Page 22 of Shamed

“Did he get a look at the driver?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Tell him to call if he remembers anything else. Glock and I are talking to RSOs. Keep at it.”

“You got it.”

I tell Glock about the call. “We’re on our way to see Lester Nisley,” I say. “He’s an RSO and Swartzentruber. Still on parole.”

“Sounds promising.”

“We’ll see.”

Lester Nisley lives with his parents on a hog farm four miles south of the Schattenbaum place. The smell of manure hits me as I make the turn into the lane. Next to me, Glock mutters something unseemly and rolls up his window.

Most Swartzentruber Amish don’t use gravel for their lanes, and the Nisleys are no exception. We bump down a rough dirt road fraught with ruts. A quarter mile in, the lane opens to a turnaround situated between a clapboard farmhouse and two barns. The one to my right is a low-slung hog barn. Farther back is an old white bank barn with its front sliding door standing open. The house is to my left; it’s a plain farmhouse with no flowers or shutters or landscaping. An enormous garden encompasses most of the side yard. A dozen or so pairs of trousers hang from a clothesline. A weathered outhouse is situated just off the backyard.

“I feel like I’ve just gone back in time a hundred years,” Glock says as we get out.

“Some Swartzentrubers are more Old Order than others,” I tell him, but I’m thinking about the tire-tread marks found in front of the Schattenbaum place. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of a vehicle, tire tread, oil stains, whatever.”

Movement at the door of the hog barn snags my attention. I see a man silhouetted against lantern light inside. He’s wearing a flat-brimmed hat, standing in the doorway, watching us.

We start that way.

A second man has come up beside him. A younger version of the older man. Neither of them speaks or makes an effort to greet or welcome us. Instead they stand there, legs cocked, and watch us approach. The second man is slighter of build; his beard is of the barely-there variety, his bowl-cut blond hair sticking out from beneath his flat-brimmed straw hat. Father and son, I think.

I’ve seen the elder Nisley around town, but I don’t recall ever speaking to him. His expression reflects a standoffishness I’m no stranger to. One that tells me I’m an outsider and he hasn’t yet decided if I’m welcome on his property. He’s got angular features, an unkempt beard hanging off the lower half of his face. A thin mouth. A toothpick moving up and down as he works it against his teeth with his tongue. Neither of them looks terribly concerned about the police showing up at eight o’clock in the evening.

Glock and I reach the men. “I’m looking for Lester Nisley,” I say.

The elder man jabs his thumb at the younger man. “You found him.”

I turn my attention to the younger man. “Lester, is there a place we can speak privately? I need to ask you some questions about your whereabouts earlier today.”

The older man straightens, puts his weight on both feet. He’s just realized this isn’t a routine visit.

The younger man shrugs. “I reckon we can talk right here.”

“Where were you between noon and five P.M. today?”

“I was here all morning.” Tipping his hat, he scratches his head. “Went to the feed store around noon.”

“Were you with anyone?” I ask. “Or were you alone?”

“I went by myself.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

He looks at me as if he’s not quite sure what “corroborate” means. “My datt,” he says after a moment. “Guy at the feed store. I got a receipt in the house.”

The older man nods. “He worked out here in the barn all day, morning and afternoon. Midday I sent him into town to pick up feed.”

“Do you know the Helmuth family?” I ask, aware that Glock has quietly made his way into the barn for a look around.

The elder Nisley tilts his head. “Why are you asking us these questions?”

I don’t respond; I don’t look away from the younger man and repeat the question.