Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 16

"Outside is fine."

"It is a nice day, isn't it?" He settles back into his Adirondack chair.

I sit opposite him and take a moment to look around. The yard is small and fenced with white pickets. A big maple tree shades the corner where an old-fas.h.i.+oned swing set sits. A basketball hoop and backboard has been installed in a gravel area, the mesh net swaying in the breeze. It's the perfect retreat for kids and stressed-out parents. "This is a nice facility," I tell him.

"I love this clinic. I love the people-the Amish in particular. I love this part of Ohio." He grins. "Even the long winters. For the first time in my life I can honestly say the work I do is important-and not only to me."

"It must be very gratifying."

"It is. Immensely."

"I remember reading about the grand opening of the clinic," I tell him. "I understand most of your work involves genetic disorders."

"Almost exclusively." He smiles. "Though I've been known to treat a sore throat when indicated. Through the work done here, we've identified some genetic disorders that are almost unheard of elsewhere in the world." That he uses "we" instead of "I" tells me he's a modest person, content to share his achievements with his colleagues, the mark of a man who loves his work and whose mind enables him to see not only the big picture, but the end goal.

"The Amish are unique in that the gene pool is relatively small," he adds, leaning forward and gesturing. "Most of our patients are special-needs children. We're talking quality of life disorders. Cohen Syndrome. Ellis-van Creveld syndrome. Dwarfism. Founder effect inheritable diseases mostly."

"Founder effect?"

"Disorders that can be attributed to a limited gene pool," he replies. "We're working with community leaders on a way to broaden the scope of that pool, and I think we've had some success. My colleagues have been in touch with the bishops of church districts in other states. Colorado and upstate New York, mainly. To a lesser degree, Indiana and Illinois. We're trying to get a relocation-and-exchange program up and running, which is difficult because the Amish are so family oriented. And, of course, the church districts have different rules." He leans closer to me. "But, if we can overcome those things, if we can get young men and women of marrying age to emigrate to out-of-state Amish communities, marry, and have children in their new locale, we could broaden the gene pool and, in effect, eliminate some of these genetic disorders. Of course, only time will tell if-" He stops himself short. "Sorry. Once I start talking about my work here, it's hard to shut me up. Used to bore my wife to tears."

"Sounds fascinating."

"Or maybe you're just too polite to tell me I'm boring you to death."

I smile, find myself liking him. "It's good to be pa.s.sionate about your work."

"Some might argue that I'm a little too pa.s.sionate."

It's obvious he's married to his career-and that his soon-to-be ex-wife had had to compete. I see him as a hopeless workaholic, always coming home late, working weekends, sequestered behind his computer when he's home at all. Hence the pending divorce. "How long have you been in Painters Mill?"

"Going on eight months now. I came down from Cleveland. Different world up there. I needed a change after my wife filed. I'll never go back to the big city. This area, this clinic, has been my salvation, so to speak. It's exciting work, and I couldn't ask for a better group of people to work with."

"The Borntrager children were patients here?"

"They were." His lips twist as if he's bitten into something rotten. "I couldn't believe it when I heard what happened to them. I still can't. Those poor kids. And Paul. My G.o.d, I can't imagine what Mattie must be going through." He gives me a direct look, and I see a layer of thinly veiled outrage in his eyes. "I heard it was a hit-and-run."

"It was."

"Any leads?"

"We're working on it."

"I meant to get up to the hospital to see David, but I've been putting in long hours here and never made it. How's he doing?"

"He's going to be fine."

"Great. I hear they've got an excellent trauma team at Pomerene."

"I'm wondering, Dr. Armitage-"

"Call me Mike, please."

"Mike," I say. "Can you tell me what the children were being treated for?"

"All three were afflicted with Cohen syndrome, to differing degrees."

"What is Cohen syndrome, exactly?"

"Like most of the disorders we treat here, it's genetic in nature. Rare, but not so much among the Amish. It causes a delay in mental and physical development. Neutropenia, or low white blood cell count. Hypotonia, which basically means low muscle tone. A whole array of symptoms that can impact a kid's life in a negative way." He shakes his head. "Mattie and Paul were good with those kids. It never seemed to bother them that they were special-needs. h.e.l.l, they barely noticed. Never complained or felt sorry for themselves or their children. Paul and Mattie loved those kids and raised them the best they could."

"How well did you know them? Paul and Mattie, I mean."

"Well, they'd been coming to the clinic since I arrived. It was a professional relations.h.i.+p, you know, just to talk about the kids enough for me to ascertain how they're doing and gauge improvements or changes, if any." Looking inward, he smiles. "First month or so we pretty much talked about the weather. Mattie and Paul were wary of me. You know, the whole outsider thing. Until I began working here in Painters Mill, I hadn't had much contact with the Amish or their culture, so I was clueless. All of us had to open our minds, so to speak. Once that happened, they began to trust me. I think they realized I care, and they knew I'd do my utmost to help their children. They're good people, Chief Burkholder. Nice family. Kids are well behaved and sweet. I hope to G.o.d you get justice for them."

