Whiskers of the Lion (10 page)

Thursday, August 18

2:55
P.M.

PAT LANCE was the first to arrive for the sheriff's meeting. She came into his office wearing all black—jeans, a button-down blouse, and soft walking shoes. She set a plaid valise against the wall inside the office door, and she crossed to the Clay Street windows.

Robertson was seated. He rose from his desk chair and picked up the valise to gauge its weight. “Not too heavy,” he remarked and set the valise back down.

Lance shook her head. “It doesn't take much, Sheriff. Dress, apron, bonnet, and a brown wig.”

“How are you going to carry, wearing a dress?” Robertson asked as he sat back behind his desk.

“Thigh holster under the dress.”

“Any backup?”

“An ankle holster.”

“That should be adequate. Is the dress going to cover it all?”

Lance laughed. “Amish dresses cover everything, Sheriff.”

Rachel Ramsayer arrived. She chose the low leather chair at the front corner of Robertson's desk. She pushed herself back to lounge with her feet off the floor, and she said, “Nothing on any of the reports, Sheriff.”

“How many are you following?” Robertson asked.

“Pretty much everything. Arrest records and bookings, nationwide. If anyone finds Molina, we'll know about it as soon as the documentation is posted.”

“Long shot,” Robertson commented.

“Better than nothing, Sheriff.”

Scowling a bit, Stan Armbruster entered and said, “I couldn't sleep, Sheriff.” He was dressed in a new change of clothes, slacks and a knit shirt.

“Did you rest any?” Robertson asked.

“A little, I suppose,” Armbruster said. He turned for the coffeepot.

When Bobby Newell arrived, he said, “I haven't been able to find any taxi or limo service that brought Howie Dent into town.”

“He may have gotten a ride down from Middlefield,” Robertson said. “Maybe on one of the private Amish-hauler vans.”

“I've also been back to the county garage,” Newell said. “To search the VW again. There's nothing there. Just what we already processed. An empty backpack, and the contents of the glove compartment and trunk. None of it is remarkable. There's nothing from the VW that can help us.”

In uniform, Deputy Ryan Baker stepped in from the squad room adjacent to Robertson's office, and two more deputies came in behind him. Chief Deputy Wilsher followed them. He entered the office and leaned back against the wall beside Robertson's display of arm patches. “Is there coffee?” he asked, and beside the coffee credenza, Stan Armbruster said, “It's stale, Chief.”

Wilsher came forward, switched off the brewer, and carried the carafe back to the squad room. When he returned with fresh water, Missy Taggert had arrived. She was seated in one of the wooden chairs in front of the sheriff's desk. “Make it strong, Dan,” she said to Wilsher. Wearily, she pulled off her surgical cap and let her hair out of its bun. “Bruce,” she said, “have you found her?”

Seated at his desk, the sheriff said, “Mike Branden called. They're following a slow buggy to a farm north of Middlefield. The scribe intends to introduce them to Fannie, if she agrees to talk to them.”

“Does she have a choice?” Cal Troyer asked as he entered.

Del Markely stepped in behind Troyer and said, “The professor called again. They've started for the scribe's house.”

“Thanks,” Robertson said, and Del returned to her station at the front counter.

As she left, the sheriff answered Cal Troyer's question. “She has a choice, Cal. It's her decision.”

Robertson stood. “Some of you know parts of my plan, but none of you knows it all. We're going to go over most of it, but Pat and Stan need to leave for Middlefield soon, so I want Cal to talk to us first.”

When the sheriff stepped out from behind his desk, he motioned for Cal to take his place. Cal stood behind the desk to speak. “You probably all know more about Amish people than you realize. We're surrounded by their culture. You know that Amish people are more conservative than Mennonites. What Bruce wants me to explain in some detail, I think, is Fannie's particular sect. That requires a little history. So, Sheriff, how much detail do you want?”

Standing at the side of his desk, the sheriff spoke first to the others. “Dan has made fresh coffee. Take what you want. But Cal, we need to know specifics about Fannie and her immediate family. Also about relatives who may still live in the county. We know her brother moved his family to Kentucky, but maybe there are others.”

