fence.”
I hit my lapel mike, then think better of it and grab my cell. This is one of those times when I wish I had more officers. At the moment, every member of my force is tied up with the Slabaugh case. I hit the speed dial for the station. “Lois, call the sheriff’s office and tell them we need extra patrols out on Sampson Road. A couple of guys tossed a Molotov cocktail into a buggy.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“Tell them to be on the lookout for a dark pickup truck. Possibly a Ford with two white males inside.”
“You got it.”
Sighing in frustration, I hit END and cross to Pickles. “Get a statement from Shingle. I’m going to see if I can get Kaufman to talk to me.”
Pickles gives me a knowing look. “Good luck with that.”
We both know Kaufman isn’t going to cooperate. The Amish are sectarian and strive to remain separate from the rest of the world. Having grown up Amish, it’s a mind-set I understand. As a cop, the lack of cooperation frustrates me to no end.
I walk over to Kaufman. “What happened?”
“We do not want your help,” he responds.
“Please, Mr. Kaufman, I need to know who did this. If you could just give me a description of the vehicle.”
He stares at me, his expression as hard and unmoved as a stone statue. “This is an Amish matter and will be dealt with by us.”
My father cited that very same phrase a thousand times when I was growing up. Even after all these years, those words still wield the power to send gooseflesh up my arms. When you’re an Amish kid, you obey your parents without question. I learned early in life that such blind trust can come back to bite you in a very big way later in life.
Shaking off thoughts of the past, I frown at Kaufman. “I’m trying to help you,” I say firmly. “Please. Work with me. Help me. You can’t deal with this kind of violence alone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt.”
“God will take care of us.”
A stinging retort teeters on the tip of my tongue. But I know losing my temper won’t win me any points. Trying not to gnash my teeth, I step back and walk over to Liza Kaufman. She refuses to make eye contact with me, but the two teenage boys have no problem meeting my gaze. “Can one of you tell me what happened?”
“We want no involvement in this,” says a tall blond boy. I guess him to be about fourteen years old. He wears a brown wool coat that looks at least two sizes too big, and has the sharp, intelligent eyes of his father.
“You’re already involved, whether you like it or not.”
He tightens his lips.
“Sticking your head in the sand is only going to make things worse.”
When he has nothing to say about that, I skewer the second boy with a hard look. “What about you? Do you know who did this?”
He’s older. Maybe sixteen. Tall and skinny, with huge feet he hasn’t yet grown into. I can tell by the way his eyes skate away from mine that he takes after his mother. Less confrontational, but no less stubborn. “I do not wish to be involved,” he tells me.
“You don’t have to get involved. Just tell me what you saw, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“ Enough! ”
I look over my shoulder and see the elder Kaufman glaring at me. “‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers!’” his voice thunders. “‘For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? What communion hath light with darkness?’”
Those two Bible passages epitomize the Amish view of separation from the rest of the world. I heard them many times as a child. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I began to question the whole idea of separateness. By the time I was eighteen, I knew I would never fit in.
I glare back at Kaufman. “Mer sott em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.”
For an instant, he looks taken aback. I can’t tell if it’s because of the words or my use of Pennsylvania Dutch, but his uncertainty doesn’t last. Bringing his hands together
I hit my lapel mike, then think better of it and grab my cell. This is one of those times when I wish I had more officers. At the moment, every member of my force is tied up with the Slabaugh case. I hit the speed dial for the station. “Lois, call the sheriff’s office and tell them we need extra patrols out on Sampson Road. A couple of guys tossed a Molotov cocktail into a buggy.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
“Tell them to be on the lookout for a dark pickup truck. Possibly a Ford with two white males inside.”
“You got it.”
Sighing in frustration, I hit END and cross to Pickles. “Get a statement from Shingle. I’m going to see if I can get Kaufman to talk to me.”
Pickles gives me a knowing look. “Good luck with that.”
We both know Kaufman isn’t going to cooperate. The Amish are sectarian and strive to remain separate from the rest of the world. Having grown up Amish, it’s a mind-set I understand. As a cop, the lack of cooperation frustrates me to no end.
I walk over to Kaufman. “What happened?”
“We do not want your help,” he responds.
“Please, Mr. Kaufman, I need to know who did this. If you could just give me a description of the vehicle.”
He stares at me, his expression as hard and unmoved as a stone statue. “This is an Amish matter and will be dealt with by us.”
My father cited that very same phrase a thousand times when I was growing up. Even after all these years, those words still wield the power to send gooseflesh up my arms. When you’re an Amish kid, you obey your parents without question. I learned early in life that such blind trust can come back to bite you in a very big way later in life.
Shaking off thoughts of the past, I frown at Kaufman. “I’m trying to help you,” I say firmly. “Please. Work with me. Help me. You can’t deal with this kind of violence alone. Sooner or later, someone’s going to get hurt.”
“God will take care of us.”
A stinging retort teeters on the tip of my tongue. But I know losing my temper won’t win me any points. Trying not to gnash my teeth, I step back and walk over to Liza Kaufman. She refuses to make eye contact with me, but the two teenage boys have no problem meeting my gaze. “Can one of you tell me what happened?”
“We want no involvement in this,” says a tall blond boy. I guess him to be about fourteen years old. He wears a brown wool coat that looks at least two sizes too big, and has the sharp, intelligent eyes of his father.
“You’re already involved, whether you like it or not.”
He tightens his lips.
“Sticking your head in the sand is only going to make things worse.”
When he has nothing to say about that, I skewer the second boy with a hard look. “What about you? Do you know who did this?”
He’s older. Maybe sixteen. Tall and skinny, with huge feet he hasn’t yet grown into. I can tell by the way his eyes skate away from mine that he takes after his mother. Less confrontational, but no less stubborn. “I do not wish to be involved,” he tells me.
“You don’t have to get involved. Just tell me what you saw, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“ Enough! ”
I look over my shoulder and see the elder Kaufman glaring at me. “‘Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers!’” his voice thunders. “‘For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? What communion hath light with darkness?’”
Those two Bible passages epitomize the Amish view of separation from the rest of the world. I heard them many times as a child. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I began to question the whole idea of separateness. By the time I was eighteen, I knew I would never fit in.
I glare back at Kaufman. “Mer sott em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.”
For an instant, he looks taken aback. I can’t tell if it’s because of the words or my use of Pennsylvania Dutch, but his uncertainty doesn’t last. Bringing his hands together
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