Page 20 of Breaking Silence

“Murder weapon?”

“Maybe.” I bend for a closer look at the hair. “Definitely not from a pig.”

He approaches and squats next to me. “Same color as Solomon Slabaugh’s.”

I’m tempted to put some of the hair in an evidence bag for safekeeping, then decide to let the CSU handle it—mostly for chain-of-evidence reasons. Straightening, I sigh, thinking of the children. As much as I hate the idea of subjecting them to another interview, they’re my best bet at getting my hands on some solid information. “I’ve got some garbage bags in my kit. Bag the shovel. See what else you can find and mark it.”

“You got it.”

Rising, I start toward the gate that will take me out of the pen. “I’m going to talk to the kids.”

“You want me to go with you?”

Snapping off my gloves, I toss them into a trash can, then stop and turn to him. If we weren’t dealing with Amish kids, I might take him up on the offer. But I don’t want to overwhelm or intimidate them. “The fewer non-Amish people present, the more likely they’ll be to open up.”

“Gotcha.”

“You want the bad news?”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’m going to need you to stay here and keep the scene secure until the CSU arrives.”

“No problem.” He pats the coat pocket where he keeps his cell phone. “Just give a call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Glock.”

I go through the door and into the cold. A strong west wind buffets me as I head up the sidewalk toward the house, and I huddle deeper into my coat, wishing I’d put on a few more layers. At the back door, I knock and wait. A moment later, a tall, thin Amish woman I’ve never met answers. She’s wearing a blue print dress with a black apron, the requisite kapp, opaque hose, and well-worn black shoes. I show her my badge. “I need to speak with the children.”

She doesn’t look happy to see me, even less happy with my request. I’m relieved when she opens the door and ushers me inside. “Sitz dich anne.” Sit down.

The smells of coffee and cinnamon titillate my olfactory nerves as I step inside. Heat from the kerosene stove warms my face. A second woman stands at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. She turns as I sit at the table, nods a greeting, then returns her attention to her task. Being here in this Amish kitchen brings back memories. Growing up, I spent countless hours sitting at a big table just like this one while my mamm fussed at the stove, and I feel an uncharacteristic jab of melancholy for things lost. Not because I want to be Amish, but because I know that once pieces of your past slip away, those pieces are gone forever, and there’s no going back.

I think of my brother, Jacob, and my sister, Sarah, and for an instant I miss them so much, my chest aches. As children, we’d been close. Now they’re strangers; it’s been weeks since I’ve seen either of them. I have two nephews I barely know and a brand-new niece I’ve never met, mostly due to my own evasion. I don’t know why I avoid them the way I do. To say it’s complicated would be an understatement. As I sit at the table with the smells of an Amish house all around, I wonder if they’re part of my lost past, or if they’re part of a future I simply haven’t been able to reach for yet.

“I’m Ellen.”

I’m pulled from my thoughts to see the thin woman who’d answered the door eyeing me suspiciously as she dries her hands on a towel. “Would you like coffee and pie?” she asks.

I wonder if she’d be offering these if she knew I’d once been Amish and that I’d been excommunicated for 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.”