Page 68 of Shamed

He scratches his head. “You think that hit-and-run has something to do with all this?”

“I do.”

“Holy cow.” He blinks at me. “So are we talking about a stolen baby?”

“Or an illegal adoption of sorts involving Noah Schwartz and Sadie Stutzman.”

“And now both of them are dead.”

I nod.

“Shit.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Any idea who?”

I shake my head. “A relative. Biological parent or parents.” I shrug. “Someone close to the family.”

We watch a white Suburban with SCIOTO COUNTY CORONER emblazoned on the doors pull into the driveway.

“Maybe I ought to take another look at the hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz,” he says after a moment.

“I’d appreciate it if you did.” I watch the technician open the rear door of the Suburban and roll a gurney out of the back. “I thought I might talk to the new bishop before I head back to Painters Mill. See if he can shed some light on any of this.”

He nods, interested now, his eyes level on mine. “You think he knows something about this?” He motions toward the house.

I give him the only answer I can. “I don’t know.”

“Look, I’ll do what I can to send you on your way, but someone in our investigations division is going to want to talk to you; they’re going to want a statement.” He motions toward my sidearm. “They’re going to need your weapon, too.”

I don’t relish the idea of being without my .38 for the remainder of the trip, especially after what just happened, but I don’t argue. I sigh. “That’s fine.”

“Hang tight, Chief Burkholder, and I’ll get things rolling.”

Bishop Melvin Chupp lives on a dirt track off of Hansgen Morgan Road near Wheelersburg. It’s a pretty piece of land with an old brick farmhouse and two big red bank barns in the back. The woman who answers the door tells me I’ll find her husband in the barn. She hands me a paper plate heaped with a dozen or so oatmeal cookies to take to him and tells me I should eat as many as I can because he “eats like a starved horse.”

Carting the plate, I take a barely-there stone path to the barn. The big sliding door stands open, so I take the ramp and go inside. The pleasant smells of horses and hay and leather greet me like old friends. “Hello?” I call out. “Bishop Chupp?”

“Who wants to know?” comes a whispered voice.

“Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”

“I like the sound of that name. Come on back.”

Balancing the paper plate of cookies in my right hand, I start toward the sound of the voice. I find the bishop in the first stall I come to. He glances at me and puts his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

I look past him to see a goat in the throes of kidding. For an instant, the case and all its darkness and urgency fall to the wayside. I forget about the death of Sadie Stutzman, the ambush this morning, and for a short span of time, I’m living in the moment, enthralled, watching three tiny creatures enter the world.

As the doe begins to lick the afterbirth from her offspring, I find myself thinking of the bond between a mother and her offspring. I think about the woman who gave birth to Elsie Helmuth and I wonder: How far would a parent go to get their child back?

I look at the bishop and motion toward the aisle outside the stall. “Kann ich shvetza zu du e weil?” I ask. Can I talk to you awhile?

“Kannscht du Deitsch schwetze.” You can talk Dutch. The Amish man grins, as pleased as he is amused. “That’s two miracles in one day,” he exclaims. “First triplet goats and then an Englischer speaking Deitsch!”

Breaking into laughter, he follows me from the stall. Once we’re in the aisle, I hand him the cookies. “From your wife.”

Smiling down at the plate, he rubs his fingers together and selects the biggest one. “She’s stingy with the sweets.”

“Probably for your own good.”

“It is.”