Rising, I look at Bonnie and Ezra. “I’ll be right back.”
In the hall, Glock is pacing. I click the door closed and cross to him. He hands me the fax. I stare down at the black and white image. The photo was taken at the morgue. I’m sure that in life Ellen looked nothing like the corpse lying on the gurney. But I think there’s enough of her left so that her parents will recognize her.
“You think it’s their daughter?” he asks.
“I think so.” I pull out my phone and hit the speed dial for Doc Coblentz. I get voice mail at his office, so I dial his home number. His wife picks up on the first ring. I wait impatiently for him to come on the line.
“I think we’re about to identify the second vic,” I say. “I need to know if you recall a brown mole on her left ankle.”
The doc sighs. “I recall a large mole on the inside of her left ankle and made a notation of it.”
I close my eyes briefly and tell him about the Augspurgers.
“God help them,” he says.
“They’re going to want to see her, take her home. Have you finished the autopsy?”
“I’m typing my report now.”
“Can you meet me?”
“Sure. Give me half an hour.”
I hit End and stand there for a moment looking down at my phone. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want to go back in that classroom and break the news to the Ezra and Bonnie Augspurger.
“It’s her,” I say to Glock.
“Damn.” He looks around, then back at me. “You want me to go back in with you?”
I shake my head. “Head out to the Augspurger place. See what you can find. Pickles and Skid should already be there.”
“What about the suit?”
I almost smile when I realize he’s referring to Tomasetti. “I’ll take him with me.”
“Keep an eye on him. That fucker’s got shifty eyes.”
“I will.” Taking a deep breath, I start toward the classroom.
CHAPTER 18
I enter the classroom to find the Augspurgers huddled at the back window, staring at me as if I hold the secret of the universe in the palm of my hand. Tomasetti stands a few feet away, looking expectantly at me.
Ezra’s eyes beseech mine as I cross to them. As if forgetting her place, Bonnie pushes past him. Within the pale depths of her gaze, I see a tangle of desperation and hope laced with the kind of fear a mother should never have to feel.
“The body of a young woman was discovered this morning.” I pass the faxed photo to Ezra. “She has a mole on her left ankle.”
His hand shakes as he reaches for it. Bonnie puts her hand over her mouth, but it doesn’t smother the sound of anguish. Ezra stares at the photo, the paper rattling violently.
Murder is rare in the Amish community. Most often, death is from natural causes. It’s viewed as a final surrender to God and is received gracefully. Grief is a quiet and private event. The sound that erupts from Ezra Augspurger’s mouth reminds me that not all Amish are stoic. They are human beings, and the loss of a child begets unbearable pain. His cry of outrage and grief goes through me like cold steel. Bowing his head, he presses the photo to his cheek.
“I’m sorry.” I touch Ezra’s shoulder, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.
Bonnie sinks into a chair and puts her face in her hands. Feeling my own emotions winding up, I turn away to find Tomasetti staring intently at me. His expression is grave, but he’s not moved the way I am. But then he doesn’t know the kindness that was inside Ellen Augspurger’s heart. He doesn’t know this community. He doesn’t know the innate goodness of the Amish the way I do.
I think of the trip this grieving couple must make to the morgue. I think of the questions they’ll ask and how unbearably painful it will be to answer. They’ll want to take Ellen’s body home, dress her in white and place her in a simple hardwood coffin. I’ll inform them beforehand that an autopsy was performed. The procedure clashes with basic Amish values, but they won’t complain.
“How did she pass?” Ezra’s ravaged eyes bore into mine.
“She was murdered,” I reply.
Bonnie gasps. “Mein gott.”
Ezra stares at me as if I’m lying. I’ve known him most of my life. He’s a decent, hardworking man who’s had more than his share of hardship. But I know he’s got a temper.
“I do not accept that.” Though the room is cold, I see sweat on his forehead. Red blotches climbing up his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I offer.
He bows his head, places his fingers against his forehead and presses, as if he’s trying to shove his nails beneath the skin.
“Ezra, who is the bishop of your district?” I ask.
“David Troyers.”
A church district is made up of about twenty to thirty families. A bishop, two or three preachers and a deacon share leadership roles within each district. I know David Troyers. And I know he’s one of the few Amish who has a telephone.
Ezra raises his head and struggles to compose himself. “We want to bring Ellen home.”
“Of course,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Where is she?”