Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(68)
I open the file to find a short stack of bad copies from what looks like microfiche—police reports, an autopsy report, witness statements. The print is scratchy, dark, and difficult to read.
Tilting his head back, the sheriff squints at the paper through his bifocals. “Twenty-nine years ago, twenty-nine-year-old Marlene Byler jumped from Sciotoville Bridge, killing herself. Death was ruled a suicide. Cause of death drowning. Witness said she had a baby with her. Sheriff’s department searched the river, but the infant’s body was never found.”
He looks from Tomasetti to me. “Do you think that case has something to do with what happened up there in Painters Mill?”
“Marlene is the sister of the woman who was murdered,” I tell him.
“A lot of tragedy for one family,” he says.
We fall silent. Everything that’s been said, the information that’s been passed along to us running through my head. I find myself thinking about Sadie Stutzman. A tiny old woman, using a shovel to build a levee because she didn’t quite have a grip on reality. No children. No family to bury her. Her only legacy is a mystery she’ll likely take to the grave.
“Sheriff Pallant, would it be possible for us to go back to the Stutzman home and take a look around?” I ask.
“The scene’s been processed. Crime scene guys have come and gone. We’ve got everything we’re going to get.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms, dividing his attention between the two of us. “You mind telling me what you’re looking for exactly?”
I give him the rundown of Sadie Stutzman’s involvement in the Elsie Helmuth case. “We’re hoping she kept something—letters or a diary—that might help us fill in the blanks.”
“A lot of damn blanks.” He heaves the sigh of a man with a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Abduction of a kid adds a whole new sense of urgency.”
He jots a set of numbers onto a sticky note and passes it to me. “Deputy put a combination lock on the back door to keep out the thieves. I heard some of the Amish are going to go out there tomorrow and clean up the place. You need to let me know if you find anything pertinent to either case.”
“You got it,” Tomasetti tells him.
* * *
The sun plays hide-and-seek behind cumulus clouds the color of charcoal when we pull into the driveway of the house where Sadie Stutzman lived. The woman has been gone for only a day and a half, but already the place looks abandoned, sitting in its pretty spot by the river.
“This was probably a nice area once upon a time,” Tomasetti says as we get out.
“Welcome to the intersection of rust belt and opioid epidemic,” I mutter as I close the door.
We move to the front of the Explorer and look around. A blue jay screeches at us from a buckeye tree behind the house. The driveway is filled with ruts from the tires of official vehicles—the sheriff’s department, first responders, the coroner. The yellow caution tape that’s strung around the front porch flutters in a breeze coming off the water. It’s cold and humid and I find myself thinking about my final conversation with Sadie Stutzman.
They killed him, you know.
“Everyone thought she was crazy.” I look at Tomasetti. “She was astute enough to know the bishop had been murdered. She knew someone was coming for her.”
He tilts his head, gives me a thoughtful look, waits for me to continue.
I look around, feel the uncomfortable press of loneliness, of isolation. “I talked to her the day before she was killed. Maybe I should have—”
“You did your best,” he cuts in. “You talked to her. You listened. You offered her protection. Aside from camping out in her backyard, there wasn’t much else you could have done.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. The knowledge does little to loosen the knot of conscience in my gut. “She knew more than she let on. She would have eventually opened up and talked to me.”
“That may be why he killed her.” Frowning, he motions toward the back of the house. “Let’s go inside and see if she left us anything.”
We make our way around to the back of the house. The horse and goats are gone, the pen gates left open. A few yards away, the wheelbarrow she’d been using lies on its side, next to a pile of dirt and the shovel.
We climb the steps to the porch. Bending, Tomasetti works at the combination lock. I look out across the yard toward the river, thinking about the old woman, hearing her voice, her words.
I knew something wasn’t right.
Everyone did. Kept their mouths shut like good Amish. Such a terrible thing. Sin piled atop of sin.
The lock snicks open. Shooting me a half smile, Tomasetti pushes open the door and we go inside.
The kitchen looks much the same as the last time I was here. Cluttered. Slightly dirty. Several of the drawers stand open, as if someone looked inside, found nothing of interest, and didn’t bother closing them properly. Muddy shoe prints mottle the floor. Dozens of people have been in the house since Sadie was killed. Deputies. First responders. Crime scene technicians. The coroner. The stink of garbage hangs in the air, mingling with the unpleasant pall of mildew and a house that’s been closed up for too long.
I go to the living room and look around. It’s too dark to see much and I’m reminded that, like most Amish, Sadie didn’t use electricity. I cross to the window that looks out onto the front porch and open the drapes. Dust motes fly in the crepuscular light that pours in.