“What?” She shakes her head. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“You tell me.”
“Chief Burkholder, I haven’t seen him since … that night. I couldn’t face him. I can barely face myself. Some days I can’t even look at my innocent little child.” Pain contorts her features and she begins to cry. “I don’t mean that.”
I let her cry, let the silence and the weight of the words that have passed between us ride.
“I’ve prayed for forgiveness,” she tells me. “I’ve forgiven myself. I’ve forgiven them. I’ve moved on with my…”
I’ve forgiven them.…
The statement stops me cold, echoes in my ears like the report of a gunshot. “What did you say?”
She shoots me a blank look. “I said I’ve moved on—”
“You said ‘them,’” I cut in. “Who are you talking about? Was there someone else there?”
Shame clouds her face. Something else she didn’t want me to know. She looks away, anywhere but at me. “Daniel’s friend was there. Milo Hershberger.”
The ground shifts beneath my feet. “Milo was there the night Daniel assaulted you?”
“He needed a ride home after the singing. Daniel said he’d drive him. But instead of going to Milo’s house, we started drinking. Ended up parking on that back road.”
“Did Milo—”
“No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “No. He got out of the car. I mean, he wasn’t there … With all the alcohol, the night was so … confusing.” Her visage turns sullen. “I do recall Milo being angry afterward. I mean, with Daniel. They had words.”
“Daniel and Milo argued?” I ask.
“Milo was upset about what Daniel had done. He didn’t like it at all.”
“Did the argument become physical?”
Another shake of her head. “I don’t know. I was so … ashamed and upset. My whole world just sort of fell apart that night.”
The cry of a baby sounds from the bedroom at the rear of the house. Ruth looks over her shoulder, her eyes not meeting mine. Shame, I think, and I wish there were something I could say or do. But there isn’t.
“Please, can you just go now? I’ve told you everything. I just want to forget it ever happened.”
* * *
There are some topics that are so taboo among the Amish that they won’t even acknowledge that they exist. Sexual violence is one of them. Daniel Gingerich was a monster in disguise. The more I learn about him, the more I detest him. It’s not a good mind-set for a cop who’s been charged with solving his murder.
My exchange with Ruth Petersheim haunts me during the drive to Millersburg. I almost can’t get my mind around the casual violence of it and the fact that the entire ordeal was swept under the rug. I think about my own history and the way my parents handled it. They did their best, but there are parallels I can’t ignore. I warn myself not to get too caught up in the nature of the crime. Ruth, after all, could be lying. But I don’t think that’s the case.
I was wrong about Milo Hershberger. I’d liked him. I’d been taken with his boy-next-door charm and easygoing demeanor; I’d been moved by the fact that he’d been shunned by his Amish brethren, that he missed his family. I’d identified with him, believed him. Rookie mistakes all.
Parallels, that persistent little voice whispers.
I pull into the driveway of Hershberger’s double-wide to find a hodgepodge of cars, a couple of pickup trucks, and two buggies parked haphazardly. A couple dozen young men mill about the front yard. Every single one of them is holding either a beer or a plastic cup full of some concoction that will likely kill a lot of brain cells by morning.
“Terrific,” I mutter as I get out of the Explorer.
Pink Floyd’s “Young Lust” rattles from two refrigerator-size speakers that have been set up on the porch.
My uniform draws plenty of stares; everyone gives me a wide berth as I make my way to the house. I catch a whiff of marijuana as I take the steps and cross to the door. I’m about to knock when the screen flies open and two young men stumble out, laughing.
Careful to keep his beer from spilling, one of them looks me up and down and grins. “Is that uniform for real or are you fucking around?” He shouts to be heard over the scream of music.
“I’m looking for Milo,” I say.
“In the kitchen.” He opens the door for me. “Beer’s in the fridge. Purple Jesus in the pitcher. Help yourself and then come on out and enjoy the party.”
The house smells of cigarette smoke and recently sprayed air freshener. I cross through a small living room. In the kitchen two young men help themselves to whatever’s in the pitcher. Milo stands in the doorway, grinning. He jolts upon spotting me and then gives me a double take that might’ve been funny if my temper weren’t lit.
“Hello, Milo,” I say as I cross to him.
“Chief Burkholder?” He’s wearing a DeKalb cap with the brim facing backward. He’s smoking a cigarette, holding a can of beer in his left hand. His smile is lopsided.
“You must be missing your family something terrible this evening,” I say.
He looks around as if anticipating I’ll notice something he doesn’t want me to see. “Uh, I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“Maybe I should have called.” I look around. “You don’t have any underage drinkers here, do you?”
“No, ma’am. Just a few friends.” Never taking his eyes from mine, he goes to the table and sets down his beer.
“Is there someplace quiet we can talk?”
“We can go to the barn, if you want. Quieter there, probably.”
Nodding, I turn and cross back through the living room. I hear Milo behind me, along with a few not-so-subtle comments aimed at me.
“Didn’t know you were on a first-name basis with the cops, Milo!”
