Pray for Silence

CHAPTER 23

I grab Glock on my way out. “We may have a witness,” I say as I slide behind the wheel of the Explorer.

“You’re kidding?” Incredulity laces his voice as he gets in beside me. “Why the hell didn’t they come forward?”

“Because it’s a kid.”

“A kid? Damn. Who?”

“Billy Zook.”

I see him running the name through his brain. “The Amish kid from the pig farm?”

“The Amish kid with a speech impediment and mental problems.”

Glock chews on that a moment. “What was he doing at the Plank farm that time of night?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”

A few minutes later, I turn into the gravel lane of the Zook farm. A cloud of white dust chases me all the way to the house. I park next to a black buggy and swing open my door. Behind me, Glock mutters beneath his breath about the stench of pig shit. I’m so intent on my goal of speaking to Billy, I barely notice.

I knock hard on the front door and wait. The door opens halfway and Alma Zook appears. She’s wearing a blue dress and black apron. I see food stains on the apron, bubbles of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. The smell of cooking tomatoes tells me she’s canning.

Because I want her cooperation, I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch. Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. She knows I’m not here for chitchat and doesn’t invite us in. The wariness in her gaze makes me wonder if she knows why I’m here.

“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.”

Alma glances at her husband. William jerks his head, turns away from the door. His boots thud dully against the floor as he crosses to the stairs. “Billy! Come down here please.”

Giving me an uncomfortable smile, Alma sighs. “I asked Billy to confess to Bishop Troyer. The bishop urged us to keep Billy busy with chores. He said the extra work would help with the looking in. William has plenty of work and has done his best to keep him involved. The chicken coop. Feeding the hogs. Repairing the pens.” She shrugs. “Billy prefers to be inside.”

Footsteps on the stairs draw my attention. Billy notices Glock and me, and stops midway down. His gaze goes to his father. “Datt?”

His voice sounds small and scared. I see fear and guilt on the boy’s face. He thinks he’s in trouble. At that moment, I realize that while Billy Zook is mentally challenged, he’s got the intellectual wherewithal to consider consequences.

“It is all right, Billy,” William says. “You’re not in trouble. Chief Burkholder just wants to ask you some questions.”

The boy’s eyes remain wary. He descends the remaining stairs with the caution of a deer approaching a river full of alligators. He’s about my height, five feet six inches with the slumped shoulders typical to skinny teenaged boys. I notice he’s got patches of acne at the base of both cheekbones. Stubble the color of a peach on his chin. He looks upset, so I do my best to put him at ease. “Hello, Billy.”

He sidles up to his father and stares at his shoes.

I glance at William. He gives me a nod.

“Billy, I want to ask you a few questions about something that happened at the Plank house.”

The boy doesn’t move. He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my question.

“You’re not in any trouble,” I say. “I just want you to answer some questions for me. Do you understand?”

The boy looks up at his father. William Zook gives him a nod. “Ich had nix dagege.” I don’t object.

Billy makes eye contact with me and nods. “Ja.”

“Your mamm was telling me you like to look in the windows of other people’s houses sometimes. Is that true?”

His eyes skate away. Raising his hand, he nibbles on a fingernail, then gives a reluctant nod.

“Do you look in the windows of the Plank house sometimes?”

Billy looks at his mother. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, Billy,” she says. “Just answer Chief Burkholder’s questions.”

“Billy?” Tilting my head slightly, I make eye contact with him. “Do you look in the Plank’s windows?”

“Sometimes.” He drops his head, puts his hands behind his back. “I like to see Mary. She’s pretty.”

“Did you look in the window Sunday night?”

He nods.

“Can you tell me what you saw?”

His eyes dart from his parents to me. His left knee begins to shake. He lifts his hand, tears at the ragged nail with his teeth. Tears fill his eyes.

“Did you see something that scared you?” Glock asks.

For the first time, the Amish boy looks at Glock. “Ja.”

I lower my voice to sooth him. “Tell us what you saw, Billy.”

“An Englischer.”

“What did he look like?”

“The devil.” His voice trembles on the last word.

“Do you remember the color of his eyes? Or the color of his hair?”

“Strawberry man.”

“Strawberry man?” My mind circles the term, trying to make sense of it. “What do you mean?”

“His hair was the color of a strawberry.”

Disappointment edges into me. Todd Long had reddish-blond hair. “How many men did you see?”

Billy holds up two fingers.

My heart dips into a single, slow roll. All I can think is, I was right; there is an accomplice! It’s a dark thought, but at this moment I want to get my hands on the second perp so badly I can already feel his hyoid bone giving way beneath my fingers.

“What did the second man look like?” I ask.

The boy struggles with the question, as if he can’t put such a broad description into words. I try to narrow it down. “Was he a white man?” I ask. “Was his skin white like mine?” I motion toward Glock. “Or was it brown, like Officer Maddox?”

