“Paul and the children…” Her voice breaks. “How could someone do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he got scared and panicked. Maybe he was drinking alcohol. Or texting. We don’t know.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide, then her mouth tightens and she surprises me by saying, “I will pray for him.”
I look away, not sure if I’m in awe of her capacity for forgiveness or annoyed because the son of a bitch doesn’t deserve it. My own feelings aren’t nearly as charitable.
“Is it unusual for Paul to be out so late with the children?” I ask.
“He’d taken them to the doctor in Painters Mill. He was on his way home. They had the last appointment of the day. Sometimes he bought them ice cream afterward.”
“Were the kids sick?”
Her eyes flick away and I realize the question hit a nerve. “All three of my children have Cohen syndrome, Katie. We take them to the clinic every week.”
A wave of sympathy ripples through me. I’ve heard of Cohen syndrome, but I don’t know much about it. It’s a genetic disorder that causes mental and physical developmental problems in children. It’s thought to be caused by the small gene pool of the Amish. And I realize that parenthood for Mattie and Paul had been challenging. “I’m sorry.”
Her mouth curves, but the smile looks sad on her face. “Sis Gottes wille.”
I don’t believe a lifetime of mental and physical difficulties is what God had in mind for her children, but since many of my opinions are unpopular among my former brethren, I keep it to myself. “Mattie, I don’t want you to read anything in to what I’m going to ask you next, but I need to know if Paul had been involved in any recent disputes or arguments.”
She blinks, wide gray eyes searching mine, and despite my request that she not read anything into the question, I see the wheels of her mind begin to spin. “Katie, I don’t understand. Why are you asking me that?”
“These are routine questions,” I tell her. “Part of the investigation.”
It’s a canned reply, and she’s astute enough to know it’s bullshit. I can tell by her expression that she knows I’m not being straightforward. But she’s too well mannered to call me on the carpet. I wish I could tell her more, but experience has taught me to keep my cards close, sometimes even with those I trust. People talk, after all—even the good guys—and the last thing I need are more rumors of premeditated murder flying around.
She finally answers with a shake of her head. “Everyone loved Paul. He was a good man. A friend to all.” Her face crumbles. “A good father and husband.”
It hurts to see her in so much pain. I look away and give her a moment to compose herself before I continue. “What about in the past? Did Paul have any enemies?”
“No. He was kind and generous. A good deacon. Always trying to help people.”
Amish deacons are highly respected members of the church district, helping with worship services and baptisms. If an Amish family falls on hard times and needs financial assistance, the deacon oversees the collection of cash. He is Armen-Diener, which means “minister to the poor.” But not all of a deacon’s responsibilities are benign; they also convey messages of excommunication.
“Have there been any recent excommunications?” I ask. “Anything like that?”
“Katie…” She presses her hand to her breast as if she’s run out of breath. “Did someone do this thing on purpose? Because they were angry with Paul?”
“I don’t know.”
“I may be Amish,” she snaps. “But I’m not stupid. Please don’t patronize me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trying to spare you the—”
“It would be much kinder for you to tell me the truth.”
I nod. “It’s something we’re looking at.” I say the words quietly, but it’s not enough to temper the awful power behind them.
“Mein Gott.” She puts her hand over her mouth as if to smother a cry. “Who would do such a thing? Who would want to hurt Paul or our children?”
“I don’t know. But I’m going to do everything in my power to find out.” Reaching out, I take her hand and squeeze. “I promise.”
Fresh tears glitter in her eyes. She stares at me as if she’s barely able to process the information I’ve thrown at her.
“Mattie, have you talked to David about the accident?”
“What do you mean?” Her gaze turns wary.
“Have you asked him if he remembers anything that happened?”
“Oh, Katie.” She raises her hands and backs away from me. “Please. He’s been through so much. I don’t want to upset him.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” I say gently. “But I need to know if he saw anything. Or anyone. I’ll do my best not to upset him.”
She doesn’t respond for so long I think she’s going to refuse my request. Then, looking resigned, she sighs. “He’s so fragile. Be kind to him. Please.”