“Yes.” He blinks rapidly. “What happened to them?”
“Your brothers and sister-in-law were killed this morning at their farm.”
“Aw, God.” He takes a step back. “Killed? All three of them? Are you sure?” He looks at Glock, as if expecting him to contradict me.
“We’re sure,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”
He makes a choking sound, takes another step back, as if to distance himself from us and the news we bear. “How in God’s name did it happen?”
“We believe it was methane gas asphyxiation from the manure pit.”
“My God.” Tugging off a glove, he bows his head, scrapes a trembling hand over his face. “I told Solly to keep that old barn ventilated. He never listened to—” He stops speaking mid-sentence and raises his gaze to mine. “The children?”
“They’re fine,” I say. “Unhurt. Physically anyway.”
He closes his eyes briefly, as if thanking God for sparing them, and I know that even though he’s no longer Amish, he’s still a religious man. “How did it happen?” he asks.
I tell him what I learned from the kids’ statements. “Apparently, Rachael was trying to rescue her husband and brother-in-law. I suspect she succumbed to the gases, blacked out, and fell into the pit. The kids tried, but they couldn’t get them out.”
“Poor, poor children. Where are they now?”
“They’re still at the house. Bishop Troyer is there with them.”
Adam’s face darkens. “Then you know I’ve been excommunicated.”
“The bishop told me.”
“I bet he gave you an earful.” His laugh is bitter. “What else did he tell you?”
Knowing the value of silence, I say nothing.
“They’re my nephews and niece, Chief Burkholder. They should be with family. With me.”
I can’t dispute the statement. From all appearances, he’s a decent, hardworking farmer. More importantly, he’s a blood relative. Their
“Were you and the kids close?” I ask.
“Up until four years ago, I was a big part of their lives.” Adam looks away for a moment, then raises defiant eyes to mine. “As you can see, I’m no longer Amish.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Lust, of course.” He gives me a wry smile. “I fell in love with an English woman.” The smile turns bitter. “We married, which is against the
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It was a bad time.”
“So you were estranged from the family,” I say.
“Yes.” His sigh is tired and heavy. “Maybe this is God’s way of bringing those children back to me. Maybe it’s His way of punishing those with small minds.”
The statement takes me aback. It seems odd at a time like this—when he’s just been informed of his brothers’ deaths. Anyone who’s ever lived any length of time knows God doesn’t even the score and that sometimes that bitch Fate gets her way, right and wrong be damned.
“Are you married?” I ask.
“My wife died. I’m a widower.”
I look down at the dogs, letting that bit of information settle in my brain. For a moment, the only sound comes from the caw of a crow perched on the fence.
“I would like to see the children,” Adam says after a lengthy pause.
I know the Amish will not keep this man from seeing his niece and his nephews. But he will not be welcomed by them. He’s an outsider now, an interloper. As a cop, I know the Amish have no right to keep Adam Slabaugh from his own blood.
“Are there any other relatives?” I ask. “Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?”
He gives me a sage look. “You mean Amish relatives?”
“I’m asking you if the children have any other living relatives,” I reply firmly.
“Rachael’s mother, their grandmother, passed away just two months ago. She was old and frail. I am the only family they have left.”
I nod, understanding all too well, and knowing everyone involved is destined for heartache. “Are you going to pursue legal custody?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Those children need to be with family. I’m their uncle.” He blinks, his eyes watery. “I love them.”
I don’t expect any trouble from the Amish, but I know from experience that when kids are involved, emotions many times supersede civility. I offer the best piece of advice I can. “If you plan to pursue custody, you might want to get yourself a lawyer.”
“Do you think I’ll need one?”
“A lawyer will be able to help you navigate through the legal end of it. That’ll make things easier for you. Probably best to do things by the book in this case.” I reach into my pocket and hand him my card. “Let me know if you have any problems.”
Back in the Explorer, I put the vehicle in gear and head down the long gravel lane. Glock breaks the silence with the same question that’s echoing inside my head. “You think there’s going to be a custody issue?”
“I don’t think the Amish will fight him. Not legally anyway. They’re not big on the whole litigation thing. But that’s not to say there won’t be problems. People do crazy things when it comes to protecting their kids.”
Glock nods, and I know he’s thinking about his own child, a little boy not yet a year old. “Maybe Solomon had a will. Maybe he specified provisions for the kids.”
“Most Amish don’t use a legal will and testament. Everything’s almost always passed down to the children. Property goes to the eldest male child.”
“Simpler that way, I guess,” he says.
“No one ever expects to die young.”
We’re two blocks from the police station when my cell phone erupts. I’m surprised to see Doc Coblentz’s name appear on the display.
“Hey Doc,” I say, giving him only half of my attention.
“I was about to begin the autopsy on Solly Slabaugh when I found an irregularity I think you’ll want to see.”
“What kind of irregularity?”
“During my preliminary examination, I found evidence of blunt-force trauma to his head.”
The words yank my full attention to the call. A small part of my brain hopes I misunderstood. “
“Solly Slabaugh sustained a substantial blow to the head before his death.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. Then my brain kicks back into gear. “Is it possible it happened in the fall? The sides of that pit are concrete.”
“Judging from the location of the laceration, I don’t believe that’s the case.”
Shock is like a battering ram against my brain. A hundred questions fly and scatter inside my head as the repercussions start to sink in. “Are you saying this wasn’t an accident?”
“I won’t know the cause or manner of death until I complete the autopsy, so I don’t want to jump to conclusions at this juncture. But this is very suspicious, Kate. I thought you might want to see for yourself.”
A glance at the clock on the dash tells me it’s already past noon. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
My mind is still reeling when I clip my cell phone to my belt.
“That didn’t sound good,” Glock comments.
