My head is reeling with the bishop’s disturbing revelations as I get into the Explorer and start down the lane. It’s difficult for me to believe an Amish bishop could be so cruel. Is it possible Wanetta Hochstetler is still alive? Did she, as a damaged and broken woman, try to return home to her family, only to be shattered by news that they were dead? Or that she wasn’t welcome?
But there are other, darker questions pulsing at the back of my brain. Did Wanetta Hochstetler find her way back to Painters Mill? Did she have something to do with the murders of Dale Michaels, Jules Rutledge and Jerrold McCullough? The people who murdered her husband, caused the deaths of her children and destroyed her life? It doesn’t seem likely. She was thirty-four years old when she was kidnapped; that would put her at around seventy now. The more recent murders required a good bit of strength—too much for a woman that age. Too much for a woman of any age.
But I know better than to discount a female perpetrator based on strength alone. If she’s determined and armed—or insane as the bishop asserted—anything’s possible.
I pull over in the parking lot of a carryout on the west side of town and call Glock. He picks up on the first ring with his usual, “Hey, Chief.”
I summarize my conversation with Bishop Schweider.
“You think she’s got something to do with these murders?” he asks.
“I don’t know. She certainly qualifies in terms of motive, but she’d be old now. I can’t see her pulling off three murders.”
“She might’ve had help.” He pauses. “Hoch Yoder.”
I tell him about my conversation with Hoch. “Pay him a visit. Tell him you’re following up. See if you can get anything new out of him. Put some pressure on him. Rattle him a little. At this point, I think it’s best we don’t let on that she might still be alive.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nicktown, Pennsylvania. It’s about four hours away. The Swartzentruber Amish don’t use community pay phones, so I’m going to drive over there and see what I can find out.”
“Chief, are you sure you don’t want to take someone with you? Any of us are happy to tag along.”
I don’t believe “tag along” is the exact term he had in mind, but he’s being magnanimous. With three people dead, he’s worried that I won’t have backup if I need it. There’s a small part of me that agrees with him, but with my department strapped tight and the threat of flooding in the forefront of our minds, I don’t take him up on the offer. “The Swartzentruber Amish generally don’t like dealing with outsiders, especially the government. Best if I go alone.”
“Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”
“You know it.”
*
The rolling hills, farm fields, and woodlands between Painters Mill and Nicktown make for beautiful scenery, even if the weather doesn’t cooperate. But I barely notice the countryside as I head east and push the speedometer over the limit. I can’t stop thinking about Wanetta Hochstetler and what it could mean if she’s alive. I have no idea if she’s perpetrator or victim or somewhere in between, but if I can find her, she might be able to shed some light on exactly what went down that night thirty-five years ago—or the more recent murders.
But it’s been over thirty years since Bishop Schweider spoke to her; there’s a possibility I won’t find her. She may have died of natural causes or left Cambria County for Upstate New York with the other Swartzentruber Amish. If I was dealing with any other group of people, it might have been wiser for me to call ahead, try to get someone on the phone or, perhaps, speak to the local PD. But I know the Swartzentruber Amish would not speak to me by phone. While this trip and the hours I’ll sink into it may be a long shot, I have to try.
I hit construction east of Pittsburgh and a thunderstorm as I enter Cambria County. By the time I pull into the town limits of Nicktown, it’s after 4 P.M. and I’m in dire need of coffee. The town is a postcard-pretty village with large homes and a main street lined with spruce and maples that will be budding in a few weeks. Since I have no clue where to begin my search, I pull in to the gravel lot of the first restaurant I come to, Lucy’s Kountry Kitchen.
The dinner hour hasn’t yet begun, so the place isn’t crowded. An older couple sits at a table near the window. A man in a DeKalb cap broods over a mug of coffee in the corner booth. Leaving my umbrella at the coatrack near the door, I walk to the counter and take a stool. A middle-aged woman in a pink golf shirt, black pants, and a black apron approaches me from behind the counter.
“What can I get for you?” she begins, giving me only half her attention.
“Coffee, please.”
“You’re in luck. Just made a pot.”
There’s a pass-through window that opens to the kitchen behind her. Beyond, a cook clad in white scrapes the grill to Zac Brown Band’s “Free.”
“You want cream with that?” The waitress sets a ceramic mug in front of me.
“Sure.”
She pulls two containers of half-and-half from her pocket and drops them on the counter.
I smile at her. “Any chance I could get a piece of that cherry pie to go with the coffee?”