Page 106 of Shamed

I nod, find myself thinking about Patty Lou and that dumpy little bar in downtown Crooked Creek, and I wonder if Elmer will ever find his way back to her.

“If Vern had found him,” Rosanna tells me, “he would have killed Elmer, too. He’s the only one who got away.”

Putting her face in her hands, she begins to sob.

CHAPTER 28

Four days have passed since Tomasetti and I discovered a frightened and confused Elsie Helmuth locked in a bedroom at the Mullet farm. Over the course of several interviews, the girl revealed that Vernon Detweiler abducted her that day at the Schattenbaum place. After murdering Mary Yoder, he dragged Elsie to his truck and drove her to Crooked Creek.

In the following days, Rosanna Detweiler fed her, washed her clothes, cooked her meals, and took her for long walks in the woods. They’d called the girl Nettie, and they’d told her they were her family now and that she would never be going back to Painters Mill.

According to Elsie, the couple didn’t hurt her, not physically. But there are a lot of ways to harm a child. She’d been taken from her family, her loved ones, and everything she’d ever known. When she tried to run away—and find her way home—the Detweilers had locked her in the bedroom for hours on end. All of it had frightened Elsie terribly. Last time I talked to Miriam Helmuth, she told me the girl was having nightmares and couldn’t be left alone. I suspect little Elsie Helmuth will be dealing with her fears for some time to come.

Life is slowly returning to normal. Painters Mill is blissfully quiet. The Amish are busy cutting and bundling the last of the season’s corn. The Harvest Festival started this morning. The merchants and shopkeepers along Main Street are reveling in the influx of tourists.

I should be feeling celebratory. A little girl is safe and home with her family. I’m alive and being credited in part for solving one of the most heinous and complex crimes involving the Amish in the history of the state. The Boyd County sheriff’s deputy who was on scene that day at the Mullet farm survived a serious stabbing. Bishop Troyer is recovering at home now; he’s going to be around a few more years to keep all of us wayward souls in line. I’m thankful for all of it.

But I didn’t walk away from this case unscathed. I’ve spent too much time thinking about Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler, trying to answer the questions that continue to nag. According to the people who knew them, Rosanna Detweiler rarely left the property, venturing into town only to buy groceries and household goods. She spent her days tending her garden and walking in the woods.

Vernon Detweiler was a silent, brooding man. He doted on his wife and was vocal about the prospect of one day having a family. He also had a temper and, despite his being raised Amish, a propensity for violence.

From what little I’ve been able to piece together, Rosanna was, indeed, the daughter of Marlene Byler—and likely the baby she held in her arms when she jumped from the bridge. No one knows how she survived the fall. An Amish woman who’d been close to Ruby Mullet confirmed that Rosanna was raised by her grandmother and inherited the farm when her grandmother passed away.

Rosanna and Vernon claim they are the biological parents of Elsie Helmuth. They claim Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz convinced them their infant child was stillborn—and then transported that child to Miriam and Ivan Helmuth. At some point, DNA testing will be done to determine parentage. I told the Helmuths it might be wise for them to retain an attorney, but I don’t believe they’ll do it. The Amish are a nonlitigious group.

There’s one unanswered question that continues to haunt. The one that keeps me awake nights. According to Rosanna, she lost two newborns. The death certificates listed SIDS as the cause of death, but no autopsies had been performed. I can’t help but wonder: Did Rosanna Detweiler harm her children? Or was Sadie Stutzman wrong? They are profound and disturbing questions that may never be answered.

It’s late afternoon when I take the Explorer down the lane of the Troyer farm and park next to the bishop’s buggy. Around me the day is cold and gray. The smell of woodsmoke drifts on the air as I take the sidewalk to the door.

Freda Troyer answers. Emotion flickers in the depths of her eyes at the sight of me. She says my name softly. “You’re here to see David?”

I nod. “How is he?”

“He’s a grouchy old goat. I’ll be glad when he’s up and about so I can put him to work outside.” She pushes open the door. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

I enter an overheated kitchen that smells of lavender and lye. Soapmaking items—measuring containers and forms lined with plastic sheeting—are spread out on the table.

“He’s in the next room, resting.” Freda goes to the counter and picks up a dishcloth. I wouldn’t have discerned that her surliness was an act if I didn’t notice her hands shaking when she dried them.

I’m midway to the door when she whispers my name. I turn to her, shocked to see her frozen in place, tears on her cheeks. Looking annoyed, she swipes at them with the dishcloth, comes to me, takes my hand.

It’s the first time in all the years I’ve known her that Freda Troyer has shown any kind of affection—toward me or anyone else. She grips my hand hard, trembling, her eyes holding mine. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something. Instead, she releases me, stiffens her spine, and turns back to the sink.

“Don’t keep him long,” she says. “He gets tired.”

In the living room, a gas lamp hisses, casting yellow light on a brown sofa, two rocking chairs, a rustic coffee table. A cast-iron woodstove squats in the corner. The bishop lies on a cot, his head and shoulders propped on pillows, an afghan thrown over his legs. He’s dressed, less his usual jacket and hat. He’s always been larger than life to me, especially those piercing eyes that miss nothing. This afternoon, clutching an ancient copy of Martyr’s Mirror in hands that aren’t quite steady, he looks fragile and pale as he takes my measure.

For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, unspeaking. “How are you feeling?” I ask after a moment.

“Stronger,” he tells me. “Thankful.”

I move closer, trying not to notice the needle marks and scabs on the backs of his hands. “Vernon and Rosanna Detweiler are being extradited to Holmes County,” I tell him. “They’ll face an array of felonies here, not the least of which is murder. I thought you should know.”

“I will pray for them.” The old man nods, thoughtful. “The Amish community will support them.”

Forgiveness is one of the hallmarks of the Amish faith. I’m well aware that the capacity to forgive is a virtue, but I knew at an early age that it was a tenet I would never be able to put into practice.

“Bishop Troyer, I know what you did. I know Sadie Stutzman and Noah Schwartz took a newborn infant from Rosanna and Vernon Detweiler. I know they brought that baby to you here in Painters Mill. I know you took her to the Helmuths and asked them to raise her as their own. I know that infant is Elsie Helmuth.”