“Do you have any ID on you?”
She looks down at the ground and shakes her head.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Sixteen.”
“Where do you live?”
She motions with her eyes in the direction we were traveling. “A couple miles thataway. Township Road 42.”
“You live with your mamm and datt?”
She looks at me from beneath her lashes, curious about my Amish pronunciation. “Ja.”
She’s small in stature. Five feet. Barely a hundred pounds. “Why did you run away from me?”
“You … scared me. I … didn’t know who you were or what you wanted.”
“Do you have anything you shouldn’t have in your pockets?” I ask.
“No.”
I check her kapp for anything hidden, straighten it for her, and then, as quickly and impersonally as possible, I run my hands over her dress. I squeeze the pockets of her apron and my hand stops. I reach inside and pull out a red marker. The same kind of marker that was used to draw the crude arrow on the image of Aden Karn.
I hold up the marker. “What are you doing with this?”
The girl looks down at the ground, thinks better of it, and meets my gaze. “My little brother. He … he must have put it in my pocket.”
“You know you’re not a very good liar, right?”
She shakes her head as if I’ve annoyed her and drops her gaze to the ground.
“That’s a compliment,” I add.
She doesn’t respond.
I sigh. “Christina, if I take off those handcuffs, will you behave yourself?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Taking her arm, I turn her around, and then fish the key out of its compartment and unlock the cuffs. While she’s rubbing her wrists, I pull the photo from my pocket and show it to her. “Did you use that marker to draw on this photo?”
She looks at it and her expression crumples. Pressing her hands against her face, she begins to cry. “Please. Don’t tell.”
I wait for her to expound, but she continues to cry, her shoulders shaking. After a full minute, I motion toward the deer trail in the direction from which we came. “Let’s go back to my vehicle.”
Hands shaking, she wipes tears from her eyes. “Please don’t take me to jail.”
“No one’s going to jail.” I motion again. “Walk.”
Neither of us speaks as we retrace our steps back to Hansbarger Road. It’s nearly dark now, and as we get closer to the road, I speak into my radio. “Ten-twenty-two,” I say, canceling my earlier call for assistance.
“Copy that,” comes my dispatcher’s voice.
We reach the fence, and I wait while the girl climbs over. She stands patiently while I do the same. I spot her lost shoe just off the path, and point. I wait while she puts it on and laces up.
We reach my Explorer and I open the passenger-side door for her. “Get in.”
She obeys without speaking. I go around to the driver’s-side door and slide behind the wheel.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks.
“I’m taking you home,” I tell her.
“I’m sorry I ran away from you.” She reaches into her apron, pulls out a tissue, and hands it to me. “Your face … it’s bleeding.”
I take the tissue, then lean to look at the damage in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, a small line of blood trails down from an inch-long scratch.
Thinking of my upcoming wedding, I frown, blot it with the tissue. “I’m wondering why you marked up the photo like that.”
She looks down and smooths the front of her dress. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Did you know Aden Karn?”
She looks out the window, doesn’t answer.
Sighing, I start the engine. “Were you friends?”
I hear a quick intake of breath. Her shoulders stiffen. Both are minute responses, but I notice, and they are telling.
“No.”
Checking for traffic in my rearview mirror, I pull onto the road. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
She interlaces her fingers, but not before I notice her hands are shaking. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Judging from what you drew on the photo, I’m assuming you didn’t like him very much.”
No response.
I keep my eyes on the road ahead, puzzled, trying not to be annoyed by her refusal to talk, giving her some space. But I know there’s something there. Most people believe that when you’re Amish, life is simple and perfect. The reality is that even the plain life isn’t always so simple. Especially when you’re a teenager and trying to understand the world around you, and you don’t have the guidance or tools to do it.
I can’t fathom why this girl would draw such a crude image on the picture of a dead man and leave it at the scene of his death. I have no idea if they were friends or enemies or simple acquaintances. The one thing I do know is that she’s keeping secrets. If I want to get to those secrets, I need to play it smart.
“Do your parents know?” I ask.
She swings her gaze to me, her eyes wide and alarmed. “Know what?”
“Do they know you were friends with Aden?”
She squeezes her eyes closed. “They don’t know anything. Please don’t tell them I was here. I just want to forget all of it.”
I pull into the lane of the farm where she lives. “What is it you want to forget about, Christina?”
When she only continues to stare down at her hands twisting in her lap, I add, “You know Aden Karn was murdered, don’t you?”
“Of course I know. Everyone knows. That’s all they’re talking about.”
I switch to Deitsch. “You mean the Amisch?”
She nods.
“What are they saying?”
“Just that no one knows what happened. They’re frightened and they’re sad.”
I nod. “Do you have any idea why anyone would want to hurt him?”
“No.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“Of course not.” She gapes at me as if I’ve accused her of murder. “Am I in trouble?”
“I’m going to do you a favor and let you off the hook for running from me,” I say. “I know you were scared. But in the future, don’t run from the police. We’re here to help people, not harm them, okay?”
She hangs her head and nods. “Please don’t tell my parents I drew that picture.”
I park behind a manure spreader in the gravel area near the big farmhouse and shut off the engine. When it comes to any interaction between me and a juvenile, it’s my policy to never withhold information from parents or a legal guardian. That said, drawing an image on a photo isn’t illegal or even relevant and, therefore, is out of my realm of responsibility.
“How about if I let you tell your parents what happened?” I say. “Does that sound fair?”
She looks away, nods.
I hand her my card, which has my cell phone number on the back. “Christina, if you think of anything important that you forgot to say, or if you just want to talk about something, will you call me?”
Another nod.
“I promise I’ll listen, okay?”