A Dark Path
Eddie Chupp slashed the vine with his harvest knife and rolled the pumpkin from beneath its canopy.
It was another beauty—big, bright orange, and heavy as a rock.
Slash. Roll. Repeat. He’d been at it since dawn and reaped sixty-two prizewinners so far.
God had blessed him with a perfect fall day, a sharp knife, and a strong back to see him through.
He’d hoped to finish before dark, but from the looks of the clouds roiling to the northwest, the storm wasn’t going to wait.
Slash. Roll. Repeat.
Eddie couldn’t complain. It was a good crop this year.
The pumpkins down by the creek were the size of buggy wheels and would likely weigh in at two hundred pounds.
If he could get today’s harvest loaded in the wagon, he might be able to finish tomorrow and haul everything to the Pumpkin Festival, which started this weekend.
He’d just cut another stem when a sharp bark from his dog interrupted his musings.
Straightening, Eddie looked out across the field to see the lumbering Great Pyrenees digging frantically, dirt flying.
The silly beast made for such a funny picture, Eddie laughed outright.
The dog knew better than to dig in the field, but then Honeybear had always had a mind of his own.
“Shtobba! ” he called out to the dog. Stop!
Eddie didn’t expect the animal to obey and, of course, he didn’t.
Grumbling, he slid the knife into the sheath at his belt and started that way. He could use a break, anyway. Maybe sit for a spell and have a cup of the coffee his wife had put in the thermos.
Ten yards away, the dog tore into the ground with the fervor of a motorized tiller tine.
Watching, Eddie shook his head. The animal was fat as a summer sow, and a lot better at eating table scraps than he was at protecting the baby goats.
Eddie adored him nonetheless. He’d never admit it, but he enjoyed Honeybear’s company more than he did some people’s.
It wasn’t until he reached the dog that he realized the big boy had something in his mouth. “Was der schinner du dich havva datt, fett boo? ” What in the world do you have there, fat boy?
The dog looked up at him, tail wagging.
Puzzled, Eddie slid the object from the animal’s mouth and looked down at it. It was an old bone, yellowed and covered with dirt. A jawbone if he wasn’t mistaken. Judging by the shape and size, a sheep’s, maybe. Several of the teeth were still intact.
He was about to toss the thing aside when he noticed the spark of silver in one of the molars.
A chill crept up his spine and he felt the tingle of it all the way down to his toes.
Eddie didn’t believe in ghosts, but when he looked toward the trees, he half expected to see some shadowy figure emerge.
“Mein Gott,” he whispered. “Mensh.” My God. Human.
A rumble of thunder vibrated the ground beneath his feet. The bone slipped from his hand. He stumbled back. Turning, the Amish man launched himself into a run, the frightened dog hot on his heels.
Some days are custom-made for small towns.
I’m sitting at a bistro table on the sidewalk outside Mocha Joe’s coffeehouse on Main Street.
The pumpkin spice dark roast is good. The breeze is humid and warm.
Traffic flows easily along Main Street, where the merchants have decorated their storefronts with harvest wreaths, wicker baskets filled with gourds, and jack-o’-lanterns, all of it in anticipation of the Pumpkin Festival parade.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the police chief of Painters Mill, a little gem of a town nestled in the heart of Ohio’s Amish country.
It’s afternoon and I’m on my lunch break. I’ve been on duty since seven A.M. and I’ve yet to take a single call. Across from me, my significant other, John Tomasetti, sips a double espresso and watches the bank manager across the street arrange pumpkins and pots of mums atop a bale of straw.
“You’re pretty calm for a woman who’s getting married in a few weeks.”
A familiar flutter that’s part excitement, part terror quivers in my gut. “In case you’re wondering, I’m also a decent poker player.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Watching me, he lifts his cup and sips. “Have you decided on a venue?”
He’s referring to our wedding, of course.
For weeks, we’ve been waffling on whether to have it at our farm, where we’ve built our new life together, or my brother’s farm, the place where I grew up.
I’d been hoping Jacob would offer his farm for the ceremony and the wedding meal afterward; so far, he hasn’t, and now we’re down to the wire.
I’d wanted to keep it simple, but my being formerly Amish adds a myriad of complications to an already complex set of dynamics.
My family is Amish. While I remain of the Anabaptist faith, the bishop will not officiate the wedding.
Though I’ve remained friends with some of my former brethren—and rekindled a relationship with my family—a few in the Amish community will not attend.
The crack of my radio interrupts my reverie, saving me from having to answer a question I should have been able to answer weeks ago. Eyeing Tomasetti, I tilt my head to my lapel mike. “Burkholder.”
