Authors: Julie Kramer
“Anabaptist reformers rejected what they considered the corruption of both the Catholic and Protestant religions,” he said. “From this, Amish tradition grew.”
“So what are their core beliefs?” I asked.
“Back then, Riley, adult baptism was considered a crime.” He spelled out that among their prime tenets was that
only
adults should be baptized—hence the name Anabaptists. “They also believe lay people are just as capable of interpreting scripture as clergy. And that forgiveness of sins can be attainable by faith alone.”
“Personally, I like those last two ideas,” I said.
“Those messages resonated with the peasant class, which alarmed status-quo theologians. So almost from the start, Amish brethren were persecuted by mainstream religion.
“In fact,” he continued, “considering the Amish and their reclusiveness, many scholars believe their withdrawal from society came from having to worship in secret because of this oppression.”
“So much for religious tolerance,” I said.
“That’s a fairly recent concept, Riley. And why the Bill of Rights assuring freedom of religion was so novel. Note what our forefathers put up at the very top in the First Amendment: ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion …’ ”
I gave a short laugh. “This is a new twist, Father. I’m used to you quoting the Bible at me, but not the Constitution. Maybe there’s a little bit of politician as well as priest in you.”
“Running a parish requires some degree of political skill, Riley.”
“So does working in a newsroom, Father.”
He told me the Amish residents in southern Minnesota were Old Order Amish, the most conservative, allowing the least technology and other frills. Their clothing sported hooks and eyes rather than buttons. And while they could ride in automobiles, they could not own one. No telephones in their homes, either, but they could use an English neighbor’s phone or even share a community phone with other Amish.
“I don’t understand the distinction between using versus owning,” I said. “That seems sort of lame to me.”
“It can be difficult for us, as outsiders, to appreciate their rules, but it’s where they choose to draw the line. They feel such practices help preserve their cultural identity. The rules—called their
Ordnung
—vary between Amish communities. A less conservative sect may be more tolerant about modern devices.”
“So is Mom right? Do the Amish consider TV evil? Is my paycheck cursed?”
“More likely they think television represents a connection with the rest of the world and the Bible tells them they are not to be ‘conformed to the world.’ They fear watching TV can lead to temptation and the deterioration of family life.”
“There might be some truth to that,” I said. “But I’m starting to think the next time I venture to Harmony, I’ll just describe myself as a writer, not a TV reporter.”
At the same time, we both glanced at our watches, realizing we needed to end our discussion. So he left to work for God, while I left to work for the devil.
B
acked up in rush-hour traffic between St. Paul and Minneapolis, I put my cell phone on speaker and called Sheriff Eide to get an update on Sarah’s homicide. He didn’t offer much beyond the fact that they were continuing the investigation.
“I wish you’d mentioned to me that the Amish were being less than cooperative,” I said.
“Oh, you mean the newspaper?”
“Yeah, Sheriff, the newspaper. I would have appreciated knowing that fact yesterday instead of reading it sprawled across the front page today.”
“Well, their reporter just happened to come by as the whole thing was heating up.” Just then either my cell got glitchy or his voice got muffled. All I could make out was a few words that sounded like “forgot about.”
“Excuse me, Sheriff? Did you just say you forgot about me?”
His pause was his admission.
Barely a few hours old, this day kept getting more depressing. And I wasn’t even at Channel 3 yet.
“Sheriff Eide, I’ve been covering this story since Josh was rescued from the sinkhole. I thought you and I had an understanding.”
An insincere apology followed and some bland excuses. I
had to acknowledge that the sheriff and I weren’t as tight as I’d hoped. I decided to be blunt about what the media could do for him.
“Besides news coverage helping solve crimes,” I said. “I see from your campaign signs that you’re up for reelection. Murder can keep you in the news—almost like free advertising—and voters become familiar with your name.”
But the sheriff had another take on the situation. “Every story you air reminds voters that I haven’t done my job. Not solving this case could cost me the election.”
