Page 73 of The Burning

“Is it possible there’s some connection between this group and what happened to Milan Swanz?”

Taking his time, he double-checks the number, straightens, and drops the notebook into his coat pocket. “Is it true what the newspapers said, Chief Burkholder? That Milan Swanz was burned at the stake?”

“I believe that’s what happened to him.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that during the Reformation, the Anabaptists were persecuted, and many of them were burned at the stake.” For a split second the kindly persona vanishes and I see the flash of something feral beneath the carefully tended surface.

“Martyrs Mirror,” I say.

Approval whispers across his features. “Is that the kind of connection you’re looking for?”

“No.”

“Let me ask you this, Chief Burkholder. What kind of man was Milan Swanz?”

“I didn’t know him personally,” I hedge, purposefully keeping it vague. “According to some, he was troubled.”

“He was Amish?”

“Excommunicated.”

“Any idea why?”

“I suspect he broke the rules one too many times.”

His eyes have a piercing countenance despite the crinkles on the outer corners. And while this man may look like some kindly father figure at first glance, the energy coming off him doesn’t jibe.

“Was he violent?” he asks.

“On occasion.”

“Did he ever hurt anyone?” he asks. “The people around him? Loved ones?”

“Mr. Hofer, why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “Troubled people do troubled things. Sometimes they do unsavory things. They make mistakes. They make enemies. No?”

When I don’t respond, he studies my face for a moment. “Do you believe in fairy tales, Chief Burkholder? Legends? Folklore?”

The change of subjects annoys me, but I’m just curious enough to let him continue. “No, I don’t.”

“How well do you know your fairy tales?”

“Well enough to know they have absolutely nothing to do with my case or this conversation. No offense.”

“None taken.” He smiles, a parent amused by a precocious child.

“Mr. Hofer, do you know anything about the Schwertler Anabaptists? Do they exist? If so, are they still around?”

“If you’ll indulge me?”

I stare at him, taking in the intensity in his eyes, the weird energy coming off him, and I realize he’s going somewhere with this.

“Go ahead,” I say, hoping it has something to do with the case.

“I’m sure you’re aware that most fairy tales were originally very dark. Monstrous, even. Tales of cannibalism. Torture. Rape. Mutilation. Murder. Some of those fairy tales, or legends if you will, hold a thread of truth that has been lost over the years. We humans have become quite weak, you see. We’ve developed a fondness for euphemisms.”

“Are you referring to a specific legend or fairy tale?” I ask.