Harmless as Doves (8 page)

“And Bruce?”

“What?” Robertson asked, impatient to leave.

“Don’t call me
Evie.
”

“Carson, we’ve all called you
Evie
since the playgrounds at school.”

“You’re the sheriff now, Bruce, and I’m not that scrawny girl with pigtails anymore.”

Robertson considered the doctor’s expression and smiled. “Is it like that now, Dr. Carson?”

“Yes,” Carson said. “As long as you’re the sheriff, wanting to question one of my patients.”

11

Wednesday, October 7

12:25
P.M.

BRUCE ROBERTSON stood at Courthouse Square in Millersburg and studied his old red brick jail with an attenuated degree of satisfaction, tainted with unease by the arrest he had made that morning at Darba Winters’s barn. Amish as murderers? Robertson didn’t like that notion at all.

But Burkholder’s confession was solid. He had insisted more than once that he had killed Glenn Spiegle. And normally, Robertson wouldn’t have hesitated to file charges. But an Amish murderer? That had to be wrong. So, standing outside the courthouse in bright afternoon sun, Robertson eyed the square exterior of his red brick jail and tried to draw reassurance from the way its old-fashioned solidity anchored its corner of the square.

The jail’s two stories of Victorian brick and ornate yellow sandstone trim were topped with a black roofline sporting seven weathered chimneys and a tangle of satellite dishes, microwave arrays, and radio antennas. Its matching red brick extension on the back had eight large windows to a side, each covered on the exterior with a grillwork of black iron jailhouse bars.

It was not a modern structure by any means, and Robertson liked it that way. It looked old, it was old, and it promised to do its duty the old way—steadfastly, resolutely, and without compromise with the pop psychology that taught citizens that criminals were only human, after all. Maybe they were human, Robertson was fond of saying, but in his
jail, they were first and last prisoners who owed society a debt for their lawlessness. That’s how he saw it, and to his way of thinking, that’s why he had been elected sheriff of Holmes County for thirty continuous years.

Bruce Robertson was the old, steadfast, resolute kind of sheriff, and that’s just how Holmes County liked it. But Amish as murderers? At the very core of Robertson’s steadfast resolve, that just didn’t make sense. So, as he climbed the stone steps that took him to the north entrance of the jail, he drew scant satisfaction from the arrest. Crist Burkholder might have confessed, but Cal Troyer was right. This had to be handled differently. If Robertson were going to press forward, he’d first have to be convinced that the Burkholder confession could be trusted.

Inside, Robertson pushed through Ellie’s swinging counter door and started down the long paneled hallway to his office, saying, “Coffee please, Ellie, and tell your layabout husband that I want to see him.”

With a tap at her keyboard, Ellie saved a file on her computer, and said, “He’s already in there.”

Ellie followed the sheriff down the hall to Robertson’s big corner office with a fresh tin of coffee. She nodded to Ricky, who sat in a straight-backed office chair in front of Robertson’s cherry desk, and then she turned to the credenza behind the door and started to put up a fresh pot of coffee for the sheriff.

Robertson dropped into a battered swivel rocker behind his desk and asked Sergeant Niell, “Where’d you put him?”

“Second floor,” Niell said. “Gave him his own cell.”

Taking papers out of his in-box, Robertson asked, “He still in his Amish clothes?”

Niell answered, “Yes,” and holding up a blue form, Robertson asked Ellie, “What’s this?”

Ellie finished with the coffee pot, turned to look, and took a seat in a chair beside Ricky. “County’s got a new Emergency Contacts form, Bruce. You’re supposed to fill that out with all your numbers.”

The sheriff rolled his eyes and crumpled the blue form into a tight ball before he launched it at his wastepaper basket. Ellie retrieved the crumpled blue form, saying, “We recycle now, Bruce.”

Robertson smiled and continued to sort papers, some into his out-box, most back into his in-box. To Niell he said, “When did Ellie turn into a recycling enviro-nut, Sergeant?”

Ricky shrugged a halfhearted answer, hoping Ellie would let it drop. But seated at his side again, Ellie said, “I’m moving us into the digital world, Bruce. Then you won’t get any more paper to waste.”

