Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,55
harsh laugh. “That ain’t who done it and it wadn’t no accident. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. I’m just a crazy old woman after all.”
“Who killed him?”
A light enters her eyes, like a smile, only she’s not smiling. “The father of the child.”
The earth seems to tremble beneath my feet. The doubt I’d felt earlier about being here flees. “Give me a name.”
“I may be old, Kate Burkholder, but I still value my life.” She looks around, motions toward the river, her eyes scanning, seeking something unseen. “He listens through the water, you know.” The old woman lowers her voice. “If he finds out I’m talking to you, he’ll kill me, too. Just like the others.”
“I need a name,” I say firmly.
She tries to take the shovel from me, but I don’t release it.
“I can keep you safe,” I tell her. “I’m a police officer.”
“The way you kept that girl safe? The bishop?”
I relinquish the shovel. “I need your help.”
“You can’t stop him. No one can. It’s in God’s hands now.”
I’m losing her, so I try another tactic. “Tell me about the baby. Who is her mamm?”
“They shamed her. She couldn’t handle it. And just look what happened.”
“Tell me. Please.”
“Those poor babies.” The woman makes a sound that’s part grief, part disgust.
“What babies?” I ask, the words spiraling in my brain. “Who are you talking about?”
Ignoring me, she jams the shovel into dirt, pushes it deeper with her shoe.
“What about Marlene Byler?” I ask.
“They shamed her to death. That’s why she jumped. They shamed her. Shamed her.” Repeating the words like a mantra, she begins to dig, frantically. “Like mother, like daughter. One and the same—both were bad eggs.” Jamming the shovel into the dirt, tossing it into the wheelbarrow. Again and again.
When I can stand it no longer, I go to her, try to take the shovel, but she won’t release it. “Why did they take the baby?” I ask.
The woman tightens her mouth, doesn’t look at me.
“Who are the parents?” I wait a beat. When she says nothing, I add a resounding “Please, all I need is a name.”
She raises a shaking hand and wipes rain from her face, slings it to the ground. “You speak the devil’s name too often and you’ll hear the flap of his wings. You’d be wise to remember that, Kate Burkholder.”
Throwing down the shovel, she turns away and starts toward the house.
For an instant, I consider going after her. Pressuring her until I get what I need. I’m not above bullying when I want something, when it’s important, even if she’s old and frail. This is different. I think the stroke must have affected her mental state. Might be better to try again in the morning.
My boots sink into mud as I walk back to the Explorer. The rain is coming down in sheets and I’m soaked to the skin. My coat’s wet. My hair. Rain pounds the hood. I sit there a moment, trying to get my head around what just transpired between me and the old Amish woman.
… it wadn’t no accident.
Is it possible the hit-and-run that killed Bishop Schwartz wasn’t some random, tragic accident? Did the sheriff’s department interview Sadie Stutzman? Did they listen to her claims? Or did they simply write her off as an eccentric old woman?
“Damn it,” I mutter as I pick up my phone.
The last thing any cop wants to be subjected to is some cop from an outside jurisdiction coming in and questioning the way they handled an investigation. Of course, that’s exactly what I’m about to do, so I take a moment to get my words in order before punching in the number.
I get put on hold twice and then Deputy Harleson comes on the line. “Hi, Chief Burkholder. What can I do for you?”
“I got plaster on some tire-tread impressions related to the case I’m working on, and I realized I forgot to ask if you were able to pick up any tread on the hit-and-run that killed Noah Schwartz. I thought it might be worth running a comp.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but we didn’t get any tread marks. There was heavy rain that night. Anything left behind by the driver got washed away.”
I make a sound of disappointment. “I was just talking with some of the local Amish. There are some individuals who believe the bishop’s death was not accidental.”
He chuckles. “Ah, you talked to the Stutzman widow over there on River Road.”