“Levi is upstairs at the window. He’s scared.”
King sighs. “Tell him to get away from the window and go back to bed. Close the curtains, too.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Katie and I need to speak with Sadie for a few minutes. I’ll bring her up when we’re finished.”
Bowing her head slightly, her eyes flicking to me and then back to her father, the older girl backs from the room and pounds back up the steps.
Sadie goes to her father, climbs onto his lap. “Can I have hot chocolate?”
King takes her into his arms—a natural, practiced move despite his having been away from her for two years. “You already had hot chocolate.”
“It was good. Maybe I could have another one.”
There’s a smile in his eyes when he looks at me. “She’s a good negotiator, no?”
For the child’s sake, I smile. “I can see that.”
“You remember Katie from earlier?” King asks.
The little girl nods.
I’m a couple of light-years out of my element when it comes to dealing with children. I’m not a mother and I don’t spend as much time as I should with my niece and nephews. I do, however, know that all children are innocent. They’re trusting and forgiving and vulnerable. Those things seem especially true for the Amish.
“Katie is going to ask you some questions about what happened the night Mamm went to be with Jesus,” King tells her. “Do you remember that?”
“I remember.” The little girl’s open expression falters.
“I know it’s scary, but Katie’s a policeman and she might be able to help us figure some things out. It’s important, so I want you to answer all her questions as best you can. Do you understand?”
Her foot starts to jiggle, but she nods. “Yes, Datt.”
He pauses as if to take a moment to get his words in order and then asks, “Do you remember telling Becky about what happened that night?”
Another nod.
“What did Becky do after you told her?”
“Her face turned red and she cried.”
His expression softens. “What else did she do?”
“She wrote a letter.”
He looks at me. “If you want we can talk with Becky after we’re finished here.”
I nod, but I don’t want to be part of this. I don’t want to bring yet another child into this. And I’m not convinced either girl will bring anything new to the equation.
He turns his attention back to his daughter. “Sadie, I want you to tell Katie what you saw the night Mamm went to heaven.”
The little girl hugs the faceless doll more closely against her and snuggles against her datt. She looks exhausted and scared and I feel a rise of anger that her father would put her through this.
“What’s your doll’s name?” I ask, hoping to ease her anxiety.
“Dottie.”
“That’s a pretty name.” I offer a smile I hope is reassuring. “I used to have a little hen named Dottie.”
The child grins; she thinks I’m pulling her leg, but she’s game, a good sport. “I have a rooster,” she tells me. “He’s white with a big tail and his name is Bobby Doo. Becky hatched him from an egg.”
“Good thing you didn’t eat that egg for breakfast.”
She giggles.
Silence descends, so I reach out and run my hand over her doll. “I bet you and your brothers and sisters miss your mamm.”
She gives a big nod. “Sometimes Annie still cries at night. Levi, too.”
“That happens when you miss someone.” I glance at King and he nods for me to keep going. I turn my attention back to Sadie. “Can you tell me what happened the night your mamm went to heaven?”
She bites her lip, looks down at the doll, saying nothing.
It’s wrenching to see this little girl struggle to find words no child should have to utter. It’s a helpless feeling because I have no way of knowing if she did, indeed, see anything that night. Or if her father coached her and asked her to lie for him. All I can do at this juncture is gently dig and listen.
I give her a moment and then ask, “What do you remember about that night, sweetheart?”
“I heard thunder.”
“What did you do?”
“Me and Dottie got up.”
“Do you take Dottie everywhere with you?”
She looks at the doll and scrapes at a stain with a tiny fingernail. “When I’m allowed.”
I wink at her to let her know it’s okay. “What happened after you and Dottie got up?”
“We went to go pee wee.”
“What did you see?”
“I didn’t see anything.”
I glance at Joseph, confused. If he’s relying on this kid to save his neck, he’s in for an epic fail.
He nods at his daughter. “Go on.”
“Not me. Dottie.”
“Oh.” I nod. “What did Dottie see?”
“A man.”
“Do you know who he was?” I ask. “Was he someone you’d seen before?”
She shakes her head.
“What was he doing?”
“Standing outside my mamm and datt’s bedroom.”
“Did he see you?”
She nods vigorously. “He looked … funny. His face was shiny and red. He told me to go back to bed.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him I wanted Mamm.”
“What happened next?”
Of all the questions I’ve asked, this one garners the most powerful response. Sadie seems to curl in on herself. Make herself smaller. As if she’s trying to sink more deeply into her datt’s lap. Hiding behind the doll.
“He told me Mamm was sick. Me and Dottie started to go back to our room and he raised the long gun like he was going to shoot us. I heard it click, but he must’ve been playing.”
A slow, seeping horror moves through me. Does she understand what she’s saying? Is it the truth?
I glance at Joseph, but he’s staring at her intently, stone-faced and pale.
“What did you do?” I ask, turning my attention back to the child.
“I went to my room.”
I let the words settle and then ask, “What did the man look like?”
“An Englischer.”