“I don't think there are that many living here anymore,” Cal said. “Most have moved away, to find cheaper farmland.”

“Then whatever you think is relevant,” Robertson said. “She's been traveling between settlements in Indiana, Michigan, and Ohio. Will that have caused her to cross lines between different Amish sects? Or would she always have stayed only with her own kind?”

“She's not extreme conservative Old Order,” Cal said. “Not Schwartzentruber, anyway. So she would have been willing to cross between sects. Her ride to someplace new would have been more important to her than the destination, as long as that was Amish or Mennonite of some sort. Almost any Amish or Mennonite group would have taken her in.”

“OK,” Robertson said. “Start with her family history.”

Cal pulled Robertson's desk chair out and sat down. “First time in the big chair,” he chuckled.

Robertson laughed, and some tension eased in the room. The sheriff took the last chair in front of his desk, and the others drew nearer to listen. The coffeepot stopped chattering, and Dan Wilsher poured a mug for Cal and set it on the sheriff's desk. Others got coffee for themselves as Cal began to speak.

“First,” Cal said, “you should understand the origins of the Beachy Fellowship. Most people don't consider them to be Amish anymore, because around 1958 they agreed to own and drive cars. They call traditional Amish people the ‘Horse and Buggy People.'

“Anyway, after they realized they held similar opinions on car transportation, seven families broke away from their Old Order district. They organized a new congregation and asked Uria Shetler to move to Ohio from Virginia, to lead their fellowship. Well, rather they asked him to give ministerial leadership. It was David Miller from Oklahoma who served as their first bishop.

“They held their first worship service at an old schoolhouse north and west of Berlin. They weren't popular with former Amish friends and neighbors, and during the service, someone let the air out of all their tires.

“Soon after that, some more families from Sugarcreek joined the congregation. Then they drew lots to see who would serve as minister, and the lot fell to Roman Mullet.

“They built a church building, and Amish people didn't like that, either. Amish people are supposed to worship at the farm of one of their congregants. Mostly they still worship in barns. Anyway, the church building is east of Berlin, out on SR 39. Roman Beachy was made a deacon in 1960. By then, there were other congregations like this one. Maybe not perfect replicas, but they were similar regarding modern machines like cars. These types of congregations are called the New Order Amish, generally.”

Robertson asked, “Is the Bethel Fellowship one of these? That's the one on 39, right?”

“Yes,” Cal said. “But the New Order Amish are not always identical. The Bethel Fellowship is just one. The congregations vary in what they allow. They have it in common only that they permit certain types of modern machines.”

“Cars,” Robertson said, “but what else?”

“Bicycles early on,” Cal said.

“But,” Pat Lance said, “almost any kind of Amish person rides a bike these days.”

“Yes, now they do,” Cal said. “But they don't always use power lawn mowers, for instance. Or garden tillers, or chain saws, or hay balers that pick up the bales.”

“Some use balers?” Robertson asked. “But not the kind that will pick up the bales?”

“Right,” Cal said. “Another example. Some New Order Amish have decided to use milking machines, but others don't permit them.”

“It's endless,” Armbruster said. “The differences, I mean.”

“Yes,” Cal said, “but they all know the differences. They know who is who, and they know who they should tolerate and who they should ‘hold off.'”

“Over garden tillers?” Captain Newell asked.

“Yes. And phones. And storm fronts on buggies.”

Wilsher asked, “The ones who drive cars, Cal. Are these the Black Bumper Amish?”

Cal smiled. “If they paint all the shiny parts black, then yes, they're called Black Bumper Amish. Other New Order Amish people just buy the plainest car they can find, and they don't worry about any shiny parts. They don't paint the chrome and silver parts to be flat black.”

“OK,” Armbruster said, “but Fannie's brother Jonas didn't have any kind of car at all, so they can't be New Order.”

“Right,” Cal said. “That's my point. The Helmuths stayed with the Old Order. They never went modern.”

“I remember they had a lawn mower,” Armbruster said. “A power mower.”

Cal shrugged at the inconsistency.

