“I can’t get into the details with you yet, but yes.”
Hannah crosses to the table and sets a wicker tray with three mugs of cider and a plate heaped with oatmeal cookies on the table between us. “Cookies will go nicely with that cider,” she says. “They’re not too sweet.”
Hoch helps himself to a cookie. “She’s determined to make me fat.”
“The only thing making you fat is your lack of willpower,” she replies in a teasing voice.
“Danki.” I pick up one of the mugs and sip. The cider is steaming hot and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg and dances happily on my tongue.
“Hoch,” I say, “I know it’s difficult, but I need you to take me through what happened.”
Hannah starts to leave, but he stops her. “Stay.”
She takes the chair next to him and looks down at the dish towel in her hands. Then her eyes find mine. “Chief Burkholder, it’s taken him a long time to come to terms.”
He sends her a grateful half smile. “You helped.”
I sip the cider, giving them a moment, then turn my attention back to Hoch. “You were fourteen years old?”
Taking a deep breath, he nods, and begins to speak. His words are practiced, telling me he’s relived this story many times over the years. His voice is monotone, as if eradicating the emotion will somehow protect him from the impact of the words and the pain they conjure. He paints a brutal picture. An Amish boy wakened by a younger sibling in the middle of the night. Downstairs, he finds his parents held hostage in the kitchen by armed gunmen. In the ensuing scuffle, his father is shot and killed. Hoch and his siblings are locked in the basement. Hoch escapes, but the children never make it out of the house.…
“I tried to reach them,” Hoch says, “but the flames were too hot. There was too much smoke.…” His voice trails.
“You were a kinner.” A child. Hannah lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, then turns her gaze to me. “He was terribly burned.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate. I read the fire marshal’s report. I know that kerosene from the lantern caught fire, and all four of his siblings perished. Their little bodies were recovered the next day, all burned beyond recognition.
The detective with the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department believed the perpetrators were local. There were rumors that Willis Hochstetler didn’t use a bank and kept a lot of cash at the house. The detective surmised the culprits had heard about it and decided an Amish family would be easy prey. But despite an exhaustive investigation, no arrests were ever made and Wanetta Hochstetler was never found.
Word around town is that Hoch Yoder has suffered with depression and nightmares for years. The shrinks have all sorts of official names for it: survivor’s guilt; post-traumatic stress disorder. But the bottom line was that Hoch Yoder blamed himself, and the guilt affected every facet of his life. While most Amish men are married with children by the age of twenty-five, Hoch didn’t marry Hannah until just a few years ago, when he was already into his forties.
I look across the table at Hoch. “I understand your datt was an excellent furniture maker.”
Pleasure flashes in his features, and I know that while the past holds plenty of bad memories, some were good, too. “He made everything we sold in our store.”
“Hoch’s a furniture maker, too.” Hannah motions toward a cabinet set against the wall. “He made that for me a few years ago.” She nods with pride. “He won’t admit it, but he’s as good as his datt.”
Hoch looks down at the table, where his hands are folded. “He taught me everything I know.”
“Did your datt make peg dolls?” I ask.
He nods. “When he had time. The small ones. Sometimes he gave them away to the children of customers.” He gives me a quizzical look. “I haven’t thought of those dolls in years. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” I hold his gaze. “Did you know Dale Michaels?”
“The man who was murdered?”
I nod. “Have you ever met or spoken to him?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t want you to read anything into what I’m going to ask you next, Hoch, but I need to know where you were the last two nights.”
Hannah sets down her mug with a little too much force. “Chief Burkholder, surely you don’t think Hoch had anything to do with that awful murder?”
I ignore her, keeping my gaze locked on her husband.
“I was here,” he tells me.
“Both nights?”
“That’s right.”
“All evening?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own any firearms?” I ask.
“I have a muzzle-loader that was passed down from Grossdaddi Yoder. For hunting.” He cocks his head. “Would you like to see it?”
“What about a handgun?”
“No.”