Page 16 of A Gathering of Secrets

I nod. “I’m sorry, Gideon. I’m afraid so. The dental records from Dr. Gray match the X-rays taken by the coroner. I’m very sorry.”

Miriam Gingerich has come up behind him, dish towel in hand, her eyes seeking mine. Evidently, she overheard the tail end of my response, because she puts her hands over her mouth and turns away.

Steeling myself against their grief, I train my attention on Gideon. “May I come inside?”

He sags as if he’s suddenly too exhausted to remain standing. But he straightens, opens the door wider, and trudges inside.

Miriam is standing at the sink, her hands against the counter, leaning heavily, looking out the window. She’s started coffee, but somehow ended up with spilled grounds all over the counter. The dish towel lies on the floor at her feet. She doesn’t seem to notice either. The weight of their grief is tangible.

Gideon pulls out a chair and sinks into it. His face is pale, his eyes blank. “Our boy is with God.” He addresses his wife without looking at her.

The Amish woman bends to pick up the dishcloth and then stares down at it as if wondering how it got into her hands. “God always has a plan.” She whispers the words but her voice lacks conviction. “Sometimes we just don’t know what it is.”

Gideon turns his attention to me and motions to the table. “Sit down, Chief Burkholder.”

I take the nearest chair. “Mr. Gingerich, the fire marshal believes the fire was arson.”

“I don’t understand why anyone would do such a thing.”

Once again, I ask if he uses or stores gasoline anywhere on his property. I have to, because I know some Amish try to skirt the rules of the church district—to save money or for the sake of convenience—and hope they don’t get caught. “Maybe you stored it for someone else? One of your neighbors maybe?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “The Ordnung allows only diesel fuel. That’s all we use.”

“Did you keep small square bales of hay near the tack room?”

He cocks his head, his expression puzzled. “I keep a few bales down by the stalls for the horses. Makes it easier for Fannie when she feeds in the mornings.”

“What about a wheelbarrow?”

“We keep it for mucking stalls. I usually push it against the wall, next to the stall doors, out of the way so we have room to bring the horses into the aisle when we need to.” His eyes narrow. “Why are you asking me these things? What does it have to do with … Danny?”

I hesitate, knowing the details surrounding his son’s death will undoubtedly upset him and his wife. But sooner or later, the details will get out.

“Mr. Gingerich, the investigation isn’t complete, but the fire marshal believes Danny somehow became trapped or was locked inside the tack room. He believes some of those items—the wheelbarrow, cinder blocks, and bales of hay—may have been used to barricade the door.”

I watch him carefully as I relay the information. His eyes widen as he realizes what I’m telling him. Vaguely, I’m aware of Miriam rushing from the room. I don’t take my eyes off of Gideon. He’s begun to shake. His mouth quivers. A tremor overtakes his hand when he reaches up to wipe his eyes.

“Locked?” He utters the word as if it’s a foreign language. “I don’t see how that can be true. The door can only be locked with a key. The investigator must be mistaken.”

“The lock was engaged,” I tell him.

“But…” Grief flashes, but he pushes on. “Chief Burkholder, it was a double-cylinder dead-bolt lock. The only way to lock it is with a key. That can be done from the inside or the outside. There’s no way he could have locked himself in the tack room by accident.”

Which can only mean the door was locked from the outside.… “Do you have the key?” I ask.

“No. There are two. I keep them in the barn, tied together with a string, and hang them on a peg across the aisle. We figured if some thief came in at night, they wouldn’t be able to find the keys, yet the keys would still be handy when we locked up.”

“You keep the tack room locked at night?”

“Usually.”

I nod. “Mr. Gingerich, can you think of anyone who was angry with Danny? Someone who may have wanted to harm him?”

He looks straight ahead, unseeing. I see abject horror in the depths of his eyes and I know his mind has gone to a place he is loath to venture. “No,” he whispers. “Danny was a good boy. Hardworking. Well liked.”

“Can you think of any reason why he would’ve gone into that tack room at night?”

“I don’t know why he would do that.”