, was minister of our church district here in Painters Mill. When I was a kid, Jonas was a minor character in the periphery of my life. I saw him during worship. He helped my datt a few times on the farm. As I grew older, we played the occasional game of baseball and hockey, went swimming in the creek. All of that changed when I was fifteen and he drove me home after a singing. It was the first time I’d ridden in a boy’s buggy without a chaperone. Or a sibling or parent or girlfriend. It was the first time I’d been alone with a boy. There were a lot of firsts for both of us that summer. Some good. Some … not so much. Jonas was nineteen and we were at an age in which four years might as well have been twenty. Of course, we were too young to care.
My composure snaps back into place. I stare at the men, aware that the cup has gone cold in my hands, that my pulse is thrumming a little too fast.
“Jonas has denied any involvement?” I ask.
“He says he did not do it,” the bishop tells me.
“He is a man of his word,” the deacon adds.
I think about the dynamics involved in the identification of a muzzleloader, especially one that’s been exposed to the elements for eighteen years. Most black-powder rifles have serial numbers, but some do not, especially if they’re old, which may very well have been the case for an Amish hunting rifle.
“Did the police find the spent bullets?” I ask.
The three men seem to consider the question, but it is Mahlon Barkman who replies. “One of the round balls was found, I think.”
“What about motive?” I ask.
The three men exchange looks, but it is Nathan Kempf who speaks. “There were hard feelings between Jonas and Ananias.”
The minister takes it from there. “His father, Ezra, was a minister, you know. There was a disagreement about a tractor Ezra bought when his two horses died unexpectedly of the sleeping sickness. Ananias would not have it and put Ezra under the bann.”
It’s an all-too-common theme among the Amish. Ezra Bowman broke the rules and Ananias Stoltzfus punished him for it.
“Silenced him, too,” the bishop adds.
“Two weeks later, Ezra passed unexpectedly.” Mahlon heaves a heavy sigh. “Jonas blamed Ananias for his death. Said the stress killed him.”
“Jonas held Ananias responsible,” Nathan tells me. “He was angry. They argued. Publicly.”
“Jonas behaved badly,” Nathan adds. “He was young. Hotheaded. Just twenty-one. He did some things.”
“Some things like what?” I ask.
“He damaged Ananias’s buggy.” Nathan shrugs. “He got caught. Had some trouble with the police.”
“It was a minor thing,” Mahlon puts in.
“Two months later, Ananias disappeared,” Nelson finishes.
“Did the police positively link the muzzleloader to Jonas?” I ask.
“The sheriff took the gun to Jonas,” the deacon tells me. “Jonas admitted it was his.” Nathan shrugs. “They arrested him the next day. Put him in jail.”
“Jonas would never commit such a sin,” Mahlon says. “He would never take the life of another man.”
“He asked for my help?” I ask.
The bishop shakes his head. “Jonas would not ask such a thing for himself,” he tells me. “He would not impose.”
“He understands that this hardship is part of God’s plan.” Deacon Kempf looks at the other two men. “It is not Jonas who is asking for your help, Kate Burkholder. It is us.”
I feel myself blinking, a jumble of denials and excuses tumbling through my brain in disarray.
“Jonas has a family to care for,” Nathan tells me. “Children and a wife. A woodworking business to manage. And yet he sits in jail for a sin he did not commit.”
“The English police do not understand our ways. They do not know Jonas the way we do.” Mahlon tightens his mouth. “They will not listen to us.”
“You are a police, Kate Burkholder,” Nathan says. “You understand our ways. You understand the law of the land, too.”
“More importantly, you know Jonas Bowman.” The bishop’s eyes burn into mine. In their depths I see discernment. An awareness that puts me on edge. And questions that, because of Amish decorum, will never be voiced.
I break eye contact first, look down at the notebook in front of me, and I scribble something meaningless. All the while I assure myself Jonas would never breach the tacit boundary of privacy that had been set.
“We read about the cases you’ve solved here in Painters Mill. You are a good police.” Nathan gives a decisive nod. “We are asking for your help.”
“We have money,” Mahlon adds. “We will pay you for your time and travel.”
The men fall silent, as if all of their persuasive energies are spent. For the span of a full minute no one speaks, the only sound coming from the occasional ring of the phone in reception and tap-tap of Margaret’s fingers against the keyboard.
Everything that’s been said churns in my brain. I can’t stop thinking about Jonas. The boy I knew. The man he became. The time we spent together that last summer. The profound impression he made on my life. All at a time when I was vulnerable and confused and too young to realize some emotions cannot be contained. And some actions can’t be taken back.
Jonas was charismatic, charming, and persuasive. When he wanted something, he was relentless. He gave his all whether it was baseball or woodworking—or something a hell of a lot more personal. He was a force to be reckoned with and touched my life in ways I could never have imagined at such a tender age. Was he flawed? Without a doubt—just like the rest of us. But those human imperfections were tempered by a keen sense of right and wrong—and zero tolerance for injustice. How is it that a man with such black-and-white views could be involved in or suspected of murder?
As these men stated their case, I wondered how much they know about me and Jonas. If they know we got into a lot of trouble the last summer he was here. That it cost his family their relationship with the Amish community here in Painters Mill. That I am the reason his family left for Pennsylvania.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I have no jurisdiction in the state of Pennsylvania,” I tell them.
“Even so, there are things you can do to help, no?” This from Bishop Yoder.
I look from man to man to man. “What I can do, is make some calls and find out what’s going on in terms of the case.”
Another round of looks is exchanged, and this time there’s an air of disappointment laced with an unmistakable I-told-you-so sentiment.
Deacon Kempf sits up straighter. “We’re spending the night at the motel here in Painters Mill. Tomorrow, we will be returning to the valley.”
“We’d appreciate it if you’d sleep on it, Kate Burkholder, before making your decision.” The bishop gets to his feet and slowly straightens. “At this point, we’ve nowhere else to turn.”