“Where can we find the bishop?” I ask.
The sheriff gives us directions to the bishop’s house, which is only a few miles to the south. “I’ll see you at the morgue in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER 11
“Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Tomasetti doesn’t ask the question until we’re turning into the gravel lane of the farm where Bishop Abraham Hertzler, aka “Old Abe,” and his wife, Ruth, reside.
“I’m sure.” I don’t look at him as I reply, because I know he’s far too astute to miss the trepidation that’s plastered all over my face. “I’ll do a better job than Goddard.”
“I could have just run over you with the Tahoe.”
I can’t help it; I laugh and glance over at him. “You’re not trying to subtly tell me I’m a glutton for punishment, are you?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
But I know he won’t try to talk me out of it; he knows I’m right.
The eastern horizon is awash with Easter-egg pastels as he parks adjacent a ramshackle barn, next to an old horse-drawn manure spreader. We exit the Tahoe without speaking. I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the window, telling me the Hertzlers are awake. We’re midway to the porch when the door swings open.
An old Amish woman with a braided rug draped over her arm looks at us through bottle cap–lensed glasses. She’s wearing a plain black dress with a white apron. Her silver hair is pulled severely away from her face and covered with the requisite prayer kapp. “Who goes there?” she asks in a gravelly voice.
“Mrs. Hertzler?” I call out.
“I can’t see you. Who are you?”
“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder and this is Agent Tomasetti with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.” We reach the porch and show her our identification. “We’re assisting the police department in their search for Annie King.”
The woman squints at our IDs. Her eyes are rheumy and huge behind the lenses of her glasses. But I see within their depths a sharp mind and a foreboding that wasn’t there before. The police don’t show up at your back door at 6:00 A.M. for idle chitchat.
“Is the bishop home, Mrs. Hertzler?”
“Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong? She asks the question as she opens the door wider and ushers us inside.
Tomasetti and I step into a small kitchen. I see a homemade wooden table for two, rustic shelves mounted on the wall, an old-fashioned potbellied stove. The smell of coffee and scrapple laces the air. A bent old man, as thin as his wife is plump, sits hunched over a cup of steaming coffee. He’s clad wholly in black, the shock of white beard and hair contrasting severely against his jacket. Their dress tells me they are conservative Amish, and I wonder if they’ll agree to ride in the Tahoe, or if we’ll have to follow their buggy to the King farm, which will add hours to the identification process.
“Guder mariye,” I say, bowing my head in respect as I bid them good morning.
Both people look at me as if I just beamed down from another planet. The last thing they expected was for an Englischer to walk into their kitchen and greet them in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Kannscht du Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch schwetzer?” the bishop asks after a moment, surprised I speak Pennsylvania Dutch.
I explain to them that I’m from Holmes County—leaving out the part about my excommunication—and am assisting with the Annie King case. “The body of a young woman was found this morning.”
Mrs. Hertzler gasps, but I don’t stop speaking. “We need Mr. and Mrs. King to tell us if it’s Annie.” I look at the bishop. “I thought you might be a comfort to them.”
The room falls silent. The only sounds are the hiss of the lantern and the rain dripping from the eaves. The air is hot and stuffy, but neither the bishop nor his wife seems to notice.
“Mein Gott,” Mrs. Hertzler whispers. “God be with that poor child. God be with her family.”
“We need to speak with the family as soon as possible, Bishop Hertzler,” I tell him. “I don’t want them to hear the news from someone else. Will you come with us?”
The old man reaches for the cane leaning against the back of his chair, grips it with a gnarled hand, and pushes unsteadily to his feet. “Bring me my Bible.”
*
The drive to the King farm is silent and tense. By the time we pull into the gravel lane, it’s nearly 7:00 A.M. The sun sits on the eastern horizon like a steaming orange ball, burning away the final vestiges of the night’s storm.