“Get her a beer, dude!”
“She going to cuff you?”
“If we don’t hear from you in ten minutes, we’ll come get you!”
Ignoring all of it, I head toward the barn. Midway there Milo catches up with me and falls into step beside me. “What’s going on?” he asks.
I don’t respond. I’m too angry. This is going to be an important conversation; I need to calm down. Get it right. Get the answers I need. Good luck with that.
We reach the barn. He opens the door. The smell of horses and wood shavings greets me when I step inside. I walk midway down the aisle, then turn to face him. “Close the door behind you.”
He blinks, then turns and goes back to the door, slides it shut. “What?”
“You lied to me,” I tell him.
“About what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You fucking lied to me, you phony little shit.”
His puppy-dog eyes widen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I stalk over to him, stop a foot away. My temper is pumping, so I yank it back. He’s still got the cigarette in his mouth, so I slap it away. “Do you realize I’ve got cause to arrest you? Right here. Right now. In front of all your friends?”
He backs up, raises his hands. “Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t do anything.”
“No, you didn’t, did you?”
Another blink. Mr. Innocent.
Easy, a little voice warns.
“Lying to the police is against the law,” I tell him. “I could arrest you right now for the obstruction of official business and failure to report a crime.”
“But … wait—”
“It may not stick once you get to court, but I would be within my rights to arrest you as an accomplice to sexual assault.”
All that rejected-Amish-boy charm falls away. Something dark flashes in his eyes. Anger, I realize. Careful, that little voice warns. Even a friendly dog will become cross when cornered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“I know about Ruth Petersheim. All of it.”
His face pales. He stares at me, blinking, mouth open. Desp
ite the alcohol, he’s struggling to maintain his composure. I see the wheels spinning in his mind. Trying to come up with a lie, something that will excuse his behavior, exonerate him, but there’s nothing there. Nothing he knows I will believe.
“You were there,” I say, surprised because my teeth are clenched.
He starts to turn away, but I grasp his arm and stop him. He yanks it away. “Get your hands off me.”
I let my hand slide off him, take a moment to pull myself back from a place I know better than to venture into. Once again, I remind myself this isn’t about me. It’s not about my feelings or my temper. It isn’t even about Ruth Petersheim or Milo Hershberger. It’s about establishing a motive that led to the death of Daniel Gingerich and finding the son of a bitch who murdered him.
He walks to the sliding door, but doesn’t open it. Instead, he faces the wood, shoves his hands into his pockets, and then turns to face me.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.
“For God’s sake, Milo. You witnessed a sexual assault. You didn’t help her. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t report it.”
“I didn’t know!”
“You’re a liar.” Calmer now, I cross to him and stop a few feet away. “I’m in the midst of a murder investigation and you withheld information.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Danny.”
“You expect me to believe anything that comes out of your mouth now?”
He shakes his head angrily, looks away.
“Milo, I’m an inch away from arresting you for the sole reason that you are a lying, smug little son of a bitch. You had better start talking.”
Without looking at me he walks over to where his still-lit cigarette is lying on the floor and snatches it up. He thinks about tossing it, but then seems to reconsider and puts it in his mouth.
“That fuckin’ Danny,” he says after a moment. “What a piece of work.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
He glares at me and then sucks hard on the cigarette. “Yeah, I was there.”
“So start talking and don’t you dare leave out a single word.”
“Jesus.” Scrubbing his hand over his face, he crosses the aisle to the nearest horse stall. The Appaloosa he was riding the other night sticks its head over the gate and nudges him. Milo leans into the animal, rubs behind its ears.
“I always knew there was something wrong with him,” he says. “Didn’t figure out what it was until that night.”
I wait, saying nothing.
“Danny was a charmer and boy did he love his women. I mean, it was like an addiction for him. They were his heroin. If we went out, drinking or whatever, and he found a chick he wanted to be with, he could really turn it on. Like laser focus. We’re talking no holds barred. You know what’s funny about that? Most of the time it worked. I mean, the girls were crazy about him. How ironic is that?
“But there were a few times when he got turned down and let me tell you, it pissed him off. He took it real personal. He was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“What happened with Ruth Petersheim?”
“Amish girls are a little different; they’re not as wild, but then that didn’t matter to Danny. He always said he liked a challenge. He said you’re more likely to hit a cherry if the girl’s Amish so they’re the ones he went after.”
I tamp down disgust; I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he has the ability to do that to me. Make my skin crawl. Put my blood pressure into the red zone. I stare at him, saying nothing, giving him nothing.
“Danny knew Ruth was seeing the guy she eventually married. I think his name’s Mark. Danny didn’t care. In fact, it was like some kind of contest with him. He went after her. Turned on the charm and she fell for it hook, line, and sinker.” He blows out a breath. “The night it happened … we went to a singing out to the Schwartz place. There were a bunch of us. A good group. Ruth was there with one of her friends. That Beachy chick that works over to The Mercantile.”
“Neva Lambright?” In the back of my mind I wonder why Neva didn’t mention it when I’d specifically asked about Daniel Gingerich.