Of course that’s the way a little Amish girl would describe a non-Amish man she didn’t recognize. “What color was his hair, sweetie?”
“Brown like mine, only short.”
“Do you remember what color his eyes were?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t really see his eyes.”
“How big was he?”
“Big.”
I glance at Joseph. “Bigger than your datt? Or was he smaller?”
“About the same, only fatter.”
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
Her brows knit; then she shakes her head. “Just regular Englischer clothes.”
I’m so engrossed by her demeanor, her utter certainty about what she saw, the conviction with which she tells the story, I find my earlier skepticism starting to crumble. The story is too elaborate for a five-year-old to make up. There are too many details for her to recall had she been coached.
Still, I make an effort to shake her up. “Is it possible the man was your datt?”
Across from me, King makes a sound of annoyance. I ignore him and I don’t take my eyes off the child.
“It wasn’t my datt.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it was dark, right?”
“My datt was fishing.”
That, she was told. I continue pressing her. “Maybe he forgot something. His fishhooks maybe, and he came home to get them.”
It doesn’t elude me that all the while Joseph sits quietly, making no attempt to intervene or influence her.
“But the man didn’t look like Datt,” the girl insists.
“Really? What was different about him? I mean, you said you didn’t see the man’s face, right?”
r />
“I saw it. I mean, a little, when he looked at me, but…” Her smooth little brows furrow. “He wasn’t Datt.”
She’s not rattled, but thinking this through, I realize. Not trying to remember forgotten lines. Not looking to her father for guidance. She’s remembering what she saw …
“He didn’t have a beard!” she exclaims. “And he didn’t wear suspenders.”
“What did you do next?” I ask.
“Me and Dottie went back to bed.”
I stare at her, mentally picking at her body language, her facial expression, the words she spoke with such earnestness. The only thing that comes back at me is the guileless expression of an innocent child.
“Sadie,” I say, “you’re not in any trouble. But I’m going to ask you a very important question and I need for you to tell me the truth. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Did anyone ask you to tell me this? To say you saw a man in the house the night your mamm went to heaven? Or did you really see him?”
“It’s what I really saw.”
“Did you tell anyone else about it?”
She looks at her datt. Not for direction, I realize. But for permission to tell me the truth. He gives her a nod.
“The social lady and her friend.”
I glance at Joseph, raise my brows.
“Children Services,” he clarifies.
I nod, turn my attention back to the girl. “Anyone else?”
“I told Becky. At first she said it was just a marenight.”
King interjects. “Nightmare.”
The little girl grins. She knows “marenight” isn’t a real word, but she enjoys saying it and the attention it garners from her datt. “Becky got sad and worried. She cried and she never cries. She wanted to tell Datt, but no one would let her because he was sent away. We didn’t know what to do. Aunt Becca told us little kids aren’t allowed to go to the place where Datt was staying.” She lowers her voice. “That’s when Becky wrote the letter.”
King addresses me. “I was to have no contact with the children. So Becky signed her aunt’s name instead of her own and the letter got through to me. I recognized her handwriting so I knew it was from her.”
“Sadie, you’re a brave little girl.” Reaching out, I touch Sadie’s cheek with my fingertips. “Thank you for answering all my questions.”
“Are you going to help us so my datt can come home for good?” she asks.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 7
Ten minutes later I’m sitting at the kitchen table. Sadie’s troubling account of the night her mother was murdered replays in my head like the trailer of some low-budget horror flick. Joseph King sits across from me. The red and blue lights flashing against the curtains and adjacent cabinets serve as a constant reminder of the situation. He made coffee, but neither of us has touched our cups.
“Sadie is a smart little girl,” I tell him.
“Took after her mamm.” He offers a self-deprecating smile and once again I’m reminded of the boy I once looked up to and knew so well. “She’s no liar.”
The notion that some mysterious Englischer came into the house that night and shot Naomi King while she slept goes beyond far-fetched. There was a shitload of circumstantial and physical evidence against King. It was common knowledge among law enforcement—and the Amish community—that the marriage was rocky. King had been convicted of domestic violence on two previous occasions. He was a known drug user and a man with a temper. It was the kind of pressure-cooker situation that all too often ends badly.
But I can’t discount what I heard from that little girl. The fervor—the utter certainty—with which she spoke made an impression. Is it the truth? How can a five-year-old tell a huge, frightening, detailed lie with such natural, unrehearsed conviction? Either she’s a natural-born liar or she was telling the truth.
… he raised the long gun like he was going to shoot us.
God knows I’m no expert on kids. I do know they are capable of deception. Especially an intelligent child who is loyal to a parent, smart enough to see the big picture—and shrewd enough to know how to get what she wants.
Is it possible the man in the hall was, indeed, King and Sadie somehow blocked it out? Did she make up some fantasy to exonerate him, if only in her own mind? Or maybe it’s not as complicated as that. Maybe she was disoriented after being wakened abruptly from a deep sleep. Maybe King had been wearing English clothes. Maybe the girl was so accustomed to seeing him in his Amish garb, she mistook him for a stranger.
