“Did you get his name?”
“In a sad twist, Chief Burkholder, his name was Noah Fisher.”
The words impact me like a sucker punch. Not too hard, but in just the right place. Six weeks ago, I worked a fatality farm accident in which a young Amish man driving a horse-drawn manure spreader fell and ended up under the wheels. He was killed instantly. It was one of the saddest and most disturbing accidents I’d ever worked. Noah Fisher was seventeen years old. An only child. And his parents were absolutely devastated.
Paige Stelinski is still talking. “Anyway, after I caught him and we talked, he spent the rest of the day cleaning the storage closet and the bathroom, too. I’m telling you, the place gleamed when he was finished. I let him have the items he wanted, and I threw in a pack of cute little bibs.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t give it much thought and just figured he had a little brother or sister on the way and his mom needed help. Just about broke my heart when I heard he was killed. Really nice boy and talented, too.” She laughs. “A woodcarver, of all things. I ended up buying some toys from him.” A wistful sigh escapes her. “I’m sure one day he would have been quite the businessman.”
The mention of the wood carving garners my attention. “What kind of toys?”
“Kind of rustic, but interesting. I think there was a top. A little round teething toy. A couple of rattles. Even a toy box.”
I pull the evidence bag containing the rattle from my desk drawer. “Do the rattles look like this one?”
Her mouth opens. “Exactly the same.” Her eyes land on mine. “You think he’s the—”
“I’d appreciate if you’d keep this between us for now,” I cut in.
“I understand. Of course.”
At the moment, she means it. But I’ve been around long enough to know it won’t last. This is too juicy not to become gossip. At some point, she’ll have a weak moment and spill her guts. The details of the story and the players involved will eventually get around. But if Noah Fisher was involved—if he’s the father of Baby Doe—I want to let his parents know before they hear it from another source.
“I appreciate it,” I tell her. “His parents have been put through the ringer.”
“I can’t imagine how devastated they must be. He was such a sweet kid.” Rising, she smooths her hands over her midi skirt. “In any case, I don’t know if any of what I’ve just told you is helpful, Chief Burkholder, but I thought it was my civic responsibility to let you know.”
I stand and extend my hand for a shake. “I appreciate your coming in to talk to me, Ms. Stelinski. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”
*
Willis and Miriam Fisher live off a dirt road a few miles east of Charm. The house and barn are plain, but picture pretty and well kept. A massive elm tree stands sentinel in the front yard. I park behind an Amish wagon loaded with hay, grab the evidence bags containing the rattle and quilt, and take the sidewalk to the front door. I knock and wait. Frustration presses into me when there’s no answer. I’m in the process of leaving a note when I hear the clip-clop of shod hooves against hard-packed dirt. I turn to see a black buggy pull into the gravel lane.
Tucking the half-written note into my pocket, I leave the porch and meet them in the driveway. “Guder nochmiddawks,” I tell them. Good afternoon.
An Amish man with a shaggy red beard slides from the buggy. He’s about fifty years of age, wearing a blue work shirt, dark trousers with suspenders, and a frayed black coat. His eyes are the color of a cornflower. As I draw closer, I sense those eyes had once been full of good humor and maybe a joke or two. Today, they’re shadowed with the grief of a parent who’s lost a child.
“Mr. Fisher?”
“That’s me,” he says.
I identify myself and offer my hand for a shake. He gives it two firm pumps, eyeing me, and I realize he’s just figured out I was one of the police officers here the day his son was killed.
The woman who’d been sitting beside him comes around the front of the horse and approaches. I nod and offer a smile. “You must be Mrs. Fisher?”
She smiles back. But I can tell it’s a habit borne of politeness. A sense of sorrow hangs in the air like a pall.
“Please call me Miriam,” the woman says.
“What can we do for you, Chief Burkholder?” Willis Fisher asks.
“I’m working on a case,” I begin. “Would you mind answering a few questions? It’s about your son.”
The Amish man’s eyes narrow. “What kind of questions could you possibly have about a dead boy? Did he do something wrong?”
His wife reaches out and pats his arm. “Willis.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I know it must be difficult for you.”
“We miss him every day,” Miriam tells me. “His voice. His smile. The way he used to slam the screen door in the kitchen.”