Sworn to Silence

and the Painters Mill PD are working around the clock to catch the person responsible. In the interim, I’m calling on every citizen for help. I want you to keep your doors locked. Keep your security alarms turned on. Report any unusual or suspicious activity to the police, no matter how trivial. I also ask you to form neighborhood watch groups. Keep a watchful eye on your neighbors. Your family members. Your friends. If you are female, be vigilant with regard to your personal safety. Don’t go out alone.”

A barrage of questions erupt when I pause.

“Is it the Slaughterhouse Killer?”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“How were the women killed?”

The pushiness of the crowd annoys me. “One at a time,” I snap.

No one pays attention to my request. I spot Steve Ressler in the first row and call him by name. In the back of my mind I hope this makes up for my brusqueness back at the station. The last thing I want to do is alienate the media right off the bat.

“Chief Burkholder, have you contacted the FBI?” he asks.

“No.”

Disapproving murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re already working with the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation out of Columbus.”

A dozen hands shoot up. I point to a thin man wearing glasses with heavy black frames. “Can you tell us how the victims were killed?” he asks.

“Preliminary results from the coroner concludes both victims had their throats cut. Cause of death is exsanguination.”

A hush that is part shock, part fear, falls over the crowd. I point to a man wearing a Cincinnati Reds ball cap. “That’s exactly how the Slaughterhouse Killer from the early nineties murdered his victims,” he begins. “Is it the same guy?”

“We do not know that to be a fact, but we are looking at old case files.” Ignoring the buzz that follows, I call on a woman I’ve seen on the news.

The questions are brutal and pummel me like stones. The answers are hard to come by. I do my best, but after twenty minutes I feel embattled and wrung out. Hands wave madly, but I don’t call upon them. “If you’ll excuse me I’ve got to get back to work.” Stepping back from the podium, I turn to Detrick. “Sheriff Detrick?”

At this point I’m expected to take my place beside Auggie and Norm and listen to Detrick’s spiel. But I’ve never been a fan of political cabaret so I head toward the rear stage door.

Behind me, Detrick’s voice booms from the sound system. Competence and charisma practically ooze from his pores, and I know that in minutes, he’ll have this hostile audience eating out of his hand. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. In the public eye, perceptions are everything, even if those perceptions are skewed.

I mentally kick myself for having not done a better job at the podium. I should have been more patient, more forthright. I should have been a stronger leader. But I’m a cop, not a public speaker. Snagging my parka off the chair, I resolve to go back to the station where I can at least be effective.

Detrick’s voice is the backdrop to my thoughts as I enter a hall lined with lockers. Even from this distance, I discern the confidence in his voice. And I know he is the one who will make the citizens of Painters Mill feel safe tonight, not me.

“Chief!”

I turn to see Glock stride toward me. Next to him, John Tomasetti’s expression is grim. An Amish man with blunt-cut hair, blue eyes and a full red beard follows them. He wears a black wool jacket that doesn’t look nearly warm enough. A plump woman wearing a black coat over a wool jumper and leather ankle boots trails the men.

“This is Ezra and Bonnie Augspurger,” Glock begins.

It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen or spoken to them, but I know the Augspurgers. As a child, I spent many a Sunday at their home with my parents for worship. I remember playing with their daughter, Ellen, and a brother by the name of Urie, who liked to make a game of pulling my kapp. He didn’t tattle when I pushed him into a pile of horse shit. The youngest Augspurger child, Mark, suffered with Ellis–van Creveld syndrome, a form of dwarfism found all too often in the Amish population. Of course, as a kid, all I knew was that Mark was short. But Ellen had once told me he had an extra toe and a hole in his heart. Looking at Ezra and Bonnie, I wonder if Little Markie is still alive.

I extend my hand first to Ezra. His eyes meet mine, and I see fear in their depths. I feel that same fear hammering on the door of my own psyche. I know why they’re here, and I know how this meeting will end.

“Ellen is missing.” Ezra’s voice shakes as he speaks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“We heard about the murdered English girl and became worried,” Bonnie adds. “We want you to help us find Ellen.”

I think of the partially decomposed body lying on the gurney at the hospital morgue—the unadorned fingernails and toenails—and I’m filled with a sadness so profound that for a moment I can’t speak. I don’t want that woman to be Ellen, but I know it is. Guilt spreads through me because I didn’t recognize her. Though it’s been fifteen years since I saw her, I feel as if I should have known.

Before I realize it, I’m speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch. “How long has she been missing?”

Ezra looks away, but not before I discern the shame in his expression.

“Two and a half weeks.” Bonnie’s hands twist nervously.

I give Ezra a hard look. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

“This was an Amish matter to be dealt with by us.”

The awful familiarity of the words make the hairs at my nape stand on end.

“We assumed she had run away,” Ezra says. “In the last few months, Ellen had become . . . difficult and rebellious.”

“She had told us she would be taking the bus to Columbus to see her cousin Ruth,” Bonnie says. “When she disappeared, we assumed that was where she had gone. Last night, we heard from Ruth. Ellen never arrived in Columbus.”

I want to take them to the police station where we can speak privately. There are too many people, too many cameras here. I glance down the hall and spy an open classroom door. “Let’s go where it’s quiet.”

Leaving the Augspurgers, I cross to Glock and Tomasetti. “Find a fax machine,” I say quietly. “Ask Mona to fax the best photo she can find of the second vic.”

When I pull back, both men’s eyes are filled with knowledge. They know where this is going. Glock turns and jogs toward the auditorium in search of a school official.

I wish I could handle this without Tomasetti. A salient distrust exists between the Amish and the English police, particularly the conservative Amish, such as the Augspurgers. But protocol dictates I include him. Whether I like it or not, he’s part of the investigation.

I go back to Bonnie and Ezra and we start toward the classroom. Tomasetti falls in behind us. I flip on the lights to see student desks, a green chalkboard where someone wrote the word shit, and a teacher’s desk covered with papers. I pull out a few plastic chairs and we sit.

“Do you know something about Ellen?” Ezra asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Do you have a recent photograph of her?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Most Amish do not believe in having their photographs taken, citing images as evidence of pride. Some believe photos and even paintings depicting faces violate the Biblical commandment, Thou shalt not make unto thyself a graven image. Some of the old order still believe a photo steals the soul.

“We do not have a photo,” Ezra says.

I take out my notebook. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

“The day she disappeared. I caught her smoking cigarettes in the barn. We had an argument . . .” Ezra shrugs. “She said she was going to see her cousin, Ruth.”

“Back when Ellen first disappeared, did you notice any strangers in the area? Maybe a car or buggy?”

Ezra’s thick brows snap together. “I remember seeing footprints in the snow. I did not know who made them.”