Ellie’s dark hair was styled long and straight, and her skirt and blouse outfit was plain and simple, soft green and rose colors typical of those favored by Mennonite women, although Ellie wasn’t Mennonite. But with her hair in a bun under a white prayer cap, and wearing simple, black flats and black hose, she would easily pass for Mennonite anywhere in Holmes County. It wasn’t a deception she tried to practice; she just preferred simple dresses and skirts at work. And when opportunities like this one presented themselves, she also preferred to pester the sheriff with her assertiveness. So she smiled and stated, “We’re just gonna get modern.”

“That’s how it is?” Robertson grinned, leaning back on his swivel rocker, hands clasped behind his head.

“That’s exactly how it is,” Ellie said and smiled.

The coffeepot finished chattering, so Ellie got up to pour some coffee for the two men. At Robertson’s door, Ellie said, “I put our new intake and discharge forms on our FTP server.” Stepping out into the hall, she added, “That’s not the kind of
server
you find at a restaurant, Bruce.”

“Like I know how to use an FTP
server,
” Robertson complained to Niell once Ellie was gone.

Niell wanted to smile, but he couldn’t decide if Robertson would interpret that kindly, so he shrugged and said, “I called that restaurant down in Pinecraft. They say Billy Winters delivered a truckload of Kline’s Amish cheese this morning. They say he’s already left.”

Robertson nodded. “Probably no point in checking on him with the Klines. They’ll confirm the shipment.”

“It was a long shot, anyway,” Niell said.

“No longer a shot than thinking that an Amish kid is guilty of homicide.”

“I suppose not.”

“OK, Ricky,” Robertson said. “Let’s write it up for the prosecutor, but hold the paperwork. I’m not ready to press forward, yet.”

“What charge?”

“Manslaughter, for now. But don’t file the charges, just yet.”

“Let me interview him again,” Ricky offered. “Maybe Spiegle provoked him.”

“It’ll still be manslaughter,” Robertson said. “If he really did it.”

“I’ll just make sure.”

Robertson shrugged a detached approval. “You think Ellie is serious about going all digital, here?”

“You should use her to get us modern, Sheriff. While she’s still working.”

“What’s that mean?”

“She’d be an asset, if we all need to take it to the next level with IT.”

“No. What’s that mean—‘while she’s still working’?”

“We want to have a family.”

“You think she’d stop working?”

“I know she would.”

“What are you, Ricky? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“And Ellie?”

“Thirty-four.”

Robertson considered that. “You’ll make lieutenant by the time you’re forty.”

Smiling, Ricky said, “Sheriff, I’m really not sure I want to work for you for the rest of my life.”

There was a knock through the wall, and they heard Ellie sing out, “You have
company,
Bruce!”

Robertson pushed up from his chair and started out to the front just as Cal Troyer opened the door to the office and came in, announcing, “Bruce, I want to talk with Crist Burkholder.”

“Cal, you need to let us handle this,” Robertson complained, and dropped back into his swivel chair.

Cal nodded to Ricky, “Sergeant,” and took a seat next to him in front of the sheriff’s desk. “Bruce, you need to move him to a single cell. He shouldn’t be in with the others.”

Ricky said, “We already did that.”

Cal nodded his appreciation to Niell and said, “Rachel says you helped her out, a couple of days ago.”

“Out at Kline’s,” Ricky said. “There were too many kids skateboarding on the parking lot.”

“She’s a technician there,” Cal said for Robertson’s benefit. “She handles their Information Technology Services. You know, Bruce, IT.”

Robertson quipped, “Like a cheese factory needs IT,” and pulled papers out of his in-box again.

“You need to get a little modern yourself, Bruce,” Cal chided. “Nobody uses
in and out
trays anymore.”

Growling, Robertson said, “You two can have your reunion out in the hall,” and stood up behind his desk.

Cal shrugged at the sheriff’s gruff tone, smiled his awareness of Robertson’s impatience, and followed the sergeant out into the hall, saying, “I need to talk to Crist, Ricky. Can you take me up?”

Ricky paused outside Robertson’s door and said, “He claims he did it, Cal. Burkholder says he hit him.”

Cal started toward the stairwell at the end of the hall, saying, “I know, Ricky. I just want to talk to him about court practices.”

“Why?” Ricky asked, following Cal down the hall.

Cal answered, “Amish folk don’t know anything about trials.”

“There probably won’t be a trial, Cal.”

“Won’t he have to explain himself to a judge?” Cal asked.

“Sure. If the judge requires it. He’ll have to admit to what he did.”