“Chief,” comes the voice of my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe. “I just took a call from a guy out at the Amish pay phone. RP says there’s a DB in his pumpkin patch.”
“RP” is copspeak for “reporting party,” and “DB” stands for “dead body.” “A body?” I stand up. “What’s the twenty on that?”
“Wolf Creek Pike. Big pumpkin field out there by the corn maze.” She rattles off an address.
Tomasetti sets down his cup and rises, his eyes sharp on mine.
“Any idea who the victim is?” I ask.
“He didn’t know.”
“Who’s the RP?” I ask.
“Eddie Chupp,” she tells me. “Poor guy was so shook up he could barely speak.”
“Get an ambulance out there. Tell Mr. Chupp to stay put. I’m on my way.”
Wolf Creek Pike isn’t much of a pike, but a barely-there township road that runs parallel with Painters Creek before deteriorating to a dirt track that dead-ends at the railroad tracks.
The land floods every ten or fifteen years, but the soil is fertile and deep, and every season the farmers take the risk and plant.
I’ve known “Pumpkin Eddie” since I was in school. His family has grown pumpkins on this land for as long as I can remember. Two years ago, he won the biggest-pumpkin competition with a monster that weighed in at six hundred pounds.
“This guy’s Amish?” Tomasetti asks.
“Old Order,” I tell him, referring to the Amish who adhere to the old traditions such as plain dress, strict discipline, and the Pennsylvania German language.
“Does he have a record?”
I glance over at him to see if he’s kidding as I make the turn onto Wolf Creek Pike. “Not so much as a speeding ticket.”
The Explorer’s tires kick up dust as I zip toward the Chupp farm.
To my right, a wall of seventy-foot-tall trees marks the greenbelt that runs along Painters Creek.
To my left is an overgrown field strewn with pumpkins the size of Volkswagens.
Two hundred yards ahead, I spot the Amish man standing at the mouth of a gravel lane, waving his arms, a big white dog at his side.
I pull into the driveway and get out. “Mr. Chupp.”
“Chief Burkholder.”
I take his measure as Tomasetti and I approach. Pumpkin Eddie is about six feet tall with blond hair and a beard that reaches nearly to his waistband. Typical Amish work clothes hang on a rail-thin frame.
We shake hands. “I understand you found a dead body?”
“Not a body, exactly. Gnocha.” Bones. “Part of a skull, I think.” Giving an exaggerated shiver, he motions to the dog. “Honeybear found it. Brought it to me.”
In the back of my mind, I wonder if he’s mistaken an animal bone for human remains. It happens more often than you think. “Can you show me?”
“This way.” He motions. “Kumma.” Come.
A drumroll of thunder peals across the sky as we enter the field. Tomasetti and I follow him through a tangle of pumpkin vines interspersed with squash big enough to supply every man, woman, and child in Holmes County with all the pie they could eat for a year.
Twenty yards in, the Amish man stops and points. “There.”
Sure enough, fifteen feet away a pale yellow-brown object stands in stark contrast against the dark soil.
I can tell by the way Eddie’s avoiding my gaze that he doesn’t want to get any closer to it. I let him off the hook with “Stay here,” and Tomasetti and I continue on.
Vaguely, I’m aware of Eddie reaching for the dog’s collar to keep the animal from following.
We stop a couple of feet away from the bone.
“I don’t think we’re going to need that ambulance,” Tomasetti murmurs.
Making eye contact with him, I speak into my lapel mike. “Cancel ten-fifty-two.”
“Roger that,” comes my dispatcher’s reply.
I kneel. “Looks like … a jawbone.”
“Some type of livestock?” he murmurs, taking a knee.
Eddie comes up behind us and cranes his neck to see. “I thought the same thing,” he whispers, “until I saw that silver speck in the molar. Last I heard, sheep don’t have cavities filled.”
Reaching into a compartment on my duty belt, I remove my evidence gloves and slip them on. I lean closer, rub the bone so that the surfaces of the teeth are visible. Sure enough, a glint of metal winks at me.
“It’s human,” I hear myself say.
Tomasetti straightens, looks around. “So where’s the rest of him?”
I glance over my shoulder and make eye contact with Eddie. “Where exactly did you find this bone?”
The Amish man shakes his head. “The dog found it. Brought it here to bury, I reckon.” He motions to the shallow hole a few feet away. “I was cutting pumpkins. Didn’t see where he got it.”
I look at Tomasetti. “How is it that part of a human skull ended up in this field?” I murmur.
He shakes his head. “It looks old.”
He’s right. The bone is discolored and caked with dirt. There’s no soft tissue to speak of; the teeth are loose and in danger of falling out.
“Who is it?” I whisper. “What happened to them?”