“Stop thinking you won’t find the killer,” I said. “Voters don’t go to the polls for another month. By then they might be marveling over your law-enforcement skills. Why don’t you tell me who identified Sarah and we’ll start fresh.”
I had a suspicion that knowing whether the ID came from inside or outside the Amish community might yield a clue.
After a slight pause, he told me that the owner of Everything Amish called them with the name Sarah Yoder after seeing her picture in the media.
“Everything Amish?” I asked. “What’s that?”
He explained that the store was a large warehouse outside of Harmony that stocked Amish merchandise. “Sort of like the middleman.”
“Sounds like the Walmartization of the Amish to me,” I said.
I was distracted briefly from our conversation by a truck trying to merge in front of me to make a last-minute exit. Just then Sheriff Eide made some remark about also being busy with a family lost in the corn maze.
“What about corn mazes?” I asked.
“Some out-of-towners became confused in the maze last night. They ended up calling 9-1-1,” the sheriff said.
Mazes can be traced back to Greek mythology, when Theseus fought the Minotaur in the Labyrinth. Hedge mazes can also be found in the history of Belgium, England, and France. Recently,
cornstalk mazes had become a popular autumn activity in rural Minnesota. There was one not far from Harmony.
“Someone called the police?” This needed clarification. “Because they were lost in a corn maze?”
I remembered being lost in a cornfield once when I was young, having to tough it out and walk till the corn turned to soybeans and I could see the farm silos. Of course, that was before the age of cell phones and 911.
“The couple had a baby along and it got dark and they got scared,” the sheriff said. “So we had to send a K-9 unit over. Turns out, they were only twenty-five feet from the exit.”
That wasn’t a half-bad news story. Except the corn maze was outside the Channel 3 viewing area. But then I had an idea. “Where was this family from?” I asked.
“Edina,” he replied.
Excellent demographics. An affluent Twin Cities suburb. The kind of narrative people would watch and chat about with their coworkers the next day. Viewers liked stories about stupid rich people. Bryce might buy the corn-maze pitch and forget about the Amish debacle.
And it worked. After yelling at me loads, he sent me off to land an interview with the directionally challenged urban family. If they were good talkers, the story would merit a trip south for scenes of the actual maze. The dark corners. The dead ends. And an interview with the rescue team.
My penalty was that I had to shoot the video myself.
Bryce’s office door was shut when I went to double-check that he wasn’t expecting a live shot. Times like this I missed Noreen’s glass walls, when her business was our business. I was nervous about interrupting him. Just as I had decided to march over and knock, his door opened.
Nicole, the new reporter, came out and something about her face made me reluctant to enter. So I left the newsroom to hit the road behind the wheel, figuring Bryce could always call me.
Once again, I promised myself I’d invite Nicole out for a drink after work and officially congratulate her on joining the Channel 3 news team.
Since I was traveling solo, I stopped by my house to pick up Husky for company. He curled his tail around his nose in the backseat and I left him there in the thick of a dog nap. He reminded me of Malik, asleep while I drove.
I taped an interview with the lost maze mother, complete with cute shots of her newborn baby Barlow in his luxury nursery. She was feeling a little silly about the whole corn-maze episode, but was a good sport about being on TV.
“Maybe I did overreact,” she said, “and maybe someday we’ll look back on this bit of family history and laugh. But suddenly it was dark and I started worrying about the baby.”
She planted a kiss on his forehead. “I guess the corn panicked me.”
City slicker talk.
I texted the assignment desk: we have the mom.
• • •
Maze of Mystery had long been a popular local tourist attraction near Harmony. The kind of entertainment three generations could enjoy together on a pleasant autumn outing. Visitors were greeted by displays of antique tractors, pumpkins, and scarecrows holding scythes that looked too sharp to be mere props. They reminded me of the horror film
Children of the Corn.
If Garnett had been with me, he would certainly have recited, “I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with C.”
I would have answered, “Corn.” But instead of cluttering my mind with movie trivia, I needed to reap a story. So I went to work.
The owner had never dealt with a lost-customer situation in all his years operating the corn maze. “I always thought the
whole point was to get lost.” The only other time the cops had been called was when an elderly man had a heart attack inside the maze and needed to be transported to the hospital.
