Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

For the span of several heartbeats, Glock and I sit there, watching snow gather on the windshield.

“Hell of a way to start someone’s day,” he says.

“Hell of a way to start our day.”

“Is this guy going to take the kids?”

I tell him about my conversation with Bishop Troyer. “Might be some problems there.”

“Tough situation for the kids,” he says.

“And everyone else involved.”

Neither of us wants to walk up to that house and knock on the door. Of course, we don’t have a choice. I reach for the door handle first. We’re midway to the house when the back door opens. A Border collie and a fat yellow Labrador bound out, tails wagging, tongues lolling. Behind them, a man shrugs into an insulated coat and closes the door behind him. He’s a tall, thin man who doesn’t look Amish. No beard. No hat or suspenders. But he possesses the kind eye I’ve come to associate with the culture.

“Good morning.” He’s still buttoning his coat when he reaches us. “Is something wrong?”

Glock and I start toward him. “Adam Slabaugh?” I ask.

He has light blue eyes, which remind me of a summer sky, and a face that has seen a lot of years of Ohio’s sometimes extreme elements. He takes in our uniform parkas, and his eyes go wary. I see his shoulders stiffen in a brace, and I know at some point he’s done this before. “Yes?”

I show him my badge and identify myself. “There’s been an accident. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

“Accident?” His gaze flicks to Glock and then back to me. “What happened? Did someone get hurt?”

“I’m afraid so.” I motion toward the house. “Would you like to go inside and sit down, so we can talk?”

“Must be bad if you want me to sit down.” He looks down at his boots, blows out a breath, as if preparing himself for the blow. “Who is it?”

“Are Solomon and Abel Slabaugh your brothers?”

“Yes.” He blinks rapidly. “What happened to them?”

“Your brothers and sister-in-law were killed this morning at their farm.”

“Aw, God.” He takes a step back. “Killed? All three of them? Are you sure?” He looks at Glock, as if expecting him to contradict me.

“We’re sure,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”

He makes a choking sound, takes another step back, as if to distance himself from us and the news we bear. “How in God’s name did it happen?”

“We believe it was methane gas asphyxiation from the manure pit.”

“My God.” Tugging off a glove, he bows his head, scrapes a trembling hand over his face. “I told Solly to keep that old barn ventilated. He never listened to—” He stops speaking mid-sentence and raises his gaze to mine. “The children?”

“They’re fine,” I say. “Unhurt. Physically anyway.”

He closes his eyes briefly, as if thanking God for sparing them, and I know that even though he’s no longer Amish, he’s still a religious man. “How did it happen?” he asks.

I tell him what I learned from the kids’ statements. “Apparently, Rachael was trying to rescue her husband and brother-in-law. I suspect she succumbed to the gases, blacked out, and fell into the pit. The kids tried, but they couldn’t get them out.”

“Poor, poor children. Where are they now?”

“They’re still at the house. Bishop Troyer is there with them.”

Adam’s face darkens. “Then you know I’ve been excommunicated.”

“The bishop told me.”

“I bet he gave you an earful.” His laugh is bitter. “What else did he tell you?”

Knowing the value of silence, I say nothing.

“They’re my nephews and niece, Chief Burkholder. They should be with family. With me.”

I can’t dispute the statement. From all appearances, he’s a decent, hardworking farmer. More importantly, he’s a blood relative. Their only blood relative. The house and property are neat and well kept. I’ll run a criminal check on him, but I’m betting he doesn’t have any convictions. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t assume custody of his niece and his nephews. I don’t mention the bishop’s assertion that the children should be raised Amish. But I can tell from Adam’s reaction that he’s already keenly aware of this.

“Were you and the kids close?” I ask.

“Up until four years ago, I was a big part of their lives.” Adam looks away for a moment, then raises defiant eyes to mine. “As you can see, I’m no longer Amish.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

“Lust, of course.” He gives me a wry smile. “I fell in love with an English woman.” The smile turns bitter. “We married, which is against the Ordnung , so I was put under the bann. I was unrepentant, refused to confess my so-called sins, so I was eventually excommunicated.” He shrugs. “Solly cut me out of the children’s lives.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It was a bad time.”

“So you were estranged from the family,” I say.

“Yes.” His sigh is tired and heavy. “Maybe this is God’s way of bringing those children back to me. Maybe it’s His way of punishing those with small minds.”

The statement takes me aback. It seems odd at a time like this—when he’s just been informed of his brothers’ deaths. Anyone who’s ever lived any length of time knows God doesn’t even the score and that sometimes that bitch Fate gets her way, right and wrong be damned.

“Are you married?” I ask.

“My wife died. I’m a widower.”

I look down at the dogs, letting that bit of information settle in my brain. For a moment, the only sound comes from the caw of a crow perched on the fence.

“I would like to see the children,” Adam says after a lengthy pause.

I know the Amish will not keep this man from seeing his niece and his nephews. But he will not be welcomed by them. He’s an outsider now, an interloper. As a cop, I know the Amish have no right to keep Adam Slabaugh from his own blood.

“Are there any other relatives?” I ask. “Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?”

He gives me a sage look. “You mean Amish relatives?”

“I’m asking you if the children have any other living relatives,” I reply firmly.

“Rachael’s mother, their grandmother, passed away just two months ago. She was old and frail. I am the only family they have left.”

I nod, understanding all too well, and knowing everyone involved is destined for heartache. “Are you going to pursue legal custody?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Those children need to be with family. I’m their uncle.” He blinks, his eyes watery. “I love them.”

I don’t expect any trouble from the Amish, but I know from experience that when kids are involved, emotions many times supersede civility. I offer the best piece of advice I can. “If you plan to pursue custody, you might want to get yourself a lawyer.”

“Do you think I’ll need one?”

“A lawyer will be able to help you navigate through the legal end of it. That’ll make things easier for you. Probably best to do things by the book in this case.” I reach into my pocket and hand him my card. “Let me know if you have any problems.”

Back in the Explorer, I put the vehicle in gear and head down the long gravel lane. Glock breaks the silence with the same question that’s echoing inside my head. “You think there’s going to be a custody issue?”

“I don’t think the Amish will fight him. Not legally anyway. They’re not big on the whole litigation thing. But that’s not to say there won’t be problems. People do crazy things when it comes to protecting their kids.”

Glock nods, and I know he’s thinking about his own child, a little boy not yet a year old. “Maybe Solomon had a will. Maybe he specified provisions for the kids.”