Page 63 of The Hidden One

Moved more than I should be, I reach into my pocket for my keys. “Just FYI? I’m still a sore loser, too,” I tell him, and start for the door.

CHAPTER 19

A cop never knows when a seemingly mundane parcel of information will turn out to be important. Chances are the rumor about Ananias Stoltzfus taking a cane to Levi Schmucker is just that: a rumor that’s grown with time and been embellished upon over the years. An Amish bishop would never resort to violence to discipline a member of the church district. The Amish are pacifistic; submission and nonviolence are key tenets. The Amish will not defend themselves even if they are physically assaulted. Nor will they protect their property. During times of war, they are conscientious objectors.

In light of the myriad anomalies surrounding Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus, the allegation merits follow-up. The Amish are human, after all. We human beings are fallible, vulnerable to our imperfections, weaknesses, and emotions. That includes even the most ardent believers.

After leaving the Bowman place last night, I went back to the motel and spent a couple of hours with my laptop. I located Levi Schmucker at the Mennonite Faith Home for the Elderly in Lock Haven, which is about an hour northeast of Belleville. I should have slept well, but after the incident the previous night—and despite being in a different room with a functioning lock and security chain—I couldn’t sleep. I ended up propping a chair against the door and kept my .38 unholstered, my .22 mini Magnum in easy reach. This morning, I’m running on coffee.

Faith Home for the Elderly is located on the west side of town just south of the university. It’s a three-story, midcentury-modern-style building with mullioned windows and mud-colored brick. The grounds and landscaping are well tended. As I walk inside, I pass a bench where an elderly woman carries on a lively conversation with herself.

The interior falls somewhere between a public school and hospital. A brightly lit nurses’ station and set of elevators face the entrance. Beyond, two long corridors lined with doors sweep toward the rear. I head toward the nurses’ station, where a middle-aged woman in pink scrubs finger-pecks a keyboard.

“I’m looking for Levi Schmucker,” I tell her.

She hits a final key and turns a smile on me. “Are you family?”

I’m not sure what the guidelines are with regard to visitation. Hoping there won’t be a problem, I remove my driver’s license and shield and lay both on the counter. “I’m visiting from Ohio and working on a case in Belleville,” I tell her.

“Oh.” She seems intrigued. “We don’t get many police officers visiting our residents.”

“I won’t take up too much of his time,” I say, keeping it vague and light. “I just need to ask him a few quick questions.”

“Mr. Schmucker is in his room this morning.” She squints at her computer screen, clicks the mouse. “I’ll ask one of the NAs to take you in.” She gestures toward a sitting area. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

They don’t keep me waiting. I’ve just checked in with my dispatcher when an African American man in blue scrubs calls my name. The badge clipped to his shirt tells me he’s a nursing assistant and his name is Brent.

“You’re here to see Mr. Schmucker?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re in luck. He just finished with his PT and had breakfast.” He gestures toward one of the corridors. “I’ll take you.”

According to the information I found online, Levi Schmucker was born in 1938, which would make him eighty-four years old. As we walk along the tiled hall, its walls affixed with chrome handrails, we pass half a dozen rooms, the occasional wheelchair, and I find myself hoping his memory is still intact.

“Here we are.” The nursing assistant pushes open one of the doors and gestures me inside. “Good morning, Mr. Schmucker!” he says cheerily. “You’ve got a visitor.”

I walk into a hospital-like room that smells of disinfectant, menthol analgesic, and urine. Two twin-size beds with safety rails and dual wheeled dinner trays take up most of the space. In the corner, an orange Naugahyde recliner squats next to a laminate coffee table and lamp. Someone tried to make the room feel cozy but didn’t quite manage.

My heart sinks at the sight of the man sitting in the wheelchair next to the window. He’s neatly dressed in navy trousers, a blue shirt, and stocking feet. The sunshine streaming in reveals a bald scalp mottled with age spots, a yellowed beard that hangs off his chin like a sock, and talonlike hands that rest on a towel in his lap.

Eyes set into a face that’s creased like saddle leather take my measure. “Who is it?” the old man grumbles.

“Kate Burkholder,” I tell him.

“Don’t know no one by that name.”

The nursing assistant touches my arm. “I’ve got to get back to work. If you need anything, just ask whoever’s at the nurses’ station.”

I thank him and then he’s gone.

The old man stares at me. “Who are you?”

I tell him. “I’m working on a case, Mr. Schmucker. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ananias Stoltzfus.”

The flash of shock on his face tells me his memory is intact. “Ananias Stoltzfus?” He whispers the name with trepidation, his eyes flicking to the door as if he’s expecting the man to burst into the room and accost him. “He’s here?”

“He’s not here,” I assure him. “Just me. I need a little information from you.”