Page 99 of The Burning

The camera pans so that only her back and the podcaster’s face are showing. Evidently, a second person is operating the camera.

“Lena was the sweetest thing.…” The fiftysomething woman tells him that the Stoltzfus family is upstanding, hardworking, and Godly.

As I watch, I’m trying to figure out how the signature of this case relates to my case here in Painters Mill when a man crosses behind the podcaster, who’s facing the camera. The figure is little more than background, only on screen for a second or two, but the image stops me cold.

“What the hell…”

Grabbing the mouse, I rewind the clip and watch again. This time, I freeze the clip so that the man’s face is visible. It’s not a quality still. The details are blurred and his face is angled away from the camera. He appears to be Amish. Wearing dark trousers and suspenders. Black felt flat-brimmed hat.

“He’s wearing a plaid shirt,” I whisper.

The rules of the Ordnung vary from church district to church district. But the one thing you can count on is that Amish males do not wear plaid. This man is too mature to be on rumspringa. As unlikely as it seems, there’s something familiar about him. But how can that be? Lancaster County is over three hundred miles away.

A memory bubbles, not quite reaching the surface. I’ve seen similar clothing recently. I took notice because it was odd. This person wasn’t Amish. Where the hell did I see it and what does it have to do with this man who is hundreds of miles away?

The memory hits me like a truck. “Isaiah Hofer. Shit!”

Spinning, I grab my reading glasses off the desk, go back to the monitor. A click of the mouse enlarges the still. The image becomes grainy and I lose detail, but I can see the shirt clearly. Rust and red plaid. Suspenders. A not-quite-Amish hat. I click again, put the video into motion. I watch him walk. Take in the swing of his arms. The long legs. Long stride. The slight hunch of broad shoulders.

“What the hell were you doing in Pennsylvania the same day that an Amish woman was killed?”

The only answer is the tap of snow against the window and the foreboding knowledge that while I may have found the missing link connecting the two homicides, I’m in no position to do a damn thing about it.

CHAPTER 26

Milan Swanz was burned at the stake, executed in the same manner that Balthasar Hubmaier was during the Reformation five hundred years ago. Lena Stoltzfus drowned in a farm pond with a concrete block secured to her neck. Elizabeth Hubmaier had a rock tied around her neck and was thrown into the Danube River. Both methods of execution were commonplace during the Reformation, especially against the Anabaptists. There’s no cut-and-dried connection between the historic and modern-day crimes, but the parallels are unequivocal.

I’ve watched the video six times, enlarged it, played around with the brightness, contrast, and resolution—and I’m almost certain the individual in the video is Hofer.

Almost …

“Why was Milan Swanz burned at the stake?” I whisper.

I answer my own question. “He was a danger to the Amish community.”

Next I say, “Why was Lena Stoltzfus drowned?”

I glance down at the notes I jotted on the interviews conducted by the podcaster on the Lena Stoltzfus murder.

… you mentioned rumors …

All’s I’m going to say is I heard some things that weren’t so nice.

Like maybe those babies didn’t die from SIDS like everyone was saying.

A chill scrapes down between my shoulder blades. “Someone thinks she murdered her children?” I murmur.

The words hang like a toxic cloud.

I go back to the case file, pull out my notes, my fingers pausing on my exchange with Freda Troyer.

There is a rumor.… a group of men.

… their souls are dark.

… they see the ungodliness of that as the freedom they need to do things that a godly man cannot.

… for a greater good.