The labyrinth wasn’t open for guests for a couple more hours. Some liked to wander during broad daylight, all the better to see the corn; others preferred the drama of darkness. He agreed to take me and Husky on a tour through the twists and turns, even though dogs weren’t technically allowed. He pointed out posted maps along the way that appeared clear enough for most folks to find their way out.
“The maze is old-fashioned family fun,” he said. “Even Amish families come by to meander through.”
He also showed me a covert shortcut that employees used to escape when they were in a hurry. Husky and I made our way from start to finish, where I framed an acceptable standup, eight-foot-tall cornfields on either side of me.
I fingered the stalks. They were extremely dry tinder because of a lack of rain during the end of the growing season. Peeling back the husks on one ear revealed hard, ripe kernels.
“No smoking allowed,” the owner teased.
All the corn would be harvested after Halloween and fed to their cattle.
I missed having Malik along as photographer because he’d be able to use special stick equipment he kept in the back of the van to shoot a challenging overhead point of view shot of the maze. Not as good as a helicopter aerial, but certainly better than what I’d accomplished.
((RILEY STANDUP))
MOST VISITORS SEEM TO FIND
THEIR WAY OUT OF THE MAZE
FROM START TO FINISH IN ABOUT
AN HOUR. NONE HAVE EVER
REPORTED BEING LOST BEFORE.
When I stopped at the Fillmore County Law Enforcement Office for the 911 call, Sheriff Eide was out, but I heard a news bonanza in the form of an agitated woman’s voice on the tape.
((911 AUDIO))
HELP! WE’RE LOST IN THE CORN.
WE CAN’T FIND THE END.
The dispatcher—more accustomed to dispatching paramedics and fire crews—seemed taken aback by the nature of the call and asked the woman to confirm her location.
((911 AUDIO))
WE DON’T KNOW WHERE WE
ARE. DON’T YOU GET IT? WE’RE
SOMEWHERE IN THE CORN MAZE
AND CAN’T GET OUT. OUR BABY IS
SO LITTLE! PLEASE SEND HELP!
“You’re lost in Maze of Mystery?” the dispatcher asked. Everybody in the area apparently knew of that place. “I’ll stay on the line with you until help arrives.”
For the next eight minutes I heard a reassuring radio voice say that assistance was near, amid baby cries, heavy breathing, and the rustling noise of cornstalks in the wind. The audio cut out when barking from a K-9 team seemed to signal rescue was under way.
I had enough sound for a hilarious story, so I was satisfied.
Husky expressed more interest in the dog on the 911 tape than previously during our corn-maze visit, but seemed disappointed that the other mutt remained in hiding. I thought about how lonely he must be living with me; then I thought about how lonely I was living with him.
“Too bad neither of us can meet the right man or dog.” I
scratched his ears and he settled for that affection. But I craved more than dog approval.
While I toyed with the idea of what to say if I phoned Garnett and if he answered, my cell buzzed. I thought karma was on the line, until I realized the area code was from southern Minnesota, not Washington, DC.
“Hello, this is Riley Spartz.” No voice on the other end. “Can I help you?” I persisted.
“I hope so,” a woman’s voice finally said. “I’d like to discuss the murder of the Amish woman. Can we try again?”
“Who is this?” I asked.
The caller was Josh’s mom.
W
hen Michelle Kueppers heard we were both in the same county, she urged me to stop by her place before Josh got home from school. That detour didn’t give me much time to swing by Everything Amish, but I could tell something had changed since my last visit with her, so this became top priority.
Husky and Bowser did a playful dance in the farmyard, during which Husky wisely recognized the other dog’s dominance. Bowser seemed to remember me as nondangerous, and at least didn’t growl at my heels as I walked to the porch.
Michelle invited me inside this time, and apologized for the last time. I complimented her on her house, decorated in an upscale Norman Rockwell style.
“Let’s talk about why I’m here,” I said, curious how our balance of power had shifted since her son was pulled from the sinkhole.