Billy grins shyly at Glock. “He had white skin.”

Glock smiles back and gives him a thumbs-up, but Billy looks away.

“You’re doing great, Billy,” I say. “What color was his hair?”

His brows go together, as if he’s faced with a difficult math equation. After a moment, he perks up. “His hair is like Sam’s!” he blurts out.

“Sam?” I look at Alma.

“Sam is one of our horses,” Alma explains. “He’s brown.”

Nodding, I turn my attention back to Billy. “Was the man big or small?”

Billy shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“Pants?”

I smile. “Do you remember what color they were?”

Another vigorous shake.

“What about his age? Was he old? Or young?”

“I dunno.”

“What color were his eyes?” I ask. “Were they brown like Officer Maddox’s? Green, like mine? Or blue, like your datt’s?”

His face screws up for a moment, then he shakes his head. “I dunno. I din look.”

I’m no expert on interrogating children. Even less so a special child like Billy. But he’s my only witness. In order to solve this case, I need the information locked inside his head. In the back of my mind, I’ve already decided to call Tomasetti and request a sketch artist.

I move on to the tougher stuff. “What did you see that night when you looked in the window?”

For the first time, Billy looks scared. He shakes his head from side to side, like a dog shaking water from its coat after a bath.

“Did you see Mary?” I ask.

“No.”

“Who did you see?”

“The Englischers.”

“What were they doing?”

The boy’s brows knit. His mouth scrunches, a child faced with an unpleasant food. “Bad things.”

“What did they do, Billy?”

“They made Mary’s mamm cry.”

I tamp down impatience. “How did they make her mamm cry? What did they do?”

“The Strawberry Man put Mr. Plank to sleep.”

“Put him to sleep?”

“The way datt puts the hogs to sleep for sausage.”

I look at William, but I know where this is going. With the exception of dairy cattle, the Amish butcher their livestock for meat.

The Amish man presses his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, then heaves a sigh.

“What do you do to the hogs, Mr. Zook?” Glock asks.

Zook shifts his attention to Glock. He looks shell-shocked. “I shoot them before I butcher them. It is more humane that way.”

I return my attention to Billy. “What did you do after you saw them put Mr. Plank to sleep?”

“I don’t like that part,” the boy says. “So I ran home.”

Something clicks in my mind, and I find myself thinking of the night I chased the yet unidentified intruder into the cornfield. “Did you go back the next day to check on Mary?”

The boy looks down at the floor, jerks his head. “She wasn’t there.”

“Who did you see?”

He draws a circle on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Are you gonna get mad?”

“No. I promise.”

“I saw you.”

“Poor kid saw it all.” Glock and I are in my Explorer, heading back to the station.

“He’s the one I chased into the cornfield that night.” I sigh. “At least now we know there were two killers.”

“Kid must’ve been scared to death,” he says.

“I might feel better about this if I knew the second guy wasn’t running around loose.”

“We’ll get him, Chief.”

I wish I felt as optimistic. “The Strawberry Man is obviously Long.”

“All we have on the second guy is brown hair. Not a lot to go on.”

My disappointment is keen. I was hoping for a definitive ID on the accomplice. I rap my hand against the wheel as I pull into my usual spot at the station. “Damnit.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Call in a favor.”

Tomasetti isn’t very optimistic, either. “Did the kid ID Long?”

“Yeah.”

“And you want a sketch artist out there in the hope that he’ll be able to give us a decent description of the second guy?”

“He’s all we have. I think it’s worth the time and effort.” I’m sitting at my desk, looking out the window, trying not to feel discouraged. “Do you have someone you can send? Someone good with kids or experienced with the mentally retarded?”

“Do you want the bad news or the good news?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, you can leave out the bad altogether.”

“I wish that was an option.” He sighs. “The suits caught wind of my involvement with this case.”

“Just when you think things can’t get any worse.” Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking you for help.”

“I offered.”

“How bad is it?”

“The deputy superintendent is shitting bricks. He wants me in his office first thing in the morning.”

“Doesn’t sound good. You going to be okay?”

“I’m always okay.”

“Tomasetti . . .”

He sighs heavily. “Look, Kate, I hate to say it, but my being involved in this could fuck it up for you.”

I consider the repercussions of that a moment. “I’ll go through official channels.”

“Take too long. Look, I still have a friend or two left. Let me make some calls. When do you want the sketch artist?”

“Yesterday would be good.” I look at the wall clock. It’s nearly noon. “What about this afternoon?”

“Have to be late,” he says. “Let me see who I’ve got.”

“I owe you one, John.”

He disconnects without saying good-bye. I know it’s stupid to let that bother me, but it does. I feel guilty for asking for his help. “Thanks,” I whisper.