Page 46 of The Burning

“Never thought so. I mean, I’d never seen it. Until that, anyway. A few days later, when I saw them at worship, I saw a cast on the kid’s arm.”

A swell of outrage tightens my chest, but I bump it back. Stay on topic. “So Milan broke his son’s arm?”

“Yeah. When I asked him about it, he said it was an accident. But I was frickin’ there. I saw it and I didn’t like it.” For the first time, Clarence Raber doesn’t look quite so happy-go-lucky. “That was the last time I talked to him. I never went to his house or returned his calls. Far as I was concerned, he no longer existed.”

“How did his wife react to her son being hurt?” I ask.

“She filed for divorce shortly thereafter. I mean, even with her being Amish and all, who could blame her?”

In the back of my mind, I recall Bertha Swanz specifically telling me Milan was the one who’d initiated the divorce. “Are you sure it was Mrs. Swanz who initiated the divorce?” I ask. “Not Milan?”

“She told me she’s the one done it.”

I think about that a moment. “Do you know if she has a boyfriend?”

“Last I heard she was seeing that Yoder dude lives next door to her.”

“Her neighbor?” Surprise quivers in my chest. “The one whose field caught on fire?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Mr. Raber, can you tell me where you were night before last?” I ask.

He gawks as if I’ve sucker-punched him, then shakes his head as if resigned. “I was home with my wife and our new baby. You can ask her.”

“Were you there all night?”

“Yes, ma’am, I was.”

“You know we’re going to check,” Glock puts in.

“Knock your socks off,” he says. “I gotta get back to work.”

At that, he turns and walks away.

When you’re a cop and you need information from the Amish, taboo is a slippery slope to maneuver. There are certain subjects the vast majority of the Amish simply won’t broach. Homosexuality. Sexual assault. Child abuse. When you’re Amish and you finally muster the courage to confide or ask for help, you speak only with a trusted friend, only in whispers, and you never talk to an outsider, especially a cop.

Crimes such as domestic violence, sexual assault, and child abuse are no more prevalent among the Amish than other cultures or groups, but because of the wall of silence that exists between the Amish and English, such incidents are less likely to draw the attention of law enforcement. The victims are far more likely to suffer in silence without recourse.

As I pull into the driveway of the farm where Milan Swanz’s ex-wife lives, I don’t ponder the reason why she didn’t tell me about Swanz breaking her son’s arm. I already know the answer. I understand her hesitancy because I’m well versed on Amish taboo. Of course, that doesn’t excuse her for withholding information in the course of a homicide investigation.

The snow has stopped, but the air presses down cold and heavy and wet as I take the walkway to the porch. In the distance, the whistle of an approaching train wails, a lonely sound that makes me wonder how many times a day this house is rattled by railroad cars barreling past.

The door creaks open. Bertha Swanz glares at me through the foot-wide gap, a wily cat peering out at a pit bull intent on harming her. “Well, I don’t know why you’re here again,” she says.

“I’m here to ask you about the things you lied to me about last time we spoke,” I return evenly.

I can tell by her expression she knows exactly what I’m referring to. She doesn’t want to talk to me, but knows she doesn’t have a choice. “I guess that means you’re going to want to come inside.”

“I guess it does.”

Frowning, she turns away and heads for the kitchen. “I got coffee.”

I follow her. “I’ll settle for some honesty.”

She clucks her tongue, a sound of annoyance.

The aromas of woodsmoke and kerosene fill the overwarm air as we make our way to the kitchen. Breakfast dishes from earlier are stacked next to the sink, not yet washed. A cast-iron skillet sits on the woodstove, a thin layer of grease inside.