“Yeah. Her. Anyway, Danny worked on Ruth all evening. And let me tell you, she was all smiles, like fucking putty in his hands. Around ten o’clock or so, Danny asked her if he could drive her home. She balked at first, you know like good girls do, but her friend told her to go ahead. ‘Hey, he’s fine—go for it!’ So Ruth agreed, kind of reluctant like.
“All I needed was a ride home. Danny said he’d take me, so I went with them. I figured he’d drop me off first.” Lowering his head, he rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “It was the three of us. I was sort of the third wheel, but Danny had the radio blasting. He broke out a bottle of tequila. We started passing it around, so we were all kind of fucked up. All the while I’m thinking three’s a crowd, but it didn’t stop Danny boy.”
“What did he do?”
“We were on some back road. Everyone’s shit-faced drunk. I got out to take a leak. When I get back in, Danny and Ruth are in the backseat, sort of … going at it. So I get out. I’m standing on the side of the road out in the middle of nowhere and I’m getting kind of pissed. Next thing I know the car door flies open and they just kind of spill out onto the asphalt. At first I think they’re just goofing off.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “They were … fighting. Danny was pissed. And Ruth was … crying. It was … ugly.”
He turns his gaze on me. This time, his gaze is level and unwavering. “Look, I tried to intervene, but … I’d had too much to drink. I wasn’t thinking straight. And Danny was…” He shrugs. “We came to blows right there in the middle of the road. He broke my fucking nose. It was pretty much the end of our friendship, and we’d been best friends since we were like six years old.”
“What did you do?”
“I got the hell out of there. Ended up walking home. That was the end of it.”
“So you just left her there with him?”
He looks away, but not before I see shame in his eyes, and I feel a small rise of satisfaction.
“I’m not proud of it,” he says.
“You must have been angry.”
“Yeah, I was pissed.”
“Pissed enough to lure Daniel into the barn, lock him in that tack room, and start the fire?”
His smile is wry, but it’s laced with bitterness. “Oh, I wanted to kill him plenty of times. Especially after I realized what he was. But I’m no killer. I didn’t do it.”
“So you say.”
“So I say.”
“Who else knows about what happened that night?”
“Far as I know, just me, Danny, and Ruth.”
“What about Mark Petersheim?”
He hesitates, looks away. “I don’t know.”
“We can do this at the station if that will help your memory.”
“Look, I don’t know if she told him. What I can tell you is that … sometimes Danny would sort of hint around about things. I mean, about what he did. You know, he’d brag about his conquests or whatever. Thought he was some kind of fucking Romeo or something.” He shrugs. “Word gets around.”
“So it’s possible Mark Petersheim knows?”
“I’m betting he probably knows something happened. I doubt if he knows how ugly it got. Let me tell you something about Mark. He may be Amish, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d put up with any kind of infidelity.”
“That wasn’t infidelity,” I snap.
“All I’m saying is he’s not the kind of guy who’d swallow something like that happening behind his back. To his woman. If people were talking behind his back … he wouldn’t like that either. He cares about what the Amish think.”
I don’t know if he’s telling the truth, giving me some half-truth, or making it up as he goes. If he’s lying, he’s good at it. I find myself thinking about Ruth Petersheim and how an insecure husband might react to rumors that his wife had bet
rayed him or that his child belonged to another man.…
“Did Ruth’s parents know?”
“You’ll have to ask her about that.”
“Were there other women he assaulted?” I ask.
He winces as if the question causes him physical pain. His cigarette has burned down to the filter, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know. Danny was … you couldn’t believe half of what he said. I mean, when it came to women. He was always hinting around that he’d been with someone.”
“I need names.”
“I don’t have names. The only one that stands out now is this young Amish girl. I mean, really young. Like jailbait.”
He has the audacity to blush. “I remember because Danny said she was, you know, cherry.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. Danny just mentioned her in passing. Bragging. I’m not even sure he said her name. He was an asshole that way.”
“Milo, you had better give me something.”
He grimaces.
“He used to go up to that little shop in Charm all the time just to see those girls. Had his eye on all of them, I guess.”
“The Mercantile?”
He nods. “It was like he was … stalking them. But after all that happened with Ruth, I cut ties with him. We stopped talking.”
“Is it possible Daniel bragged about things that didn’t really happen?” I ask.
“I’m sure he did. He was like that.” His brows go together. “But I think something happened with the girl from The Mercantile. I don’t know about any others.”
I pull out my card, write my cell number on the back, and pass it to him. “I may want to talk to you again, so if you have to leave town, you need to let me know.”
He takes the card, looks down at it. “All right.”
“Stay away from Ruth Petersheim,” I tell him. “If you try to make contact with her, I will come after you and I will make your life a living hell. Are we clear?”
“I got it.” He shakes his head. “I tried to do the right thing that night, Chief Burkholder.”
“Evidently, you didn’t try hard enough.” Turning away, I start toward the door.
“Chief Burkholder. Wait.”