One of the most difficult responsibilities of being chief is notifying next of kin when someone is killed. It’s a duty I’ve carried out several times in the course of my career. I want to believe experience has somehow made me more compassionate or better at softening that first devastating hammer blow of grief. But I know this is one of those occasions when past experience doesn’t count for shit.
My headlights slice through the darkness as I speed down the long gravel lane of Bishop Troyer’s farm. There’s no lantern light in the windows. It’s not yet 9:00 P.M., but they’ve probably been asleep for hours. I park next to a ramshackle shed, grab my Maglite, and take the sidewalk to the back door. I know the bedrooms are upstairs, and the Troyers are getting up in years, so I open the screen door and use the Maglite to knock.
Several minutes pass before I see movement inside. Then the door swings open and the bishop thrusts a lantern at me. He blinks at me owlishly. “Katie Burkholder?”
I’ve known Bishop Troyer most of my life. When I was a teenager, I thought he was a judgmental, mean-spirited bastard who had it out for me because I was different—and different isn’t ever a good thing when you’re Amish. No matter how minor my offense, he never seemed to cut me any slack. More than once he took a hard line when I broke the rules. Now that I’m older, I’ve come to see him as fair-minded and kind, traits he balances with unyielding convictions, especially when it comes to the rules set forth by the Ordnung, or the unwritten rules of the church district. We’ve butted heads a few times since I’ve been chief. He doesn’t approve of my leaving the fold; he certainly doesn’t appreciate my lifestyle or some of the choices I’ve made. But while he never hesitates to express his disapproval, I know if I ever found myself in crisis, he’d be the first in line to help me.
Tonight, it’s Mattie Borntrager who’s in crisis. She’s going to need his faith and strength to get through the coming hours. I know he’ll be there for her, too.
“Was der schinner is letz?” he asks in a wet-gravel voice. What in the world is wrong?
I stare at him for the span of several seconds, trying to put my thoughts in order and get the words out. We need to get over to the Borntrager farm stat and relay the news to Mattie before she finds out secondhand from someone else. I need to get back to the scene so I can get a jump on what promises to be a long and grueling investigation. Instead, I do the one thing I’ve never done in all of my years as a cop and burst into tears.
“Katie?”
I try to disguise that first telltale sob as a cough and noisily clear my throat. But the tears that follow betray me.
Shock flashes on the bishop’s face, followed quickly by sharp concern. “Come inside.”
I hold up my hand, angry with myself for breaking down at a time like this. I remind myself this isn’t about me or my emotions, but a young mother whose world is about to be shattered. “Paul Borntrager and two of his children were killed tonight,” I tell him.
“Paul?” He presses a hand against his chest, steps back as if pushed by some invisible force. “The children? But how?”
Quickly, I tell him about the buggy accident. “Mattie doesn’t know yet, Bishop. I need to tell her. I thought it would be helpful if you were there.”
“Yes, of course.” He looks shaken as he glances down at the long flannel sleeping shirt he’s wearing. “I need to dress.” But he makes no move to leave. “Which child survived?” he asks.
“A boy. The oldest child, I think.”
“David.” He nods. “Mein Gott. Is he going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. They took him to the hospital.” Mortified that I lost control of my emotions, I use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the tears.
Reaching out, he squeezes my arm. “Katie, remember God always has a plan. It is not our place to question, but to accept.”
The words are intended to comfort me, but I wince. The tenet of acceptance is one of the belief systems I disagreed with most when I was Amish. Maybe because my own philosophy differs so profoundly. I refuse to accept the deaths of three innocent people as part of some big divine plan. I sure as hell don’t plan on forgiving the son of a bitch responsible.
*
Ten minutes later, Bishop Troyer and I are in my Explorer, heading toward the Borntrager farm. Dread rides shotgun, a dark presence whose breath is like ice on the back of my neck.