Part 16 (2/2)
I feel myself go still inside, silencing my thoughts and the clutter in my brain, the way you do when you know you're about to hear something important and you don't want to miss a single word or gesture or the manner in which it's delivered.
”Let me preface by saying that Paul and Mattie are good and loving parents. Of that, I'm certain.” He sighs, looks down at the floor as if he's debating how to broach the subject at all. ”The first time I examined David, I found a handprint on his behind. A red welt in the shape of a hand with some bruising beneath the skin. It was evident someone had spanked bare skin with a good bit of vigor. When I asked David about it, he said his datt smacked him for stealing a pie and then lying about eating it. As you know, David is overweight, which is typical of children suffering with Cohen syndrome. I must admit, I was a little taken aback. I know corporal punishment is an acceptable form of discipline in many households. But the fact that this spanking left a bruise gave me pause. I'm sure you know that, as a physician, I'm mandated by state law to report any indication of child abuse.”
”I'm aware of the statute,” I say.
”I debated whether to file an official report. In the end, however, I elected not to. After much personal deliberation, I drew the conclusion that the discipline was administered in a manner consistent with the Amish culture. In addition, I surmised the bruising was probably a result of the neutropenia, that's a common attribute of Cohen syndrome.” He offers a grim smile. ”You're not going to tell me I did the wrong thing, are you? Because let me tell you, I lost sleep over it.”
”My gut tells me your judgment didn't steer you wrong.”
”You sound pretty sure of that.”
”I used to be Amish,” I say.
He doesn't quite manage to hide his surprise. ”Wow. I didn't know. That's quite fascinating, actually.”
”I don't know if fascinating is exactly the right word.” I give him a smile. ”But I received my fair share of 'smackings' as a kid. You're correct in that in many Amish households, spanking is a common form of discipline. Some of the stricter parents have been known to use a belt or even the old-fas.h.i.+oned willow switch.”
”If it had been welts or bruising from either of those things, I probably would have filed the report.”
Knowing it's time for me to move on, I extend my hand again and we shake. ”I'll let you get back to your patients.”
”Good luck with the case, Chief Burkholder.”
I start toward the door.
Back in the Explorer, I call Glock and recap my conversation with Armitage.
”So what's your take on the bruising?” he asks.
”It's troubling,” I tell him. ”Whether you approve or disapprove of spanking as a form of punishment-and most Amish fall into the former category-this particular situation is unfortunate because he's special needs.”
”Did the doc say which parent did the spanking?”
”Paul Borntrager.”
”Do you think it's relevant?” he asks. ”I mean, to the case?”
”No.”
”It's interesting that Mattie's the one who had the standing appointment,” he says.
”I think that's the bigger issue.”
”If this. .h.i.t-and-run was planned, do you think she might have been a target? Or do you think this was random? What?”
”I don't know. None of it makes any sense.”
Another stretch of silence, then he says, ”You don't think this has anything to do with those special-needs kids, do you?”
The words creep over me like a stench and linger. ”That paints a pretty ugly picture. I can't fathom a motive.”
”Me, either. Something to consider, though.”
I pause, the possibilities running through my head. ”I'd feel better if we could keep an eye on things out there until we get a handle on this.”
”You mean around the clock?”
”Ideally.”
”Going to require some O.T.” He whistles. ”Or a miracle.”
”Never underestimate the power of groveling.”
He guffaws. ”There is that.”
”If Rasmussen can spare a deputy, we might be able to cover it between our two departments.”
”Rasmussen can't spare the toilet paper to wipe his a.s.s.”
But the words have already pa.s.sed between us. I know if my request is denied, we'll find another way. I know I'll be able to count on Glock.
”I'm on my way to the funerals,” I tell him. ”Will you let the rest of the team know about all of this?”
”You bet.”
I'd wanted to arrive at the Borntrager farm to speak with Mattie well before the funerals. I'd wanted to accompany her to the graabhof-not as the chief of police, but as her friend-to bury her husband and children. Instead, I got caught behind a procession of buggies and ended up issuing a citation to an impatient tourist for pa.s.sing on a double yellow line. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't happy about the ticket. I told him no one driving to the cemetery was particularly happy either, so he's in good company. Have a nice day.
By the time I arrive, dozens of black buggies, each numbered with white chalk so they know the order in which they belong in the convoy, are parked in the gravel lot. The smells of horses and leather and fresh-cut gra.s.s float on a light breeze. The lot is filled to capacity and many of the remaining buggy drivers have begun to park alongside the road. Using my emergency lights to alert traffic to the slow-moving and stopped vehicles, I park on the shoulder well out of the way, grab a few flares and toss them onto the road to make sure pa.s.sing drivers slow down.
The graveyard exists as the Amish have existed for over two centuries: plainly. Hundreds of small, uniform headstones form razor-straight rows in a field that had once flourished with soybeans and corn. Unlike English cemeteries where the headstones vary from ma.s.sive works of sculpted granite to tiny crosses, the Amish graabhof is an ocean of white markers etched with a simple cross, the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death.
The cemetery is a somber yet peaceful place and pretty in its own way. My mamm and datt are buried fifty yards from where I stand. The reality of that sends a wash of guilt over me. I haven't been here since I worked the Plank case last fall and attended the funerals of five members of an Amish family slain in their farmhouse. I tell myself I'm too busy to spend my time mingling with the dead. The truth of the matter is that, despite its bucolic beauty, this is the one place in Painters Mill that scares me.
I pa.s.s through the gate and start toward the gravesite. Dozens of families, young couples, the elderly, scads of children, and mothers with babies stand in the cool afternoon air. As is usually the case, the Amish community has come out in force to mourn the Borntrager family and support Mattie and young David. Grief hovers in the air like a pall.
Because I'm no longer Amish-and not necessarily welcome here-I hang back from the mourners, an outsider even in death. Once everyone is in place, the crowd falls silent. Bishop Troyer reads a hymn in Pennsylvania Dutch as the pallbearers lower each of the three plain pine coffins into hand-dug graves. When he finishes, heads are bowed, and I know the mourners are silently reciting the Lord's Prayer. Instead of fighting the words that come with such ease, I lower my head and join them, something I haven't done in a very long time.
When the ceremony is over and the Amish start toward their buggies to return to their farms, I thread my way through the crowd toward the gravesites. I nod my respect to everyone who makes eye contact with me. Some nod back. A few offer grim smiles. Some of the older Amish, the ones who know I left the fold, give me a wide berth.
It takes me a few minutes to find Mattie. She's standing next to Bishop Troyer, David, and her parents while several young men shovel dirt into the graves. Her face is red and wet from crying. But she doesn't make a sound. Her datt, Andy Erb, looks nearly as shaken as his daughter and grips her hand so tightly his knuckles are white. Her mamm, stoic-faced and tense, holds David's hand just as tightly.
This isn't the time or place to speak with Mattie about the information I learned from Armitage earlier; I can tell from her expression she's barely holding it together. But I can't delay much longer, because if someone tried to kill her and failed, the possibility exists they'll try again.
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