“I need to talk to you about your son,” I begin.
William Zook appears beside his wife. He’s wearing muck boots, tracking shit on the floor, and I realize he must have rushed into the house through the back door when he saw us pull up. All I can think is: They know why we’re here.
“We have already told you everything,” William says.
“Then why didn’t you tell me Billy was at the Plank farm the night of the murders?”
Alma gasps, sets her hand against her breast.
William opens his mouth, closes it without speaking. When he finally does, his lips tremble. “Why do you say these things about Billy?”
The Amish are generally honest to the extreme. But as with any group of individuals, they are not immune to human frailties. That is particularly true if they are protecting someone they love, especially a child.
I tell them about the video. “It’s him. He was there. I need to speak with Billy. Right now.”
William stares at me, looking stubborn and afraid, his jaw fixed. “He has the mind of a child.”
“He might have seen the killer,” I say. “He might be able to identify him.”
Neither of them denies my accusation, but the door doesn’t open.
“The evildoer is dead,” William says. “I do not see how your speaking to Billy now will help.”
“We think the killer had an accomplice.” I look past him. Alma stands to one side, wringing her hands. “I need to speak with Billy. Please.”
The Amish woman lowers her gaze, deferring to her husband.
“We have nothing more to say.” William starts to close the door.
I thrust my foot into the jamb, stopping him. “I need your help.”
“You are an outsider,” he hisses. “Dem Teufel und allen seinen Engeln ubergeben.” You were cast off from the church and committed to the devil and his angels . . .
It’s a personal jab I should have expected, but even after all these years, the words make me feel somehow diminished. I remind myself William is only protecting his son. I don’t want to force the issue, but I can’t walk away.
“I’m not leaving,” I say.
“He saw nothing,” William says harshly.
“Have you talked to him about it?” Glock asks.
William doesn’t answer. His expression turns stoic. I see him shutting down. I know neither parent is going to cooperate. The last thing I want to do is go back into town and get a warrant. While that will gain me access to Billy, it could take days to accomplish and would further strain relations between the Amish and my department.
I play my ace. “If the killer saw Billy, he could be in danger.”
William pales all the way down to his beard. Next to him, Alma looks like she’s going to be ill. I see their brains working this bit of information over, and I realize it’s the first time they’ve considered the possibility.
“Please,” I say. “I’ll do my best not to upset him. I just need to know what he saw.”
William opens the door and steps back. “Come inside.”
Glock and I enter the living room. I see the same dirty rug. Plywood floors. Even from twenty feet away, I can feel the heat coming from the kitchen where pots rattle on the stove.
“Billy is a good boy.” Alma stares at her hands as she wipes them against her apron. “But . . . Er is weenich ad.” He is a little off in the head.
I nod. “I understand.”
William and Alma exchange a look that tells me I do not understand, and I get the feeling things are about to take a strange turn.
William runs his fingertips over his beard. “Billy is coming of age. In the last year or so, he expressed . . . interest in Mary Plank. He still speaks of her as if she is alive.” His voice falters. “Just yesterday he asked me if he could take her to the singing after worship on Sunday.”
A “singing” is an Amish social function for young people. Usually held after Sunday worship, teenagers sit around a table and sing and socialize.
William looks anywhere but at me. “His games are harmless, but they are not proper.”
“What games?” Glock asks.
Alma’s cheeks color. “He has become curious in the way that boys get. About the womenfolk, you know. Sometimes in the evening he will go off on his own. Last August, Mrs. Zimmerman down the road told me she caught Billy looking in her window.” Another flush, darker this time. “Last weekend at worship, Bonnie Plank said she caught Billy looking in the window there at the farm. I talked to Billy. I told him the game was unfitting.” She shrugs. “He was embarrassed and upset. I thought he understood. . . .”
“His games are against your English laws,” William says.
“I don’t care about the window peeping,” I say. “I just want to talk to him about what he saw.”