September 6
I met him at midnight at the end of the lane. I was so happy to see him. He gave me champagne. It tickled my nose. But it was too strong and I don’t remember much of the night. I think he took me to some warehouse? Not sure. I remember him undressing me and tucking me into the bed the way I do little Amos sometimes.
September 8
I refused to go with him when he came to my window. I’m angry about last night. He told me it was the English way and that I was just too immature to enjoy it. I’m not wise in the ways of the English, but it felt so wrong.
September 9
I missed my time of the month. I could be with child. What am I going to do? Is this God’s way of punishing me for all the terrible things I’ve done? I’m so scared.
September 11
I’m sick today with vomiting. Mamm won’t let me go to work. I’m supposed to meet him tonight. How am I going to get away? I waited until midnight and went out the window. He was there, with a smile and a kiss. I love him so much. But, oh, how I wish he would stop hurting me.
September 14
He took me to the warehouse again. I cried and told him I didn’t want to go. I drank only water, but still felt as if I’d drunk a whole bottle of wine. I didn’t want to get into bed with him. It is so wrong and I feel terribly guilty. I have to stop this. Why can’t he just love me?
September 15
I woke up in the warehouse, sick and shaking. I told him I wanted to go home. He gave me water. But I think he put something in the water because after a few minutes I couldn’t think straight. He made love to me and everything got confused again.
September 19
Mamm and Datt are worried. Mamm cried and asked me to talk to Bishop Troyer, but Datt said no. They made me quit my job. I don’t know how to tell them about the baby. Will they love it as much as I do?
September 21
I was so ill I could not get out of bed. I couldn’t do my chores. I don’t know what’s wrong. My brothers and sisters peeked in on me several times, but I can’t speak to them. I pray my parents will forgive me. I pray for God to forgive me.
September 22
He came to my window! I shouldn’t be, but I was so happy to see him. I sneaked out and we bought some wine. Then he took me to Miller’s Pond. We watched the stars and he gave me my first wine lesson. The bottle was in a cute little wicker thingie and came all the way from Italy! He’s so sophisticated. Later, we made love. I told him I want to marry him. I want to tell Mamm and Datt about us. He got a little angry and told me they wouldn’t understand. But I need their blessing, even if I am to leave the church. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do!
September 24
I walked all the way to town and called him from the pay phone. He met me in the park, and I told him about the baby. He got really mad. I don’t care. I love him. And I love our child. I told him I want to marry him and have his child. Forgive me, God, but I told him I would leave the Plain life to be his wife.
September 29
It’s all my fault. My pregnancy. That my life is a mess. He’s so angry with me. I think he hates me. I hoped the baby would make him love me. But everything is ruined. I pray to God for the wisdom to do the right thing.
October 2
I can’t believe he came to my window. When I went downstairs he tried not to show it, but he was mad. He called me a stupid little whore. I know it was the wrong thing to do, but I went with him. I still love him. He drove too fast and it scared me so bad I started to cry. He took me to his house and gave me wine. Afterward, I couldn’t move. I don’t remember everything that happened next. All I recall are the bright lights, but I hurt down there the next day. I think he took pictures of me. I hate myself. If it wasn’t for the baby, I might just step out in front of a car. Thank God for my baby. The child gives me strength.
October 4
He came for me, but I refused to go. He told me I was selfish. That everything is my fault. He says he loves me and our baby. But how can he when he treats me this way?
October 5
I was weak and went with him. We drove around for a long time and then we went to a fancy house in another town. He pretended not to be mad, but he was mean to me on the drive. He gave me wine. I dumped it without drinking it. I know why he drugs me now and I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.
October 8
I’m so ashamed of what I’ve become. What kind of mamm will I be to my baby? I beg for God to forgive me. I’m going to end it. I’m going to tell Mamm and Datt everything. He met me at the end of the lane and took me to a house in town. I tried to tell him I didn’t want to see him anymore, but he wouldn’t listen. I pretended to drink the wine, but dumped it in the plant when he wasn’t looking. When he went to the bedroom, I ran from the house. I was so scared, I didn’t stop until I was out of town. I kept looking over my shoulder. Every time a car went by, I ran to the ditch and hid.
October 11
I can’t stop crying. I told Mamm and Datt. I was so ashamed I wanted to die. Mamm cried. Datt couldn’t look at me. We prayed and decided I would speak with Bishop Troyer. How can I confess my sins when they’re so terrible?
October 12
Who am I? What have I become? I hate myself. I hate him. I’m so ashamed I want to die.
October 13
I told Datt the rest of it. All of it. And I think that broke his heart. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. I feel so guilty and stupid. He’s going to the English police. I begged him not to. If he does, everyone will know what I’ve done. I can’t believe this is happening. Sometimes I wish I could just die.
I finish reading Mary Plank’s journal at four A.M. It’s like watching a movie where you know some cataclysmic event is about to happen to some hapless character you’ve come to care about. A huge meteor spinning through space, drawing closer and closer to destination Earth.
