Page 6 of Sworn to Silence
I know what he’s thinking. I see it in the depths of his eyes. I know because I’m thinking the very same thing.
“Just like before,” the doctor finishes.
CHAPTER 3
Snow swirls in the beams of the headlights as I turn the Explorer onto the long and narrow lane that will take us to the Stutz farm. Next to me, T.J. is reticent. He’s my youngest officer—just twenty-four years old—and more sensitive than he would ever admit. Not that sensitivity in a cop is a bad thing, but I can tell finding the body has shaken him.
“Hell of a way to start the week.” I force a smile.
“Tell me about it.”
I want to draw him out, but I’m not great at small talk. “So, are you okay?”
“Me? I’m good.” He looks embarrassed by my question and troubled by the images I know are still rolling around inside his head.
“Seeing something like that...” I give him my best cop-to-cop look. “It can be tough.”
“I’ve seen shit before,” he says defensively. “I was first on the scene when Houseman had that head on and killed that family from Cincinnati.”
I wait, hoping he’ll open up.
He looks out the window, wipes his palms on his uniform slacks. In my peripheral vision I see him glance my way. “You ever see anything like that, Chief?”
He’s asking about the eight years I was a cop in Columbus. “Nothing this bad.”
“He broke her teeth. Raped her. Cut her throat.” He blows out a breath, like a pressure cooker releasing steam.“Damn.”
At thirty, I’m not that much older than T.J., but glancing over at his youthful profile, I feel ancient. “You did okay.”
He stares out the window and I know he doesn’t want me to see his expression. “I screwed up the crime scene.”
“It’s not like you were expecting to walk up on a dead body.”
“Footwear impressions might have been helpful.”
“We still might be able to lift something.” It’s an optimistic offering. “I walked in those drag marks, too. It happens.”
“You think Stutz knows something about the murder?” he asks.
Isaac Stutz and his family are Amish. A culture I’m intimately acquainted with because I was born Amish in this very town a lifetime ago.
I make an effort not to let my prejudices and preconceived notions affect my judgment. But I know Isaac personally, and I’ve always thought of him as a decent, hardworking man. “I don’t think he had anything to do with the murder,” I say. “But someone in the family might have seen something.”
“So we’re just going to question him?”
“I’mgoing to question him.”
That elicits a smile. “Right,” he says.
The lane curves left and a white clapboard farmhouse looms into view. Like most Amish farms in the area, the house is plain but well kept. A split rail fence separates the backyard from a chicken coop and pen. I see a nicely shaped cherry tree that will bear fruit in the spring. Beyond, a large barn, grain silo and windmill stand in silhouette against the predawn sky.
Though it’s not yet fiveA.M., the windows glow yellow with lantern light. I park next to a buggy and kill the engine. The sidewalk has been cleared of snow and we take it to the front door.
The door swings open before we knock. Isaac Stutz is a man of about forty years. Sporting the traditional beard of a married Amish man, he wears a blue work shirt, dark trousers and suspenders. His eyes flick from me to T.J. and back to me.
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Mr. Stutz,” I begin.
“Chief Burkholder.” He bows his head slightly and steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
