Page 12 of Shamed

“We’re not proud of what our boys did,” Miriam says.

“Anyone get hurt?” I ask.

Ivan shakes his head.

“Elam had a black eye,” Miriam puts in.

“Figured he deserved it,” the Amish man mutters.

“How old were your boys at the time?” I ask.

“Elam was seven.”

Too young to get punched in the face by a teenager twice his age and three times his size—even if he did deserve it. “Is there bad blood between your family and Big Eddie?” I ask. “His family?”

“Lord, no.” Miriam shakes her head. “We see them every couple of weeks at worship. Eddie’s a sweet thing usually, but he’s got a temper, gets mean when he’s mad.”

Ivan looks down at his hands, grimaces. “We try to look the other way. But…”

“I’ll talk to them.” I pause. “Look, I know Annie has been through a lot. But I need to ask her some questions.”

The couple exchange another look. After a moment, Ivan tips his head at his wife.

Miriam rises. “I’ll fetch her.”

A few minutes later, the four of us are seated at the kitchen table. Annie is sitting in her mother’s lap. Miriam has her arms wrapped around her daughter, and she can’t seem to stop kissing the top of her head. The woman is doing her utmost to remain calm and maintain her composure, if only for the child’s sake, but she’s not quite managing.

Annie’s hands and face are clean, and she’s wearing a fresh dress. Miriam supplied me with the soiled one, which I tucked into a gallon freezer bag I keep in my vehicle. I’ll send it to the BCI lab to have the blood tested. Chances are it belongs to Mary Yoder, but you never know when you might get lucky. Oftentimes, an attacker with a knife will cut himself in the frenzy, which would supply us with DNA.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I begin.

The little girl’s eyes slide away from mine. Lifting her hand, she puts her thumb in her mouth and starts to suck. Miriam gently takes the child’s hand and lowers it. “Chief Katie has a few questions for you, my little peach.”

Again, I feel the minutes ticking by and I struggle for patience, with the need to be gentle, to not frighten this child who has already been so traumatized. All of those things are in direct conflict with my need for facts.

“My grossmuder used to call me little peach.” I tilt my head, and make eye contact with Annie. “Your cheeks kind of look like peaches.”

A ghost of a smile floats across the child’s expression.

“Makes me want to pinch them.”

This time, a full-blown grin.

I jump on it. “Can you tell me what happened when you and Elsie and your grossmammi were gathering walnuts?”

The little girl shakes her head, then turns, wraps her arms around her mother, buries her face against her mamm’s bosom. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

I try again. “Was there someone else there?”

“Da Deivel,” she mumbles.

“Can you tell me what he looked like, sweetie?”

“I can’t remember,” she whispers, not looking at me. “Just a man.”

I pull a lollipop from my pocket. Hearing the wrapper crinkle, she turns her head and eyes the candy.

“It’s strawberry.” I offer it to her.