It’s indescribably sad for me to bear witness to a young Amish girl’s descent into a world she is unequipped to handle. Maybe because I discern echoes of my own past in her words. My situation was different, but the parallels are glaringly there. We broke the rules and paid the price for it. The difference was that I didn’t have a choice in what happened to me. Young Mary made the wrong choices over and over again.
In all those pages of teenaged angst, not once did she mention her lover’s name. Not once did she reveal the kind of car he drives, the name of the club they frequented, the location of the houses they visited, or what he does for a living. At this point, I’m not even sure he had anything do with the murders. But I’m suspicious as hell. If Mary Plank forewarned her lover of her father’s plan to go to the police, he had a big motive to do away with not only her, but her entire family.
I’m a firm believer that people are responsible for their actions. They are masters of their universe. There’s no doubt Mary used poor judgment. Her only saving grace is that she was a kid. Raised Amish, she lacked the skills to deal with the world into which she let herself get dragged.
I’m betting the man she fell for was quite a bit older, much more experienced, and knew exactly what he was doing: taking advantage of her innocence, her lack of sophistication, her naïveté. Not to mention her love for him. That alone makes him a bastard in my book. It makes me want to find him and tear him apart with my bare hands.
CHAPTER 12
The clip-clop of a hundred or more shod hooves fills the cold, late-morning air. Clouds of vapor spew from the flared nostrils of dozens of horses, frisky from the first cold front of the season.
I’ve spent the last two days in wait mode. Waiting is a big part of police work—the most difficult aspect as far as I’m concerned—and I’ll never be good at it. I’ve walked the crime scene a dozen times now, talked to the same neighbors and asked the same questions a hundred different ways. But I always get the same answers: No one saw anything. Frustration has been my constant companion. I haven’t slept much. Forget to eat half the
time. And so I wait. For preliminary autopsy results. For various lab results. For fingerprints. For footwear imprint matching. Cartridge casings and bullet striation results. Hurry up and goddamn wait.
T.J. and I sit in my Explorer, the windows midway down, watching the somber procession. Black buggies, the sides of which are marked with chalk designating their order in the convoy, stretch as far as the eye can see. Some of the mourners come from as far away as Zanesville and Western Pennsylvania, and probably began their journey as early as two or three A.M.
Drizzle floats down from a glowering sky the color of charcoal. The smells of horses, wet grass and the tang of dry autumn leaves waft through the window. T.J. and I have been here since daybreak, when Bishop Troyer swung open the gate to the graabhof, or cemetery, and the gravediggers began their sad task.
I attended several Amish funerals growing up. The day before the ceremony, male friends and neighbors of the deceased build the unadorned, six-sided casket. Amish caskets are lined with fabric sewn by female friends and neighbors. Once the coroner releases the bodies, the dead are washed and dressed. Deceased males are usually garbed in white—pants, vest and shirt. The females are clothed in a white dress, apron and cape. Bonnie was probably dressed in the same clothes in which she was married.
“So you think the killer is going to show?”
I glance away from the procession and look at T.J. “I don’t know. If he’s Amish, he might.”
T.J. nods. “English guy would probably stand out.”
“A little.” I spent most of the night re-reading Mary Plank’s journal, and I can still feel the weight of her words pressing down on me this morning. I drank too much, but it’s not the fuzzy ache behind my eyes that bothers me. I’d hoped the diary would offer some clue as to the identity of the man she was seeing, but she didn’t name him. I looked for other details, too. His profession. Physical description. The make of his vehicle. The address of the places he took her. Was she being careful in case one of her parents found the journal? Or had he coached her, told her never to use his name even in her most private moments?
All that reading wasn’t totally in vain because I determined two important things. I’m convinced Mary Plank’s lover and the murders are related. And I know he’s not Amish. With nothing else to go on, it’s a starting point.
“You think the killer is Amish?” T.J. asks.
“No.” He gives me a so-why-are-we-here look, so I tell him about the journal. “She was in love with the guy.”
“Probably the source of the sperm, huh?”
“I think so.”
T.J. considers that for a moment. “What about motive?”
“She was pregnant and barely fifteen years old. The age of consent in the state of Ohio is sixteen.”
“So he could be facing statutory rape charges.”
“Even more charges if he was drugging her and taking sexually oriented photos.”
“Could be a pretty strong motive for murder.” T.J. mulls that over. “But why kill the whole family?”
“She told her parents about this guy. She told them about the baby.”
T.J. nods. “He murdered them to shut them up.”
“If they threatened to go to the police, he knew he would be facing a multitude of serious charges. Rape. Maybe child molestation. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Possession of a controlled substance. If he published sexually oriented photos of her, child pornography.” I shrug, disgusted by my own words. “He would have been facing years of hard time.”
“Pretty powerful motive.”
“It doesn’t explain the torture aspect, what he did to those two girls in the barn.”
“Hard to figure something like that.” He turns thoughtful. “Probably removed the, uh . . . uterus to keep the police from getting their hands on paternal DNA.”