The urge to tell him I plan to do just that is strong, but I don't because I know better than to make some emotion-driven promise I may not be able to keep. "How well did you know Paul?"

"He was a great guy. Quiet. Religious. To tell you the truth, he had a pretty wicked sense of humor for an Amish guy." He chuckles as if remembering. "I only met him a handful of times, but he was terrific."

Something pings in the back of my brain. "I was under the impression that he had a standing appointment here at the clinic."

"Mattie was the one who usually brought in the kids. Every week like clockwork. For bloodwork, mostly. The children were on medication offered for free as part of a clinical trial. I like to keep a handle on the levels in the bloodstream. And the neutrophils, of course. We also discussed nutritional needs. Every month or so, I had a psychologist come down from Wooster and we did some problem solving and IQ testing." He gives a nod. "Mattie was great with them. Attentive. Gentle with discipline. Good instincts. Patient."

"How well do you know her?"

"Well enough to know those kids were her life. 'Gifts from G.o.d' is the way she referred to them. I can't imagine what this did to her."

We fall silent, and for a moment the only sound comes from the chatter of sparrows from the canopy of the maple tree. "Did either of them mention any disagreements or problems? With other family members or neighbors? Friends or acquaintances?"

"Neither of them ever mentioned any conflicts of any kind. They were the type of folks who seemed to get along with everyone."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the family, Dr. Armitage? Any insights you can offer? Or general observations you can share?"

He takes a moment to consider the question, then shakes his head. "Not that I recall. But they were very private people. Not the type to confide. Our relations.h.i.+p was of a doctor-patient nature. When they were here, it was all about the children." Then he gives me a candid look. "I'm reading between the lines, Chief Burkholder, but it sounds as if there's something going on here that I haven't read about."

"I hate to leave you in the dark, Dr. Armitage, but since it's an open investigation, I'm not at liberty to discuss the details just yet."

"I understand." He sits back in his chair and huffs out a sigh. "It's such a senseless, unimaginable tragedy. Frankly, it p.i.s.ses me off."

My smile feels wan on my face as I rise. "I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me, Dr. Armitage."

"I wish I could do more." He gets to his feet and we shake hands again. "If you need anything else, Chief, please come see me." His mouth twists into an ironic smile. "I'm usually here working until ten or eleven p.m."

I'm midway to the door when he calls out my name.

I stop and turn to see him striding toward me, his expression troubled. "One more thing," he says, and stops a few feet away. "This may or may not be relevant to the case, Chief Burkholder, but you asked, so I'm going to skate uncomfortably close to stepping over the physician-patient privilege line and tell you about an observation I made early in my relations.h.i.+p with the Borntragers."

I feel myself go still inside, silencing my thoughts and the clutter in my brain, the way you do when you know you're about to hear something important and you don't want to miss a single word or gesture or the manner in which it's delivered.

"Let me preface by saying that Paul and Mattie are good and loving parents. Of that, I'm certain." He sighs, looks down at the floor as if he's debating how to broach the subject at all. "The first time I examined David, I found a handprint on his behind. A red welt in the shape of a hand with some bruising beneath the skin. It was evident someone had spanked bare skin with a good bit of vigor. When I asked David about it, he said his datt smacked him for stealing a pie and then lying about eating it. As you know, David is overweight, which is typical of children suffering with Cohen syndrome. I must admit, I was a little taken aback. I know corporal punishment is an acceptable form of discipline in many households. But the fact that this spanking left a bruise gave me pause. I'm sure you know that, as a physician, I'm mandated by state law to report any indication of child abuse."

"I'm aware of the statute," I say.

"I debated whether to file an official report. In the end, however, I elected not to. After much personal deliberation, I drew the conclusion that the discipline was administered in a manner consistent with the Amish culture. In addition, I surmised the bruising was probably a result of the neutropenia, that's a common attribute of Cohen syndrome." He offers a grim smile. "You're not going to tell me I did the wrong thing, are you? Because let me tell you, I lost sleep over it."

"My gut tells me your judgment didn't steer you wrong."

"You sound pretty sure of that."

"I used to be Amish," I say.

He doesn't quite manage to hide his surprise. "Wow. I didn't know. That's quite fascinating, actually."

"I don't know if fascinating is exactly the right word." I give him a smile. "But I received my fair share of 'smackings' as a kid. You're correct in that in many Amish households, spanking is a common form of discipline. Some of the stricter parents have been known to use a belt or even the old-fas.h.i.+oned willow switch."

"If it had been welts or bruising from either of those things, I probably would have filed the report."

Knowing it's time for me to move on, I extend my hand again and we shake. "I'll let you get back to your patients."

"Good luck with the case, Chief Burkholder."

I start toward the door.

