Page 78 of The Hidden One

There is a moment in the course of an investigation when you know it’s going to come together. It’s a frenetic time. You don’t know how all the information fits or if it will come to you in the right order. All you know is that the answer is buried somewhere in the slapdash pile of data churning in your head.

It’s dark by the time I arrive back in Belleville. I swing by a mom-and-pop café for a sandwich and make a beeline to the motel. I fire up my laptop, grab the folder containing every hand-scrawled note and scrap of paper I’ve amassed, and I spread everything on the too-small table. Most of what I have are my notes from conversations, along with my thoughts and observations. I’ve downloaded a few background reports and several newspaper stories I pilfered from the internet. When the tabletop becomes too crowded, I drag the nightstand over, set the lamp on the floor, use it for work space as well. I put everything in chronological order. The newspaper stories about the suicide of Mia Stoltzfus. The disappearance of Ananias Stoltzfus. The things I learned from the Diener when they came to Painters Mill and asked for my help. The flurry of newspaper articles on the discovery of the remains and the arrest of Jonas Bowman.

It’s impossible to lump a culture into a box and profess to know everything about it. It can’t be done and anyone who claims otherwise is a fool. But there are cultural norms that can—and should—be taken into consideration, especially when it comes to the Amish. The culture is steeped in tradition. They are a religion centric sect and prefer to remain separate from the rest of the world. They are a patriarchal society and pacifistic in nature. The family unit is the core of Amish life. They’re decent, hardworking people. They’re good neighbors. Good friends.

All of that said, the Amish aren’t perfect. They’re human and they suffer with all the same failings as the rest of us. They lose their tempers. They make mistakes. They behave badly. They break the rules. Sometimes they break the law. Some of the behaviors Ananias Stoltzfus partook in went beyond human frailties.

It’s eleven P.M. when I remember the sandwich. I unwrap it and eat without tasting, without pleasure. I wash it down with iced tea that’s gone tepid. At midnight, I pull the yellow legal pad from my laptop case, uncap my pen, and I go to town on that paper, stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes nonsensical, but I let it fly. My mind is humming, frustration bumping me from behind, urging me on. The need to know is a drug and I’m an addict jonesing for more.

I write:

No one in Harmony, Minnesota, remembers Ananias. The Amish would remember their bishop. Why don’t they remember him?

Levi Schmucker accused of molesting his daughter. Word got back to the bishop. Ananias beat him. A bishop would never resort to violence.

I flip through several pages and come upon the notes from my conversation with Deputy Vance. Hand bones found in Bowman’s well. Hands missing. Info never made public …

I think about the killer. Try to get into his head.

“Why did you remove his hands?” I murmur.

I answer my own question. “Because you didn’t want him identified.”

That still doesn’t make sense, Kate, tsks a little voice. There’s got to be something else.…

At one A.M. I make a pot of coffee. It’s room coffee; it’s awful. I don’t care. I need caffeine. The answer is here. I’m not going to stop until I find it.

I down a cup, put my notes back in order, and go through them again. I reread everything I learned from my visit with Amanda Garber.

… always got the sense she’d been through something she didn’t want to talk about. Germany? Bavaria?… her Deitsch was different.… She was homesick.…

“Only there are no Amish in Europe,” I say, my voice sounding strange in the quiet of the room.

I go to my laptop and call up my search engine to make certain I’m right. Sure enough, the last Amish congregation in Europe merged with the Mennonite church in 1937.

I take the last sip of coffee, get grounds that have gone cold. I glance down at my notes.

… where she learned to bake. Her datt owned a bakery.

I go to my laptop, hit a couple of keys, scroll aimlessly through my search for Amish communities in Germany. Nothing there. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I pause on a random page. Some bakery in Bavaria offering up a recipe for Zwetschgenkuchen.

I didn’t write it down, don’t know the proper spelling, but Amanda Garber’s voice floats in the backwaters of my mind.

Everyone loved her Zwetschgenkuchen.

“Who the hell were you?” I lean back in the chair, astounded by the words I just spoke aloud. “Why were you lying to everyone?”

I feel another layer of information falling into place. Whoever removed the hands from the corpse in that field knew the answer. The killer wasn’t afraid the body would be identified as Ananias Stoltzfus. He was afraid the body would be identified as someone else.…

“What were you hiding from?” I whisper.

Something unsavory scratches at the back of my brain. A sharp claw, dirty and germy, digging into my brain. Something I don’t want to know.

I reach for my notes. Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus moved to Mifflin County in 1967 or ’68. He was elected minister in 1977. He became bishop in 1990. I scrabble through several pages. Levi Schmucker was beaten in 1991. Allegedly, Schmucker sexually abused his daughter. A normal course of action would be for a family member or friend or neighbor to call the sheriff’s department. A bishop would counsel the individual, tell him he must confess to the congregation or else be placed under the bann. Instead, Ananias Stoltzfus took his walking cane to Schmucker. Put him in the hospital. Ordered him to leave town. The sheriff’s department was never called.…

“You didn’t want the police involved.” I set down the notes, pick them back up. “That beating wasn’t about Schmucker or what he did. It was about you, wasn’t it?”

What were you hiding, old man?