Page 70 of The Hidden One

“What are you looking for?”

“A definitive ID for one thing. I know it’s a long shot, but—”

“I’m not going to risk my job on a long shot, Burkholder.”

“Will you at least look into it?” I think about Tomasetti, wonder if he has the connections to help, if he knows anyone on a federal level who might be able to step in and grease the wheels.

“Look, I’m not going to make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fair enough. Thank you.”

He’s anxious to end the conversation, so I jump into my next question. “One more thing. Do you have any idea what happened to the diary that was found with Mia Stoltzfus when she committed suicide?”

“I don’t know anything about a diary.”

“Do you know who might—”

He hangs up on me.

I’ve devoted most of my adult life to law enforcement and solving crimes, which sometimes includes putting someone in jail. How ironic that the one time I’m trying to prove a man’s innocence and keep him out of jail is the one time I can’t pull all the loose ends of the case together.

It’s nearly midnight. I’m sitting at the table in my room at the Kish Valley Motel, thinking about old bones and the story those bones have told so far. I’ve been at it for a couple of hours and I’m doing my best not to be discouraged. I’m failing at that, too.

A DNA sample from the human remains found in the field or the water well could be tremendously helpful. Not only in terms of matching, but also running it through some databases to find out exactly who those bones belonged to. Chances are, that won’t happen; the lab will likely only make the match and not take the testing any farther. That’s when it occurs to me that at some point, I’ve come to believe Ananias wasn’t the man he proclaimed to be. If I’m right and that’s the case, who was he really? And why was he doing his utmost to conceal his identity?

Frustration sits in the chair across from me, a foul apparition, mocking me. I resolve to call the sheriff’s department first thing in the morning and formally request that the DNA results be run through several databases. They may or may not agree to do so. I’m not going to hold my breath.

I google “Minnesota Amish” and tap a key, landing on the blog of a well-known scholar on the Amish culture. He writes about the settlement in Harmony, Minnesota, and I read with interest. I’m midway through when something pings my brain. I stop reading and backtrack, read the passage again.

Founded in 1972, Wadena is the oldest Amish community in Minnesota. Harmony was founded by the Swartzentruber Amish in 1974.

My conversation with Amanda Garber flashes in my brain. They moved here in 1967 or so.

If the Harmony, Minnesota, settlement was founded by the Swartzentruber Amish—in 1974, no less—how is it that Ananias was elected bishop? He wasn’t Swartzentruber. According to Amanda, he arrived in Belleville in 1967.

“The timeline doesn’t add up,” I whisper.

It’s possible that Ananias and Mia lived in Harmony before the church district was formally established. But in order for a bishop to be elected, there must be an organized church district, even if the term is used in a loose sense. In addition, it would be extraordinarily unusual for a bishop to move. Usually, when a bishop is struck by the lot, it is a burden he bears the rest of his life.

So what happened in Harmony?

And what does it mean in terms of the case here in Belleville?

There’s one other source of information that might be helpful. A publication titled Raber’s New American Almanac, which is a comprehensive list of Amish bishops and ministers by state. If I can get my hands on a copy or have someone look it up for me, I should be able to determine if Ananias was, indeed, a bishop in Minnesota. One of the Diener here in Belleville may have a copy. Possibly the library or another Amish elder.

My cell phone buzzes. A burst of pleasure in my chest at the thought of Tomasetti. But when I glance at the display, I see a local number I don’t recognize.

I answer with, “Burkholder.”

A hiss of air and then a whispered male voice. “I got proof Jonas Bowman killed Ananias Stoltzfus.”

A couple of thoughts strike me at once. The caller is trying to disguise his voice. And there’s no ping of recognition. No accent. Nothing familiar.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“Nelson Yoder knows the truth. He was there the night Stoltzfus was killed. He knows everything.”

“What does he know?” I ask.