“That makes sense in a sick sort of way. Maybe he included the sister to make the scene look like something else.” I consider the level of cruelty and shake my head. “I can see this as a crime of passion. The guy snaps, kills his girlfriend, then guns down her family. I’ve seen it happen before. But this is so . . . brutal.” My shoulder is getting damp from the drizzle, so I close my window. “We’re missing something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
T.J. looks out the window at the stream of buggies turning into the gravel lot of the cemetery. “You think he’s local?”
“If he doesn’t live in Painters Mill, I’ll bet he lives nearby.”
“Right under our noses.”
He goes on to say something else, but I’m no longer listening. My attention zeroes in on a silver Toyota parked on the shoulder fifty yards away. A dark-haired young man sporting a goatee and video camera gets out. Several buggies have stopped to make the turn into the cemetery lot. Mr. Camcorder had decided this might be a good time to get some Amish video for YouTube.
He’s wrong.
While some of the more liberal-minded Amish will allow it, the majority do not like to be photographed. There are differing views as far as the origin of this aversion. Some believe it is the Bible’s second commandment: Thou shalt not make unto thyself a graven image. Some of the old order believe if you have your photo taken or even a painting rendered, you’ll die. Most Amish simply believe photographs are vain displays of pride, which goes against their basic values.
Grabbing my citation book, I shove open the door. T.J. calls out, but I barely hear him over the drum of my heart. My temper writhes beneath my skin as I start toward the tourist. I know full well anger has no place in police work. But the part of me that is Amish is outraged that some unthinking moron would try to capture such a private, heartbreaking moment for the sake of entertainment.
A second person gets out of the Toyota. A young woman with red hair and several facial piercings. Wearing cutoff shorts and a University of Michigan sweatshirt, she’s sitting on the hood, watching the scene as if it were unfolding on the big screen.
I’m fifteen feet away when the man spots me. He lowers the camcorder and gives me an unctuous smile. “Hello, Off—”
I snatch the camcorder from his hand. It takes a good bit of control not to slam it onto the ground and stomp it, but I manage.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Hey!” The female slides off the car, her eyes flaring. “You can’t do that.”
I swing around, stick my finger in her face. “You take one step closer to me and you’re going to jail.”
She steps quickly back, as if realizing she’s ventured too close to an animal that bites. “Fine. Whatever.”
I turn back to the man. He glares at me. In a small corner of my mind, I find myself wishing he’d take his best shot so I could deck him.
“Give me back my camcorder,” he says.
“You can pick it up when you pay your citation.” I pull out the pad and start writing.
“Citation?” He gawks at me. “For what? Taking a photo? Ever heard of freedom of expression?”
“This is a no parking, no standing zone.” I motion toward the sign. “Ever heard of that?”
This isn’t the first time some photo-seeking tourist has stopped on this stretch of road to capture an Amish funeral on film. In light of several Amish-English skirmishes in the last few years, the town council petitioned the county to declare the shoulder within one hundred yards of the cemetery driveway a no parking or standing zone. With tourism being a large chunk of the local economy, the county obliged by putting up four signs.
“I didn’t know,” the man says. “I didn’t see the sign!”
“Now you know.” I slap the citation against his chest. “Have a nice day.”
He throws his hands up in the air. “For chrissake!”
“This is a funeral. Show some respect.” Stuffing the pad into an inside pocket, I start toward the Explorer, think better of it and turn to him. “And for your information, most Amish don’t like having their picture taken
. Next time, ask their permission before you snap.”
By the time I reach the Explorer, the final buggy has pulled into the gravel driveway.
“I thought you were going to punch him,” T.J. says.
“Too many witnesses.”
He blinks.
I point at him and smile. “Gotcha.”
T.J. smiles back. “So are we just going to surveil?”
I look through the windshield at the ocean of black-clad mourners. “I thought we’d make an appearance, see who’s here.”
We disembark simultaneously and head toward the graveyard, our boots crunching on the gravel. Beyond, a hundred or more plain headstones form neat rows in a meadow that had once been a soybean field. Dozens of black buggies are parked neatly along a lesser used dirt path. Nearer the graves, I see families. Young couples. The elderly. Children. Mothers with babies. All of them standing in the cold drizzle. The community came out in force for the Plank family. But then that is the Amish way.
Bishop Troyer reads a hymn in Pennsylvania Dutch as the pallbearers lower the coffins into the graves. When he finishes, heads are bowed, and I know the mourners are silently reciting the Lord’s Prayer. I find the words coming back to me with surprising ease.
T.J. and I stand on the perimeter, two outsiders looking in. Like the Amish themselves, the scene is solemn and hushed. I’d like to discreetly record this for later review. Knowing how most Amish feel about graven images, I won’t. Instead, I take in as many faces and details as I can. I’m not sure what I’m looking for; it’s one of those things a cop feels. An instinct that tells me when something isn’t right. A lone mourner. Someone making a scene. An argument. Unduly vigorous crying. Physical collapse. None of those things happen, but then I’ve learned not to expect the obvious.