Breaking Silence

going on fourteen years now. “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”

She pours from an ancient-looking enamel pot and carries the cup to me. “The younger children are in their room, sleeping,” she says. “They have had a very trying day.”

I pick up the cup and sip. “What about Mose?”

“Wait.” She disappears into the living room. A moment later, Bishop Troyer appears. He’s a short man with bowed legs, a round belly, and thick gray hair that’s blunt-cut above heavy brows. A salt-and-pepper beard hangs from his chin, reaching nearly to the waistband of his trousers. He’s looked much the same since I was a child: old, but never seeming to age further.

He doesn’t look happy to see me. “Chief Burkholder.”

“I need to speak with the children,” I say without preamble. “It’s important.”

He sighs as he crosses to the table and takes the chair across from me. “Katie, the children are grieving. They have been through much already this day.”

“Solomon Slabaugh may have been murdered.”

“Murdered?” The bishop recoils as if I’d splashed hot coffee in his face. “Solly? But I thought he fell into the pit. How can that be murder?”

I tell him about the head trauma. “I need to talk to the kids, Bishop Troyer. Right now.”

The old man looks uncertain as he rises, as if he doesn’t know what to make of this new information I’ve just thrown at him. “The three youngsters are in their rooms, sleeping. Mose is outside in the workshop with the men.”

“Gather the younger kids for me.” I take a reluctant last sip of coffee, then rise. “I’ll speak to Mose first.”

The bishop bows his head slightly, then disappears into the living room.

Leaving my coffee and the warmth of the kitchen, I go back outside. The wind penetrates my parka as I make my way down the sidewalk. Midway to the barn, I turn left toward a newish steel building, noticing for the first time the dull glow of lantern light in the windows. The sky is even darker now, the gray clouds to the west approaching like some vast army. There’s no snow yet, but I can smell it—that cold, thick scent that tells me we’re about to get dumped on.

I open the steel door of the workshop and find a single lantern burning atop a workbench. The air smells of kerosene and freshly sawed wood. Two Amish men sporting insulated coveralls and full beards stand in the circle of golden light, talking to Mose. The three males eye me with unconcealed suspicion as I approach.

“Hello,” I say, but my focus is on Mose. Even in the poor lighting, he looks pale and troubled and unbearably sad.

Looking away, he mumbles something I don’t quite hear.

I nod a greeting at the two men. I’ve met them both at some point, but I don’t recall their names. “Bishop Troyer said I’d find you here,” I say to Mose. “I need to ask you a few questions about what happened this morning.”

The boy glances at the other two men, as if hoping they’ll intervene and send me packing. Of course, neither man does. Looking at Mose, I realize that the reality of everything he and his siblings face in the coming days and weeks and months is starting to hit home. He’s apprehensive, sad, maybe a little scared.

“I know this is a tough time for you and your sister and brothers,” I begin, trying to put him at ease. “But I need to go over some things with you that we didn’t cover this morning.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Okay.”

I want to speak with him away from the men. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I know the Amish are as bad about spreading gossip as the English.

The workshop isn’t large. Looking around, I see a dozen or so unfinished cabinet doors stacked neatly against the wall, and it strikes me that Solomon Slabaugh was also a cabinetmaker.

“Did your datt make these cabinets?” I ask.

Mose ventures closer to me, eyeing the cabinets. “Ja.”

“He was very good.”

“He liked to work with his hands.”

“Did you help him?”

“I made the one on the left. It’s red oak.”

“It’s nice. I like the wood grain.” I walk to a half dozen intricately made Victorian-style birdhouses. “He make these, too?”

The boy glances uncertainly at the men, then follows me. “Ja. The mailboxes, too.”

“They’re really lovely.”

We’re standing about ten feet from the men now. It’s the farthest away I can get him without being too obvious about getting him alone. “Are you doing okay?” I ask, lifting the roof of a birdhouse and peeking inside.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he mumbles something that sounds like yeah.

“You feel up to answering a few questions?”

He fixes his gaze on me and I see him resign himself to dealing with me, dealing with whatever reason I’m here. “What is this about?” he asks.

“Did your datt and uncle Adam get along okay?” I say the words easily, but I’m watching Mose carefully now—his eyes, his body language, his hands.

He looks confused by the question for a moment, then shrugs. “They used to.”

“What about recently?”

He shakes his head. “Datt wouldn’t let Uncle Adam come over to see us.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t keep the faith.”

“Did they ever argue?”

“Once or twice.”

“What about?”

Mose doesn’t want to answer; I see it in his eyes. Amish roots run deep. Though his uncle has been excommunicated, Mose still wants to protect him. But the boy was raised Amish and taught from an early age to respect and obey his elders. “Us kids.”

“Did Adam ever get angry?”

A lengthy pause ensues, then a reluctant “Sometimes.”

“Did he ever threaten your mamm or datt?”

“No,” he snaps.

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t know. A long time, I think.”

I move on to my next question. “What about your uncle Abel? Did he get along with your datt?”

“Sure. They got along. They were brothers. They loved each other.”

“Did they ever argue?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any recent disagreements?”

“No.” His brows go together. “Why are you asking me these things?”

I don’t want to unjustly accuse the dead. But I know the possibility exists that the two brothers had some kind of confrontation before Rachael and the kids got to the barn. Abel could have struck Solomon with the shovel. They could have struggled and fallen to their deaths. Or maybe Abel pushed Solomon into the pit, realized what he’d done, and then attempted a rescue, only to succumb to the methane gas and become a victim himself. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been a cop long enough to know it’s an avenue that needs exploring.

Ignoring Mose’s question, I move to the next. “What about your mamm and datt? Were they having any kind of disagreement?”

He tosses me an indignant glare. “No.”

“Did they argue?”