That doesn’t explain her assertion that the intruder was clean-shaven. At the time of his arrest King wore the full beard customary of a married Amish man. How did she come up with that detail? Was she simply mistaken? Was it her child’s imagination? Or had she been coached?
According to police reports, the children discovered their mother’s body the next morning around eight A.M. Death due to a shotgun blast would have been gruesome. Is it possible Sadie’s skewed recollection of events is the result of psychological trauma? Was she so traumatized her mind invented the stranger because she simply couldn’t accept the truth?
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
I want to condemn Joseph for dragging his five-year-old little girl into this mess. Put him back in a cage with the rest of the animals that maim and murder and steal. The problem is there’s a part of me that doesn’t believe the girl was lying. That puts me in an untenable position.
“You’re a son of a bitch for bringing her into this,” I say.
He doesn’t look up. “I know.”
We fall silent again, thinking, thinking. My phone rings. We don’t look at it this time. I don’t answer.
“I don’t know what to make of her story,” I tell him.
He finally makes eye contact with me. “I wasn’t there that night, so I do, obviously. She’s telling the truth and no one listened to her.”
“If you’re lying to me, I swear to Christ I’ll bury you.”
“I’m not lying.”
I pick up the mug and sip cold coffee. “Did Naomi have any enemies?”
Joseph stares at me, a kaleidoscope of emotions churning in his eyes. “No.”
“Any disputes? Had she recently argued with anyone? Neighbors? Friends? Family members?”
He shakes his head. “Everyone loved her. She was … good, Katie. Better than me. Too good for me. She was … everything I wasn’t.”
“Were you faithful to her?”
His eyes flick away. “No.”
“Who was she?”
“Just … a woman in a bar.”
“Her name,” I snap.
“I don’t remember.” He shakes his head. “Not even sure I asked.”
“Did you hear from her again? I mean, afterward?”
“No.”
I think about all the gnarly repercussions of infidelity. An angry husband. A scorned lover. The list is seemingly endless. “Is it possible you were the target?”
I can tell by his expression the thought hadn’t occurred to him.
“Answer the damn question,” I say firmly. “Did you have any enemies? Jealous husbands? Pissed-off lovers? Any ongoing disputes? About money? With neighbors? Anything?”
“I rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I don’t think I pissed off anyone to the extent that they’d want to shoot me or my wife.”
“What about drugs? You got busted with pot, didn’t you? Meth? A lot of unsavory individuals involved in that crap. Did you owe drug money to anyone? Did you double-cross anyone?”
“Look, I bought pot a couple of times. Small amounts, mostly. But it was a pittance. Less than an ounce. I paid cash.” His mouth tightens. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but the other drugs the cops found in my buggy? The meth? It wasn’t mine.”
I slap my hand down on the tabletop. “Stop lying to me! For God’s sake, Joseph, can you just tell the truth! I’m trying to help you! I don’t care about the drugs at this
point. I want to know about the people you dealt with. We both know what kinds of people involve themselves in the drug trade.”
“I did not keep company with drug dealers,” he tells me. “That’s the truth, Katie. Never spent more than thirty or forty bucks and always in cash.”
A tense silence ensues. I find myself watching the red and blue lights dancing on cabinets, a new sense of pressure coming down on top of me. I look at Joseph and my eyes fall upon the butt of my .38 sticking out of his waistband. Two things strike me at once. I’m not afraid of him. And I want the truth. All of it. Even if it’s something I don’t want to hear.
“Do you trust me?” I ask him.
He stares at me a long time before answering. “Yes.”
“Do you want my help?”
“You know I do.”
I hold out my hand. “Give me my sidearm. Right now. Give it to me.”
He doesn’t move.
“Give me my pistol and we can walk out of here together. I’ll make sure you’re treated fairly while I look into your case. You have my word.”
His mouth curves, but any semblance of a smile is obliterated by the agony in his eyes. “Ah, Katie.”
“Don’t say that to me,” I snap. “Don’t look at me that way. Goddamn you.”
“I can’t give you the gun. That would leave me defenseless.”
“Joseph, for God’s sake, I’m offering to help you. Don’t screw this up.”
“I’m not going to leave my children. I’m not going back to prison.”
“Do you know what’s going to happen to you if you continue with this … this hopeless farce? They’re going to kill you. One of your kids could get hurt in the cross fire. The cops do not mess around when there are hostages involved. Is that what you want?”
He looks away, shakes his head. “No.”
I point to the window where police lights glint off the curtains. “The cops have probably already brought in SWAT. A negotiator, too. They’ve been trying to call. If you don’t talk to them, if you don’t strike some kind of deal, they’ll storm this place. I’m talking tear gas and flash-bang grenades. If one of your kids gets hurt it’s going to be on you.”
“I have no control over what they do.” He brushes his hand over the pistol’s butt. “I’m not going back to prison. If that’s the only thing you can offer, I might as well put a bullet in my head now and get it over with.”