“So, are they Old Order?” Armbruster asked.

“One particular kind of Old Order,” Cal said. “They're the kind of Old Order who still won't have any fellowship with the New Order, but who have accepted some modern conveniences, nonetheless.”

“Nobody could sort this all out,” Wilsher said at the coffeepot. He poured himself another cup and added, “They can't possibly keep track of it all.”

Cal stood up and stretched his arms and shoulders. “But they do keep it all sorted out, Dan. They keep track of it all. They watch each other. Some of them will use a gasoline weed whacker, and others, right next door, won't allow it. But they all know who does, and it makes a distinction for them.”

Robertson joined Wilsher at the coffee credenza to pour himself a cup. “What you're saying, Cal, is that Fannie is Old Order, but not the extremely backward Schwartzentruber type.”

Cal moved aside to let Robertson reclaim his place at the desk. Robertson sat in his chair, sipped his hot brew, and asked, “Would any of this have had an influence on her travel destinations over the last four months?”

“She'll have accepted rides with New Order Amish families,” Cal said. “If they could take her where she wanted to go.”

“But she won't let herself own a car?” Lance asked.

“Right. She won't own one, and she won't drive one. But her rules don't say that she can't
ride
in one. And she will probably accept a ride from anyone in a congregation who is going her way.”

“Would she fly in an airplane?” Captain Newell asked.

“Probably not.”

Missy asked, “Will she testify for the FBI against Teresa Molina?”

“Probably not.”

“Does the FBI know that, Bruce?” Missy asked her husband.

Robertson shook his head. “I'm not going to tell them that, Missy. It's just Cal's opinion.”

Newell asked, “Does Fannie know that Howie Dent is dead?”

“Mike and Caroline are going to tell her, Bobby,” Robertson said. “Maybe they already have.”

Wilsher asked Newell, “Bobby, have you found anything more at the Helmuth farm?”

“No,” Newell said. “But, like what? Fingerprints?”

“Or trace evidence,” Wilsher said. “Fibers or hairs.”

Newell shook his head, and Wilsher asked Missy, “How about something on the body?”

“Nothing that we can use, Dan. Nothing definitive.”

“What is the FBI doing?” Rachel asked. “How much do they know?”

Robertson answered. “They're waiting at a hotel west of Middlefield, for me to call. To tell them where Fannie is.”

“Is that where they'll guard her?” Rachel asked.

“That's the agreement I have with them,” Robertson said. “They've agreed to my terms for a transfer of custody.”

Cal had moved to the door. “Does the rest of this involve me?”

“No, but thanks, Cal,” Robertson said. “Can you think of anything else that we need to know?”

Cal took a moment and then said, “I've been thinking about your plan.”

“And?” Robertson asked.

“And she may be Old Order, Bruce, but that doesn't mean that she's backward or hesitant.”

“What do you mean?” Robertson asked.

Cal arched his brows. “It means, I think, that if you've told her enough in your letter, you can depend on her to do the best thing.”

“I hope so, Cal. If she doesn't, she'll never be safe again.”

 • • • 

After Cal had left, people stirred in the room, pouring coffee for themselves, changing to different seats or positions, and waiting for the sheriff to start again. Dan Wilsher excused himself so that he could manage his afternoon patrols. Rachel left to check on her searches for Teresa Molina in criminal arrest databases.

When the sheriff returned from a brief visit with Del Markely at the front counter, he stood just inside his office door and reviewed, with the remaining people, the details of the plan he had devised for Pat Lance and Fannie Helmuth. When he had finished, he asked, “Do you all know what to do?”

Bobby Newell answered first. “When Dan's ready, he and I will take deputies over to the hotel. I've gone over most of the preliminaries with hotel management. Some doors to corridors will be locked, and some will remain open. We'll decide where we need to post our guards. We should be ready by early evening.”

“Good,” Robertson said. “And Pat? Are you and Stan ready to leave?”

“We are,” Lance answered.

“I don't have any details yet,” Armbruster said.

“Pat can fill you in,” Robertson said. “But you two should get started. I don't want to call the FBI until you're ready to start back to Millersburg.”