A Dark Path #7
He sets the binocs to his eyes and makes a sound of disgust. “Why the hell would they do that?”
“I think it’s time we asked.”
My flashlight beam bobs chaotically as we clatter down the steps.
For the life of me, I can’t imagine what these men are doing or why.
The Amish are extremely religious with a tremendous amount of respect for their dead.
In the back of my mind, I’m considering all of the possible charges.
Trespassing. Vandalism. Abuse of a corpse.
But first, I have to confront them.
I hit the ground running. Ahead, Tomasetti shoves open the door. I blow past him, round the corner, jog toward the cemetery.
Through the trees, I spot the lantern light. “Police department!” I call out. “Stop what you’re doing!”
As I near the men, half a dozen details strike me at once. Two of them are standing next to the wagon, staring at me as if I’m a ghost risen from hallowed ground. A third man is sliding a casket from the rear bed. The fourth individual is holding a shovel, the blade of which is buried in soil.
“Do not move.” Holding my badge at the ready, I stride toward them. I’m looking for any visible weapons when the man unloading the casket drops it to the ground and bolts.
Behind me, Tomasetti mutters a curse.
“Stop!” I shout. “Police! Stop!”
The man glances over his shoulder, plunges headlong into the trees, and disappears like a phantom into the dark. I jab a finger at the other men as I dart past. “Stay where you are!” I shout. “Do not move!” And then I’m past them and plowing into the woods.
I’m well aware that Tomasetti is faster than I am and more capable of holding his own should a physical confrontation occur. But this is my jurisdiction. My responsibility. I keep moving, knowing he’ll back me up if things get dicey.
I tear around a tree the size of a telephone pole.
I catch sight of my quarry twenty yards ahead.
He’s running full out. Arms pumping. I see his hat fly off.
The pale flash of his face as he steals a look at me over his shoulder.
This man is younger, I realize, and fast. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti behind me.
The pound of his boots. The occasional hiss of a curse.
“Stop!” I shout.
I’m not sure what lies ahead in terms of terrain. I don’t know if there’s a vehicle waiting—or an ambush. All I can do is keep going. Try to wear him out. Cut him off. Or outmaneuver him.
Abruptly, the land slopes down. My boots slide in mud. My hands fly up and I nearly drop my Maglite, but I regain my balance just in time to avoid a fall. A hundred yards in, the man slows, raises his hands to shoulder level, and turns to face me.
“Okay! You got me!” he pants. “I give up!”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.” I reach him, yank my cuffs from my utility belt.
“I’ve got him.” Tomasetti pushes past me, snags the cuffs from my hand. Expertly, he captures one of the man’s wrists with the bracelet and pulls it behind his back. Then both cuffs snick into place.
Winded, I set my hands on my knees and gulp air. For the span of several seconds the only sound is the rush of our labored breathing.
Tomasetti pats him down. “You got ID on you?” he asks.
“In my pocket,” the young man mumbles.
I guess him to be in his early twenties. No beard, which means he’s unmarried. Dark hair. Six feet tall. Athletic build. Unmistakably Amish.
Straightening, I approach him. “What’s your name?”
“Samuel Eicher,” he tells me.
Tomasetti reaches into the man’s pocket and fishes out his wallet. Frowning, he slides out a photoless ID card and hands it to me. Samuel Eicher. Twenty-one years old. Local address just outside Painters Mill.
“Why did you run from us?” I snap.
The young man bows his head as if he knows he doesn’t have a good answer. “I guess I panicked.”
I jab a thumb in the direction from which we came. “What are you doing out here?”
He heaves a heavy sigh. “Helping my dawdi.” Grandfather.
“Helping him do what?” Tomasetti asks.
The young man raises his gaze to Tomasetti, then to me. “I reckon you should probably ask him.”
To my surprise—and relief—the three old men are waiting for us when we get back to the wagon.
One of them is sitting on the driver’s bench.
The other two are standing next to the wagon’s rear wheel.
At some point, they put the fallen casket back in the bed.
Two lanterns flicker from the wagon’s step up.
“At least they haven’t been digging,” Tomasetti mutters.
“Small favors,” I say quietly.
The men exchange uneasy looks as we approach, their expressions contrite.
I estimate them to be in their late seventies or early eighties.
Long beards ranging from silver-white to salt-and-pepper.
Stooped postures. Hands that aren’t quite steady.
Bodies bent with arthritis. They’re wearing typical Amish garb—trousers, work shirts, and suspenders beneath jackets.
The tallest man pushes away from the wagon wheel, his eyes full of concern as he looks at the young man. “Samuel?”
