Pray for Silence

expect the obvious.

The pallbearers are nearly finished filling the graves with dirt when I spot a slightly built young man striding toward me. I hadn’t noticed him before, which is odd because he’s the only other non-Amish person here besides T.J. and me.

“Chief Burkholder?” His gaze holds mine as he closes the distance between us, and I wonder how he knows my name. He’s a scholarly looking man in his early twenties with slicked back hair and dark, square-rimmed glasses. He’s well dressed in a charcoal custom suit with a matching tie I’m pretty sure didn’t come from JC Penney. He looks out of place here among the black-clad Amish.

“What can I do for you?” I ask.

He sticks out his hand. “I’m Aaron Plank, Bonnie and Amos’s oldest son.”

CHAPTER 13

Half an hour later, I’m locked in my office with Glock and Aaron Plank. On the way to the station, I called Skid and had him run Plank through LEADS, which provides access to criminal history files. To my surprise, we got two hits. A DUI when he was eighteen years old. And an assault charge when he was twenty. Both times he pleaded no contest and paid his societal dues.

Plank sits across from me with his legs crossed. To the untrained eye, he might appear calm. But I’m a cop, and I don’t miss the constant picking at a hangnail. The wiping of damp palms on wool-blend slacks. He’s an unassuming young man. Attractive, with an earnest expression and honest eyes. But I know from experience never to make judgments based on appearances.

“I’m sorry about your family,” I begin.

“I still can’t believe they’re gone. My sisters and brothers. Little Amos.” Grimacing, he shakes his head. “Do the police have a suspect yet?”

“We’re working on a few leads.”

“I don’t understand why someone would do that. So violent . . . My God.” He looks away, the muscles in his jaws working.

“How did you find out?” I ask.

“Friend of mine heard it on the news, and called me.”

“We looked for family. The sheriff of Lancaster County looked, but came back with nothing.”

“I would have been hard to find.”

“Why is that?”

He laughs, but it’s a sad sound. “Well, as you can see I’m no longer Amish. The sheriff’s deputies probably looked for Planks living in Lancaster County. He won’t find any relatives there.”

“No aunts? Uncles?”

“Datt had a brother. We had three cousins.” He purses his lips. “They were killed in a buggy accident six years ago.”

“That’s a lot of tragedy to beset one family.”

“It was horrible.”

I let that settle for a moment. “When’s the last time you saw your family?”

“I haven’t seen them since the day I left for Philly over three years ago.”

“No letters? Phone calls?”

“We never had a phone, so phone calls were out. I got one letter from Mary.”

My interest surges. “What did she say in her letter?”

“Just the usual teenaged girl stuff. You know, who’s courting whom. Who’s getting married. Gossip.” He smiles. “Amish style, of course.”

“She ever mention a boyfriend?”

Aaron hesitates. “No.”

I nod, but I’m wondering about the hesitation. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

Wanting as much information as I can get, I switch gears. “How long ago did you leave the Plain life?”

“Shortly after my rumspringa. I decided at that point not to be baptized.”

“Any particular reason?”

His eyes flick away, then back. “That was about the time I realized I was gay.”

Surprise ripples through me and at the same time my cop’s suspicions jump. I know even before I ask that the news did not go over well with his parents. The Amish are generally tolerant. But that doesn’t mean Aaron’s being gay was met with approval. How bad had it been for Aaron?

His eyes dart to Glock and then back to me. “I’d been . . . confused about it for a long time. Since I was little, I think. I pretended I wasn’t different. I hid what I was.”

Religion pervades all aspects of Amish life. Most live their lives according to the Ordnung. The Ordnung is a sort of unwritten charter of basic Amish values that is passed down from generation to generation and varies from church district to church district. Over the passage of time, the rules evolve and, to some, they are open to interpretation. The more conservative Amish adhere strictly to the Ordnung. Some of the more liberal-minded live their lives a bit more loosely, going so far as to utilize electricity and drive cars. Having been born into a conservative family, I know how difficult life could be for someone in Aaron’s shoes.

“How did they react when you told them you were gay?” I ask.

“They weren’t pleased.” Shrugging, he looks away. “They didn’t understand. Thought I was perverted. Sick.” He gives a rough laugh. “They wanted grandchildren.”

“So your being gay caused problems between you and your parents?”

“To put it mildly.” His gaze snaps back to mine, and he smiles sadly. “Chief Burkholder, I was not distraught enough to do something like this, if that’s what you’re getting at. All of this happened a long time ago, and I’ve long since come to terms. I still loved my parents. I just couldn’t abide by their ways.”

The familiarity of his words strikes a chord within me. I wish I didn’t understand, but I do. All too well. I know what it’s like to be Amish and not fit in. Though I haven’t ruled him out as a suspect, my empathy is profound.

“Where were you the night of the murders?” I ask.

“Home.”

“Where’s that?”

“I rent a house. In Philly.”

“Can someone substantiate that?”

“My partner, Rob Lane, was there part of the evening.”

“What about the rest of the evening?”

“I was alone.”

“What’s Mr. Lane’s contact info?”

Plank rattles off two phone numbers, and Glock scribbles them down.

“Tell me about your relationship with your parents,” I say.

He shrugs. “Not much to tell, really. Once I told them I was gay, they sort of . . . shut down. At first they pretended everything was the same. They prayed for me.”

“What was the catalyst for your telling them?”

“I met Rob. That’s when I sort of figured out I wasn’t going to change. When I began to question my parents’ assertions that there was something wrong with me.”

“How did you meet Rob?”

“He traveled to Lancaster County to write a book about the Amish. He was from Philly. I met him by accident. In town. I know this probably sounds hokey, but after a few minutes with him it was as if we’d known each other our entire lives. I let him photograph me. A lot of the other Amish wouldn’t. I agreed to an interview and a few days later we . . . started a relationship.”

“How long was he in Lancaster County?”

“Three weeks.” He sighs. “They were the best three weeks of my life. We were discreet, but my parents couldn’t handle seeing us together. They called it devilment.”