Page 32 of The Hidden One

I think of the short walk I just took. “How far is the field where the remains were found from here?”

He motions in the general direction of where I just walked. “A couple of miles.”

“Was the field wooded back when Stoltzfus went missing?”

“This whole area was wooded. Farmers are clearing as they need more land. I think Schlabach and his daddy cleared that field a couple of years ago. The general consensus is that the body was buried in a shallow grave. Between the plowing and natural erosion, the bones worked their way to the surface.”

I think about that a moment. “Back when Stoltzfus went missing, do you recall if anyone happened to notice tire marks? From a car or buggy? Anything like that?”

He smiles. “I guess you are a cop.”

I smile back. “Character flaw.”

“I hear you.” He cocks his head. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’m not part of the investigation. Did you talk to anyone at the sheriff’s department?”

“Sergeant Gainer wasn’t too inclined to share information.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “He’s not known for his congeniality.”

“There’s one in every department.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” He lets the silence ride a moment and then adds, “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

I give him my card. “I appreciate it.”

We stand there in companionable silence for a minute or two, enjoying the breeze, the cacophony of birds all around.

“I reckon I ought to get back to work.” He pushes away from the vehicle.

I extend my hand. “Thanks for not writing me a ticket.”

“Glad I didn’t have to write up the report.”

We shake and go our separate ways.

CHAPTER 10

As is always the case at the start of a homicide investigation, there are a hundred things to do and they all needed to be done yesterday. While experience has taught me the art of prioritization, I don’t fare as well when it comes to keeping my impatience in check. Not only do I have little in the way of hard facts, but I’m out of my jurisdiction and operating without my usual resources. Worse, I’m personally involved in a way that will likely work against me—at least in terms of my contemporaries. Sergeant Gainer made it clear that my law enforcement credentials will not garner me preferential treatment. In fact, I’m under the impression that he’ll go out of his way to keep me at arm’s length—and in the dark.

I’m in the Explorer, heading toward Belleville, where I have reservations for a room at the Kish Valley Motel and RV Park. I’m anxious to get checked in and unpacked, but there’s one more thing I want to do before I run out of light.

The land where the remains were found is owned by an Amish man by the name of Doyle Schlabach. According to newspaper accounts, he was cutting hay when he discovered the skull. I have no idea if visiting the scene will be helpful, but it’s a starting point. I’m not sure if he’ll grant me access to the property, but it’s worth a shot.

The Schlabach farm is on the north side of Belleville at the foot of a verdant green ridge. I make the turn into a long gravel lane, and I’m rewarded with a view so spectacular, I roll to a stop just to admire it. Lush with forest and surrounded by the gray veil of evening humidity, the mountain is a majestic sight. A four-rail wood fence lines both sides of the lane. Farther in, an ancient German bank barn is built into the hillside, with the livestock pens facing the front and the upper, bank side of the barn looking out at the ridge. These kinds of barns are common in Ohio. What differentiates this barn is a forebay where the upper-level wall overshoots the foundation.

The lane curves left and a frame house looms into view. It’s a typical Amish farmhouse with the appearance of having been added on to several times over the decades and not all of those additions executed with forethought.

I do a double take upon spotting the buggy parked beneath a giant oak tree, its shafts resting on the ground. I’ve heard of the Pennsylvania yellow-topped buggies, but I’ve never seen one and it’s a shocking sight to behold. The lemon-yellow top is anything but plain. I park next to it and get out of the Explorer. The brightly colored top isn’t the only difference from the buggies I’m used to seeing in Painters Mill. There are rearview mirrors on both the driver’s and passenger sides. At the rear, someone has installed brake lights, taillights, half a dozen reflectors, and two slow-moving-vehicle signs. Nearly as astounding as the yellow top is an interior decked out with green velvet and a gleaming burled-walnut dash more befitting a Rolls-Royce.

“She’s a nice one, ain’t she?”

I turn to see an Amish man approach. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties. A longish beard that tells me he’s married. He’s wearing typical Amish garb—trousers, work shirt, and a flat-brimmed straw hat. A single suspender crosses at his chest.

“It’s the most amazing workmanship on a buggy I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.

He grins. “I’m no craftsman—just ask my wife—but I do appreciate all that walnut. Too pretty for a buggy, if you ask me. Definitely got all the bells and whistles. Watch this.” He leans into the buggy and punches a button. He tugs a cigarette pack from his pocket, taps one out. By the time he’s got the cigarette in his mouth, the lighter has popped out of its place in the dash, and he lights up.

“Comes in handy if there’s a smoker in the family,” he says.