The younger man gives him a dejected look. “I’m okay, Gramps,” he mumbles.
I can’t help but notice they have the same blue eyes.
“What are you gentlemen doing out here this time of night disturbing graves?” I ask.
Eyes are averted. Throats cleared. Legs shift. No one will look at me. No one responds to the question.
“I’m not opposed to arresting all four of you,” I snap.
“For what?” the young man asks.
“Trespassing, for starters.” I let my gaze touch each of the men. “I need to see your IDs. All of you. Right now.”
As they dig into their pockets, it occurs to me that two of the men are vaguely familiar. I’ve not met or spoken to them, but I’ve seen them around town, at the grocery or on the street.
None of them speaks as they pass their IDs to me.
I look at each card carefully. Edward Eicher is eighty-two years old. Orla Yoder is seventy-nine. Mervin Esh is eighty-six. All of them reside in Painters Mill.
Tilting my head, I speak into my radio. “Ten-twenty-nine,” I say, using the ten code for “check for wanted.” I know the names will come back clean, but I go through the motions and recite them to my dispatcher anyway.
“Ten-four,” comes the voice of Margaret, my graveyard-shift dispatcher. “Call you right back.”
As I return their IDs, Edward Eicher hobbles toward me, his expression pained. “Please, Chief Burkholder, take those handcuffs off my grandson. This was my doing. I will take the punishment.”
Before I can respond, Orla Yoder approaches and offers his wrists, his eyes level on mine. “Samuel did not wish to be part of this. We asked him to help us and he was too respectful to refuse. We are the ones at fault. Not the boy.”
“All of that is true.” Making use of his walker, Mervin Esh limps over to the other men to stand beside them and sticks out his hands, spotted with age. “You might as well take me, too.”
I ignore their proffered wrists. “Before we start carting people off to jail, I’d like to know what you’re doing here.” I look at my watch. “At one o’clock in the morning.”
Four sets of eyes look down at the ground. Feet are shuffled. Runny noses wiped with kerchiefs.
“Chief?” My dispatcher’s voice crackles over my radio. “No warrants.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” Tomasetti mutters from behind me.
“Roger that.” I study the men. “Damaging a grave, disturbing human remains, or removing a casket are serious crimes,” I tell them. “Not to mention morally wrong.”
“I reckon we know that,” Yoder says quietly.
“Didn’t realize moving them would be so difficult,” Eicher mumbles.
“Moving what exactly?” Tomasetti asks.
After a moment, Mervin Esh raises his eyes to mine.
“Sylvanus Zook built this farm with his hands, his back, and the grace of God. He raised his children here. His grandchildren raised theirs.” His hand trembles when he motions to the headstones.
“He buried his parents here. His firstborn son. These are our people, Chief Burkholder.” He blinks rheumy eyes. “Unsah brudren.” Our brethren.
Orla Yoder takes it from there. “We are the heedah of this graabhof,” he says.
Caretakers of the cemetery. “For sixty years, we’ve come here.
” He gestures to the other two old men. “The three of us. We cut the grass. Trim the weeds and brush. Maintain the fence. And we keep those gravestones straight and cleaned, the way they should be.”
Edward Eicher clears his throat and proceeds. “Last summer, while we were here, Naomi Zook showed up in her fancy car. Glass of liquor in her hand. Pride in her heart. And she told us about her plans for the farm. For this land that has been Amish-owned for longer than all of our years combined.”
“Are you talking about her plans to turn the place into a bed-and-breakfast?” Tomasetti asks.
“We have no problem doing business with the English tourists. They pay a pretty penny and we’re happy to sell our goods and services.” Yoder gives an adamant shake of his head. “We do have a problem with her plans for the graabhof.”
“What plans?” I ask.
“Cemetery tours? Ghosts?” Esh bristles. “Wagon rides to bring the tourists here where our departed brothers and sisters have been laid to rest? We cannot abide.”
“She’s an abgrohmd,” Yoder whispers. Exploiter.
Eicher nods grimly. “How can we stand by and let her desecrate this sacred place?”
“Naomi Zook is a leshtahrah,” one of them growls. Blasphemer.
“We called a meeting,” Esh tells us. “We spoke with the elders. Bishop Troyer, too. It was decided that we would move this cemetery to the Amish graabhof in Painters Mill.”
I stare at the men in disbelief, aware that everyone has fallen silent. The part of me that is a cop is angered by their disregard for the law. The part of me that is Amish is dismayed because I understand their feelings all too well.
“Let me get this straight.” Addressing the group, Tomasetti goes to Samuel and unlocks the handcuffs. “You dug up those three graves because you want to relocate them to another cemetery?”