Authors: Julie Kramer
“A beautiful, complicated pattern. Like you, Riley.”
Softly, in my ear, he whispered those words—possibly the most tender compliment any man has ever given me—and they lingered in my mind long after we drove off in separate directions.
I could feel myself falling for him hard, aching for our reunion.
In some ways, I was like the heroine in my Amish melodrama, torn between two men from very different worlds. Except I didn’t feel so divided anymore. Maybe the reason Garnett and I never worked out was because we were never meant to stay together.
W
hen I walked into the kitchen the next morning, my parents had prepared a hearty farm breakfast spread of eggs, hash browns, and pancakes. I told them I was dieting.
“TV adds ten pounds, Mom, and your meals double that.”
“Oh, Riley, you’re lovely,” my mom assured me. “Don’t you worry about how you look. You probably weigh less with that haircut.”
I decided to end the food debate by simply digging in with a fork now and being glad I wasn’t served Amish specialties like sausage and tomato gravy. I could always skip lunch later.
I didn’t tell my parents about Ike because I wasn’t sure what to say. My love life was certainly more complex than it had been twenty-four hours earlier, but I was committed to seeing where our liaison might lead. Should my mom and dad learn I was possibly falling for a man who lived near them, they would become giddy with visions of grandchildren.
I pushed Ike out of mind and concentrated on pancakes. I showed my parents the notebook from Sarah’s room, but didn’t have much hope they’d be able to help interpret it.
My ancestors spoke German as well as English on the farm, until the world wars came and that language was considered unpatriotic. Those who knew
Deutsch
stopped speaking it, even
at home, to demonstrate their allegiance to America. My father was the first generation of his kin not to learn German.
While Amish speak Pennsylvania Dutch, my mother believed they wrote English, just from watching them jot down her holiday pie orders. “But they do speak German during church, so maybe they can write it.”
“Maybe Sarah didn’t want her innermost thoughts easily comprehended by others,” I said. “I have to find someone who can translate the diary. Someone I trust.”
I had been thinking of asking Ike to look at the pages. He had told me he’d call in a few days when he got back from Ohio. While I relished the thought of his return, I didn’t want to wait that long for an interpreter.
“How about Father Mountain?” my mom asked.
I dialed him immediately, but he had his own problems. The Catholic Church was changing some of the words for Mass. He gave me one example. Instead of responding “and also with you,” the congregation was supposed to say, “and with your spirit.”
“And the list of changes is long,” he said. “This is making my job harder.”
“Maybe you should retire,” I suggested.
“Not with the current priest shortage,” he said. “I’ll probably have to say Mass till I’m eighty.”
And as for German, yes, he said Amish children are taught to write the language, but no, he couldn’t read it himself.
“Latin challenges me enough.”
Our rapport felt so good at that moment that I stepped outside so my parents couldn’t hear. I asked Father Mountain about anointing me.
“You mean the sacrament of last rites?” His voice was incredulous.
“Yes, Father, but I thought you didn’t call it that anymore.”
“We don’t, but that’s still essentially what it is, and you don’t
sound very close to death to me. We now call it Anointing of the Sick, and you don’t even sound sick.”
“I’d like it as insurance. I’ve had some close calls. I think I would feel like God was on my side more.”
“I’m concerned about your motivation for this sacrament, Riley. I don’t think I’m comfortable anointing you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You haven’t seemed spiritually healthy lately. I don’t want you feeling at ease with death.”
Suddenly I understood what he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud. “You’re worried I’m suicidal.”
He didn’t answer, and was probably thinking back to when my husband died and my neighbor found me in the garage with the car running.
“That’s not what’s happening here,” I said. “I just wanted another form of forgiveness from the church.” Of all people, he knew I was still haunted by my actions in a cemetery in Iowa that left one man dead.
“If you need forgiveness, Riley, come to confession.”
“Please, Father Mountain, don’t tell my parents about this.”
“Then don’t give me a reason to.”
H
usky followed me out to the car, so I let him climb in the backseat to go home with me. My parents waved to us, pleased that they got to spend so much time with me. They saw more of me in the last week than in the last year and had no idea about my tense conversation with Father Mountain.
