“I need a favor,” I tell him.
“You’re the one person I could never say no to.” He holds on to my gaze—and my hand—an instant too long and I find myself thinking about the time he took me behind the silo at Big Joe Bilar’s farm when I was thirteen and kissed me.
“What can I help you with?” he asks.
Extracting my hand from his, I stroll over to the buggy. Even with my proletarian eye, I readily discern the exquisite workmanship and I know he’s as good a buggy maker as his datt was.
“Paul Borntrager and two of his children were killed in a buggy accident last night,” I begin.
“I heard.” His face falls, a small sound of distress escaping his mouth. “Damn.”
I outline some of the details of the accident. “The driver fled the scene. We’re trying to identify the vehicle.”
“I see.” He sighs. “Paul was a good man. A good father and husband.” He looks down at his work boots. “How’s Mattie?”
“She’s pretty broken up.” I pause. “I was wondering if you could help with the reconstruction of the buggy.”
He looks at me as if I didn’t even need to say the words. “Of course I will.”
That’s it. No questions. No dawdling. No excuses. No “Let me finish what I’m doing” or “I’ll get back to you” or “Will tomorrow do?” He doesn’t even tell me he needs to wash his hands or change clothes first.
Because when you’re Amish and one of your own is hurt or in trouble, you drop everything and you go to help them.
*
Half an hour later, Sheriff Rasmussen, Frank Maloney, and I are standing in a bay at the volunteer fire department, watching Luke Miller puzzle over hundreds of fragments from the buggy. Upon our arrival, Rasmussen informed me that the manager of the Ford dealership didn’t recognize the sheared pin, but identified the side-view mirror found at the scene as belonging to a Ford truck built between 1996 and 2001. It isn’t much, but when we have so little to go on, it’s a start. Rasmussen updated the BOLO to include the make and year range. If any law enforcement agency makes a stop for any reason and the vehicle meets the criteria, we’ll have the opportunity to take a closer look.
The main section of the carriage sits atop a large tarp with the right side axles propped on concrete blocks. The sheer number of pieces makes the task of reconstruction a mind-boggling endeavor. Progress is agonizingly slow. Beneath the hard fluorescent light, some of the parts are still recognizable. The seat. The floorboard. Two of the wheels are still attached to the frame, though the rims and spokes are broken. The other two wheels lie on the floor close to their respective axles. The cab and undercarriage sustained the brunt of the damage, especially the right side. Luke has begun rearranging segments, butting together shattered strips of wood and chunks of fiberglass, like the pieces of some grisly puzzle.
From my place near the door, I see dried blood on the seat. Dried spatter mars a slab of wood that looks like it might be part of the backrest. I wish someone had wiped it down before bringing it here. Luke doesn’t seem to notice. Rasmussen gave him disposable gloves and shoe covers both to protect him from biohazard and to keep him from contaminating evidence. Luke walks the tarp, picking up one piece at a time and putting it where it belongs.
Maloney paces the perimeter of the tarp, asking the occasional question. I stand near the door, where the harness lies in a heap on the floor, so close I discern the smell of horse and leather and a trace of manure. Rasmussen stands next to me, looking dejected and cranky. Both of our cells have been ringing nonstop all morning, and now we’re too tired to talk to each other.
“Katie.”
I look up to see Luke holding a two-foot length of wood that’s jagged on one end. It’s painted black on one side, naked on the flip side. “I think I found something.”
The Amish man brings the wood over to us. “This piece of wood is from the door on the right side of the buggy. The leading edge or forepart.”
Maloney, Rasmussen, and I form a circle around him and study the scrap of wood.
“My datt made this buggy,” Luke tells us. “Probably ten or twelve years ago. Back then, we used more wood than fiberglass. Oak, I think. These are his initials, burned into the wood here. See?” Smiling, he runs a calloused fingertip over small, black letters: JM. “John Miller. He liked working with the hardwoods. Walnut, too.” Sobering, he indicates an irregularity in the surface. “The wood is soft enough so that if something strikes it with force, it leaves an impression.”