Page 61 of A Gathering of Secrets

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?”