On the way back to the station, I stopped at the Kueppers’ farm to see if Michelle had heard anything more about her husband’s DNA test.
While Bowser and Husky ran between the barn and shed, I went inside with Michelle for another look at the Amish table she and her husband had purchased from Sarah. I admired the dark wood and clean lines. A framed military photo of Brian and the American flag were still displayed.
“This is quite patriotic,” I said. “Do you mind if I take a picture with my cell phone?”
I wasn’t sure whether it might be useful, but I liked to be prepared in case something turned into news. She had no objection.
When the time came to leave, I couldn’t find my dog.
“Husky,” I called. “Time for home.” But he didn’t come running. The hounds were probably in the back field, but I stuck my head in an open shed door to check if they were there anyway.
A dog bed in the corner caught my eye. Stunning colors stood out even in the dim light. As I got closer, I realized both dogs
were sleeping on a handmade quilt with small, precise stitches and numerous bright fabric patches of green, gold, and maroon.
It looked Amish to me, even heirloom quality.
I’d been craving such a quilt as a souvenir and might have even offered to buy it from the Kueppers family except it smelled awful. That’s what happens when dogs sleep on art. I vowed that when Ike made good on his quilt promise to me, Husky would not be allowed anywhere near it.
When I went back into the house, I mentioned to Michelle that Bowser had nicer bedding than me. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.
I decided to be direct. “How could you give such a beautiful quilt to your dog?”
“What?” Then, hands on her hips, she mumbled something like, So that’s where it went. “Show me this dog bed.”
I motioned for her to follow me out to the shed. “Tell me what Bowser did to deserve such a prize.”
She shook her head. “Bowser must have stolen that quilt from the trash. I had tossed it in a pile of rubbish to be burned.”
I pointed in the corner of the dark building. Both dogs, still nestled on the cloth trophy, raised their heads. “How come you didn’t want the quilt?”
“It’s complicated, Riley.”
“Don’t forget, reporters love stories.”
The one she told was a whopper. “That quilt kept Josh warm in the sinkhole.”
Now I was really confused. “Josh brought a quilt on his hunting adventure?”
Michelle shook her head. “The quilt was already in the hole.”
She explained that the quilt had been wrapped around Sarah Yoder’s body. Josh had used it to keep from freezing, and was still huddled under it when he was rescued. The sheriff ushered mother and son to the back of his squad car. Once Josh started sobbing about the zombie body underground, the interview was
cut short and a deputy was ordered to drive them home while the law worked to verify his tale. Michelle didn’t learn about the connection regarding the quilt and the body until later when she and Josh talked.
“The cops described the woman as naked,” I said. “But you’re telling me she was originally shrouded in a quilt? That quilt?”
Now Michelle squirmed. “It smelled horrible. I couldn’t have it in the house. Bowser and I had a tug of war. I won. But he must have retrieved it later.”
Michelle did not seem to realize that the quilt was a part of the crime scene and an important clue.
“Did you wash it?” I asked.
Her answer was critical. “No, the stench was too icky. And knowing its history, I didn’t want it near me or Josh. I threw it out and didn’t think about it till now.”
Maybe it wasn’t too late. I explained that the quilt was evidence. And how the chain of evidence worked.
“Investigators will need to interview you and Josh to establish the connection between the quilt and the body. The crime lab will want to run forensics. They’ll be looking for DNA of the victim and the killer and whatever else comes to mind. They’ll want samples of your hair, Josh’s hair, even Bowser’s hair.”
“Am I in trouble?” Michelle seemed worried. “Did I tamper with evidence?”
“The cops aren’t going to be happy, but you haven’t committed a crime. This is more their fault than yours. They should have asked more questions and confiscated the quilt. But it sounds like by the time the experienced homicide team arrived, the quilt was already gone.”
I could see how, with all the furor about a dead body, Josh’s situation became a lower priority. “It’s important that you contact them before more time passes. It might even help prove your husband wasn’t involved.”
I suspected too much time had passed. But I played optimist rather than realist and sent her inside to call the sheriff. That was a call I was glad not to have to make. While we waited for law enforcement, I brought the quilt out from the shed. I covered my nose with one hand, but could still smell the stench.