Cal nodded and started up the steps. “I doubt he knows what that means.”

“He’s gonna have a lawyer, Cal,” Ricky argued.

“Let me talk to him, Ricky. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take all the time you want, Cal,” Ricky said at the top of the steps. “He’s not going anywhere.”

* * *

When Ricky opened the cell door, Cal pulled a chair inside from the aisle between the cell blocks and sat down next to Burkholder. Crist was seated on the edge of his bunk, elbows planted on his knees, head cradled in his hands. He did not look up when Cal sat down.

Dressed in his Amish clothes—blue denim trousers and a blue cotton blouse, but without his black cloth suspenders—Burkholder looked as out of place as a peasant in Tiffany’s. His brown leather work boots, hanging open as if they were three sizes too large, had been stripped of their shoelaces. A blue denim vest with hook and eye closures hung limp from his shoulders, open in front. His black hair was cut to the tops of his ears in Dutch-boy style, and his face and neck were tanned, his forehead showing pale white skin where his straw hat had shaded his eyes through the long summer in open fields. He had started a fancy beard, trimmed thin along the jawline, broadcasting his unmarried status and his spirited personality. But there in his cell, all of Crist Burkholder’s spirit and personality had been quenched, and his fancy beard communicated more bravado than was warranted.

Cal reached up to lay a hand on Burkholder’s broad shoulders, intending to minister comfort to the lad, but Burkholder pulled back sullenly.

Removing his hand, Cal said, “I arranged for you to have a lawyer, Crist. To help you navigate the courts.”

“She’s a woman,” Burkholder said, and stood up to stare down dully at Cal. “I’ve already met my lawyer, and she’s a woman.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m guilty.”

“You still need to listen to her advice.”

“She says I’m going to prison, if I confess in court.”

“Look, Crist, if she says you shouldn’t confess, then maybe you shouldn’t.”

“But I already did.”

Standing, Cal offered, “Maybe she’ll have a way to work around that.”

“Doesn’t matter. I did it. I killed him.”

Cal studied Burkholder’s expression for signs of contrition, but all he saw was the self-disgust of a boy who believed wholeheartedly that he was the author of his own disgrace. Thinking Burkholder should have been more concerned about his future, Cal asked, “What does your bishop say, Crist?”

Burkholder shook his head. “He says I have to take my medicine.”

“Do you agree?” Cal asked.

“Sure. I did it. Now I’ll die in prison.”

“Crist,” Cal asked, “did Glenn Spiegle provoke you?” and laid his hand back on Burkholder’s shoulder.

Again Burkholder pulled away at Cal’s touch.

“What’s wrong, Crist? What haven’t you told us?”

Burkholder offered nothing.

“You’re upset,” Cal said. “I don’t blame you. I would be upset too, if I were sitting in a jail cell. But people want to help you now, and you need to let them do that.”

“Why, Mr. Troyer? Why do I have to let anyone help me? I killed a man. I beat him to death with my fist. Now I deserve what I get.”

“Do you believe that, Crist? That you deserve whatever punishment you get?”

“Yes!” Burkholder shouted. “I killed a man! Don’t you understand?”

“OK, Crist, but let some of us try to help you.”

Burkholder shook his head and turned to face into the corner of the cell. “Please leave me alone.”

“I will,” Cal said. “But listen, just this once.”

“What?” Burkholder said, turning back toward Cal. “You think I don’t deserve to go to prison?”

“Probably you do, Crist.”

“What can anyone do for me now?” Burkholder asked, facing back into the corner like a chastened youngster.

Softly Cal said, “Maybe you can get out, someday.”

Turning around again, Burkholder asked, “How?” eyes cast down with shame.

“I don’t know. But maybe you don’t need to go to prison for the rest of your life.”

“I murdered a man,” Burkholder said, turning his gaze up to Cal’s.

“The law distinguishes between murder and manslaughter, Crist. And manslaughter is not as bad. Maybe you could think about the day when they’ll let you out of prison.”

“They’d do that?”

“Eventually, yes. But it depends, now, on what happens in court.”

“What should I do?”

“For starters,” Cal said, “stop telling people you killed him.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s just for starters,” Cal said and turned to knock on the cell door.

As Sergeant Niell opened the door from the outside, Cal added, “In the meantime, Crist, you need to listen to your lawyer.”