Page 20 of Shamed

“I dunno.” His brows go together, as if he’s struggling to remember. “A couple months maybe.”

“When’s the last time you saw Mary Yoder?”

“The old lady?” He looks at his datt, then back at me. “I don’t remember. A few months?”

“When did you last see Elsie Helmuth?”

“The little retarded kid?”

I grit my teeth. “The seven-year-old little girl,” I say.

The elder Graber steps in. “Why are you asking my son these things?”

I don’t look away from Big Eddie. “Answer the question.”

For the first time he looks upset, a combination of confusion and frustration. A drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face, just in front of his ear. I think about his temper; I think about the missing little girl, and I push harder. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Eddie?”

The boy’s face reddens. “I … I don’t lie!”

“Why are you sweating?” I ask.

“My son has no reason to lie to you or anyone else,” Edward says. “He’s a good boy.”

“Was he here all day?” I ask the elder Graber.

“Just like he said.”

I look at the boy. “Would you mind taking off your gloves?”

“Huh? My gloves?” But he’s already tugging at the fingertip of his glove, pulling it off.

“Show me your hands,” I say. “Both sides.”

He does as he’s told. His hands are large and strong, with dirty, chewed-off nails and a plethora of calluses. A two-inch-long half-moon-shaped slice mars the heel of his hand.

Next to me, Glock shifts.

“How’d you cut yourself?” I ask.

Eddie lets his hand drop, shoves it into his pocket. “I caught it on barbed wire.”

“Weren’t you wearing your gloves?” I ask.

“I took them off,” he mumbles.

“When did you do it?”

“This morning.”

“Looks like you might need stitches,” Glock says. “Any reason you didn’t get it taken care of?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” The boy casts an uneasy look at his father. “Why is she looking at my hands, Datt? What did I do?”

“Chief Burkholder, my son … he’s engshtlich.” Upset. “I saw him cut his hand. He was handling a big coil of wire and it slipped. He’s telling the truth.”

I turn my attention to the boy. He stares back, sputtering now. His hands clenched into fists. Temper, I think, so I press on.

“You get along with the Helmuths?” I ask him.