Back in the Explorer, I call Glock and recap my conversation with Armitage.

"So what's your take on the bruising?" he asks.

"It's troubling," I tell him. "Whether you approve or disapprove of spanking as a form of punishment-and most Amish fall into the former category-this particular situation is unfortunate because he's special needs."

"Did the doc say which parent did the spanking?"

"Paul Borntrager."

"Do you think it's relevant?" he asks. "I mean, to the case?"

"No."

"It's interesting that Mattie's the one who had the standing appointment," he says.

"I think that's the bigger issue."

"If this. .h.i.t-and-run was planned, do you think she might have been a target? Or do you think this was random? What?"

"I don't know. None of it makes any sense."

Another stretch of silence, then he says, "You don't think this has anything to do with those special-needs kids, do you?"

The words creep over me like a stench and linger. "That paints a pretty ugly picture. I can't fathom a motive."

"Me, either. Something to consider, though."

I pause, the possibilities running through my head. "I'd feel better if we could keep an eye on things out there until we get a handle on this."

"You mean around the clock?"

"Ideally."

"Going to require some O.T." He whistles. "Or a miracle."

"Never underestimate the power of groveling."

He guffaws. "There is that."

"If Rasmussen can spare a deputy, we might be able to cover it between our two departments."

"Rasmussen can't spare the toilet paper to wipe his a.s.s."

But the words have already pa.s.sed between us. I know if my request is denied, we'll find another way. I know I'll be able to count on Glock.

"I'm on my way to the funerals," I tell him. "Will you let the rest of the team know about all of this?"

"You bet."

I'd wanted to arrive at the Borntrager farm to speak with Mattie well before the funerals. I'd wanted to accompany her to the graabhof-not as the chief of police, but as her friend-to bury her husband and children. Instead, I got caught behind a procession of buggies and ended up issuing a citation to an impatient tourist for pa.s.sing on a double yellow line. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't happy about the ticket. I told him no one driving to the cemetery was particularly happy either, so he's in good company. Have a nice day.

By the time I arrive, dozens of black buggies, each numbered with white chalk so they know the order in which they belong in the convoy, are parked in the gravel lot. The smells of horses and leather and fresh-cut gra.s.s float on a light breeze. The lot is filled to capacity and many of the remaining buggy drivers have begun to park alongside the road. Using my emergency lights to alert traffic to the slow-moving and stopped vehicles, I park on the shoulder well out of the way, grab a few flares and toss them onto the road to make sure pa.s.sing drivers slow down.

The graveyard exists as the Amish have existed for over two centuries: plainly. Hundreds of small, uniform headstones form razor-straight rows in a field that had once flourished with soybeans and corn. Unlike English cemeteries where the headstones vary from ma.s.sive works of sculpted granite to tiny crosses, the Amish graabhof is an ocean of white markers etched with a simple cross, the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death.

The cemetery is a somber yet peaceful place and pretty in its own way. My mamm and datt are buried fifty yards from where I stand. The reality of that sends a wash of guilt over me. I haven't been here since I worked the Plank case last fall and attended the funerals of five members of an Amish family slain in their farmhouse. I tell myself I'm too busy to spend my time mingling with the dead. The truth of the matter is that, despite its bucolic beauty, this is the one place in Painters Mill that scares me.

I pa.s.s through the gate and start toward the gravesite. Dozens of families, young couples, the elderly, scads of children, and mothers with babies stand in the cool afternoon air. As is usually the case, the Amish community has come out in force to mourn the Borntrager family and support Mattie and young David. Grief hovers in the air like a pall.

Because I'm no longer Amish-and not necessarily welcome here-I hang back from the mourners, an outsider even in death. Once everyone is in place, the crowd falls silent. Bishop Troyer reads a hymn in Pennsylvania Dutch as the pallbearers lower each of the three plain pine coffins into hand-dug graves. When he finishes, heads are bowed, and I know the mourners are silently reciting the Lord's Prayer. Instead of fighting the words that come with such ease, I lower my head and join them, something I haven't done in a very long time.

When the ceremony is over and the Amish start toward their buggies to return to their farms, I thread my way through the crowd toward the gravesites. I nod my respect to everyone who makes eye contact with me. Some nod back. A few offer grim smiles. Some of the older Amish, the ones who know I left the fold, give me a wide berth.

It takes me a few minutes to find Mattie. She's standing next to Bishop Troyer, David, and her parents while several young men shovel dirt into the graves. Her face is red and wet from crying. But she doesn't make a sound. Her datt, Andy Erb, looks nearly as shaken as his daughter and grips her hand so tightly his knuckles are white. Her mamm, stoic-faced and tense, holds David's hand just as tightly.

This isn't the time or place to speak with Mattie about the information I learned from Armitage earlier; I can tell from her expression she's barely holding it together. But I can't delay much longer, because if someone tried to kill her and failed, the possibility exists they'll try again.