Pray for Silence

“What about my case load?” he asked, his voice sounding inordinately reasonable.

“Your open cases will be dispersed to other agents,” Denny McNinch said.

Tomasetti didn’t like to share. Not his cases. Not anything. He could feel the anger, the old bitterness rising into his throat. His heart bumping against his ribs, the blood squeezing through his veins with so much force he could feel it pulsing at his temples. “I guess the three of you have it all figured out.”

Denny sighed. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

“Nobody likes this sort of thing,” Bogart said.

“But we have your best interest as well as the interests of this agency in mind,” Rummel added.

“Not to mention the best interest of your collective asses,” Tomasetti put in.

Nobody had anything to say about that.

“Last time you guys had me in here, you were trying to squeeze me out the door,” Tomasetti said. “You were willing to send me into the field to achieve that end.”

Rummel grimaced, put on the face of a man owning up to a painful mistake. “Try to put yourself in my position, John. You went through a terrible ordeal. Nobody’s blaming you, and you’re not being punished for that. We’ve got a vested interest in your well-being. We want you well and back at work. But you’ve got to do this.”

“I’m glad everyone has my best interest at heart,” Tomasetti said, but the cynicism in his voice was unmistakable.

Rummel shot a pointed look at the personnel file in front of Bogart.

The human resources director opened the file and removed a sheet of paper and a form and slid both across the table to Tomasetti. “We’ll need for you to sign the form. For the file, of course. The other sheet contains a list of doctors. You choose which doctor and call them at your convenience.”

When Tomasetti made no move to pick up the papers, she added: “All of this will be kept in the strictest of confidence, John. You know that.”

What he knew was that they had him backed into a corner. His reputation and career were on the line. As badly as he wanted to tell them to go to hell, he knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to salvage what was left of his life.

He reached for the papers. The single sheet contained the names and contact information of six accredited psychiatrists located in the greater Columbus area printed neatly on BCI letterhead. The form was a human resource application for leave filled with legalese, already signed and approved by Jason Rummel.

“It’s a good deal,” Denny said.

Tomasetti picked up the pen.

Bogart leaned forward, put a red nail on the line at the bottom. “Sign right there,” she said. “Press hard. It’s in quadruplicate.”

John Tomasetti signed his name on the dotted line.

CHAPTER 7

The October sun has burned through the clouds by the time Glock and I leave the Zook place. As I speed down the lane, I glance toward the Plank farm a mile to the north. The barn roof and the top of the grain silo are visible, but the hedge apple trees growing along the fence line block my view of the yard, house and outbuildings.

“Witness would have been nice,” Glock says.

“Murder’s never that easy.”

He looks around. “We going back to the Plank place?”

“I thought we’d swing by David Troyer’s farm first.”

“Neighbor?”

“Bishop.”

Glock arches a brow.

“Amish version of a priest.”

“Gotcha.” He pauses. “You think he might know something?”

“The Amish talk to their bishops. They confess. If there was something going on with the Planks—some kind of problem or crisis—there’s a good chance he knows about it.”

“Let’s hope he’s a good bishop.”

“He is.” I know this because he was my family’s bishop. He was instrumental in placing me under the bann when I refused to confess my sins, but I never held it against him.

We find Troyer in the cornfield in front of his house, astride an antique corn thresher, driving his team of gray Percheron geldings. The thresher is an awkward-looking contraption that cuts and bundles cornstalks. A few yards behind the binder, the bishop’s three grown sons stack the bundles into neat rows. Farther back, dozens of bundles of dry yellow cornstalks litter the field, and I know they’ve been at it since the wee hours of morning.

“They’re trying to beat the rain,” I say.

Glock looks up at the cloudless sky. “How do you know it’s going to rain?”

“Checked the weather online this morning.”

“For a second I thought you were going to reveal some ancient Amish secret for weather predicting.”

We both grin. It’s the first semblance of humor I’ve felt all morning, and it’s a welcome diversion.

I park on the shoulder and we traverse the bar ditch. Standing at the fence, we watch the men work. Autumn harvest is a busy time for an Amish farmer. The days are long and the work is backbreaking. Though female chores most often take place inside the house—canning, cleaning, sewing and baking—I always managed to end up outside with my datt. I never told anyone, but I secretly enjoyed the sweat and dirt and physical labor. It was one of many ways I didn’t fit in.

Spotting us, Bishop Troyer waves, letting us know he’ll hand the reins over to one of his sons and stop to speak to us next time around.

“Is he bound by any kind of confidentiality?” Glock asks after a moment. “I mean like a priest and the confessional?”

I shake my head. “If he knows something, he’ll talk.”

It takes fifteen minutes for the team of horses to round the field. The second time around, Troyer hands the reins to his son and starts toward us.

Bishop Troyer is one of those people who always looks the same no matter how many years pass. He has a full head of thick gray hair, blunt cut above heavy brows and a full salt-and-pepper beard. He has the rounded belly of a well-fed man. As a kid, I remember asking my datt why his legs were so bowed. Datt replied that Bishop Troyer spent many hours as a young man training and riding horses. In hindsight, I think my datt was just trying to keep me off our old plow horse.

“Weigeth’s alleweil?” How goes it today? Removing his flat-brimmed hat, the bishop wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Ich bin Zimmlich gut,” I respond.

He looks up at the sky. “ We are trying to beat the storms.”

“Looks like a good harvest.”

“Best we’ve had in six years.” His gaze slides to Glock and then back to me. His expression sobers. “Reuben Zimmerman came by an hour ago. He told me about the Plank family.”

Word of a death spreads quickly in the Amish community. Word of murder travels even faster. Not for the sake of gossip, but because other families will drop everything and descend upon the injured or bereaved to help. In the case of the Planks, there’s no one left to help. I tell the bishop what happened, leaving out as many of the details as I can.

He places his hand over his chest. I see the veins standing out on his temple. Sweat forming on his brow. For a moment I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.

“Are you all right, Bishop Troyer?”

“It is the will of God.” He shakes his head, blinking away sweat. “Der Keenich muss mer erhehe.” One must exalt the King.

We spend the next ten minutes rehashing the same things Glock and I went over with the Zook family. The