I resisted shaking it clean, but spread it on the lawn to take a closer look. Other than dirt, the odor, and a few stains that might or might not have been blood, the quilt was inspiring in both its simplicity and complexity—a geometric pattern with a star.
I recalled Ike’s initial sales pitch. “No two Amish quilts are alike.
Each is as unique as a fingerprint.
” If forensics came up a bust, could ownership of the quilt itself identify the killer?
The quilt belonged to either the victim or the killer. If it belonged to the victim: dead end. But if it belonged to the killer, might someone else recognize it?
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and took a picture of the quilt.
• • •
The quilt story was the lead for ten. While Bryce wasn’t interested in Amish culture, and was still mad at me about the missing camera, he appreciated the visual nature of the quilt.
((ANCHOR BOX))
TONIGHT WE BRING YOU AN
EXCLUSIVE CLUE IN THE AMISH
MURDER, A CLUE CHANNEL 3
BROUGHT TO THE ATTENTION OF
LAW ENFORCEMENT.
((TWOSHOT))
RILEY SPARTZ JOINS US NOW WITH
THE DETAILS.
((RILEY CU))
WHEN THE BODY OF SARAH
YODER WAS DISCOVERED IN A
SINKHOLE, DETECTIVES WERE
OPERATING ON THE THEORY SHE
HAD BEEN DUMPED THERE NAKED.
TODAY CHANNEL 3 LEARNED
THAT THE BODY WAS WRAPPED
IN A QUILT, THEN DUMPED.
INVESTIGATORS ARE NOW
EXAMINING THE BEDDING FOR
FORENSIC EVIDENCE.
((RILEY QUILT SHOT))
HERE IS A PHOTO OF THAT QUILT.
I HAVE SEEN IT UP CLOSE AND
IT IS HANDMADE AND QUITE
DISTINCTIVE. IF YOU HAVE
EVER SEEN THIS QUILT PLEASE
CONTACT LAW ENFORCEMENT.
Because there wasn’t much video to pair with the quilt story, the newscast producer thought it best that the anchor debrief me in a question-and-answer session to get the rest of the facts out.
(RILEY ANCHOR DEBRIEF)
RILEY, HOW DID THIS QUILT COME
OUT OF NOWHERE? AND WHY THE
CONFUSION AS TO WHETHER THE
BODY WAS NAKED OR NOT?
((RILEY CU))
HERE’S WHERE THE STORY
GETS A BIT INCREDIBLE: JOSH
KUEPPERS, THE BOY WHO FELL
IN THE SINKHOLE, USED THE
QUILT TO KEEP WARM THAT
NIGHT. IN THE FLURRY OF THE
RESCUE, THE QUILT WENT HOME
WITH HIM. THIS ALL CAME TO
LIGHT WHILE I WAS VISITING
THEIR FARM. I ADVISED THEM TO
TURN THE QUILT OVER TO LAW
ENFORCEMENT AND THEY DID SO.
I found it ironic that pictures were playing such an important role in this case. First, pictures of a face. Now a quilt.
T
he next morning I was taping a photo of the quilt to the war wall in my office when the front desk called to ask if I was expecting a guest. I wasn’t.
“Well, you have one. What is your name again? Thao Pheng.”
The biggest change at Channel 3 following the spree killing was that off-duty police officers now manned the front and back doors. They flaunted handguns and Tasers and did not seem afraid to use them.
“Thao Pheng?” I repeated. “Never heard of him. What does he want?”
Part of the new security rules said that employees were to alert the front desk of any scheduled visitors. Such precautions made the station’s general manager feel he was making the building safer, but that change wouldn’t have prevented the newsroom disaster.
The shooter was expected. The shooting wasn’t.
“He says it’s important that he speak to you,” the guard said.
“Can you press him for more details?” I said. “This is sort of a bad time for me to meet.”
The security guards also stressed that if an employee did not know the walk-up guest, they should meet in a public place, outside the station. That way, the coffee shop up the street could be shot up instead of Channel 3.
These restrictions made it harder for sources to show up spontaneously, like a few years ago when a snitch talked his way into the TV station and handed me a lead story about the chief.