Another Death in Amish Country, A Jake Curtis / Vanessa Malone Mystery

By Tony Flye

Midnight in an Amish cornfield. Pitch dark, no lights in sight. The moon and stars hidden by the thick clouds. The air filled with the scent of the promised rain. No sounds but the sound of the wind rushing through the tall corn stalks. The killer stood before the quaking woman. In the killers right hand, a razor sharp knife, waving in front of the woman's nose, the killer forced the woman to strip. The killer put a free hand on the now naked woman's shoulder; the knife in front of the woman's right eye and forced her to her knees on to the rich soil of the cornfield. The rising wind carried off the curses of the killer's screaming at the woman. The killer pressed the razor sharp tip of the knife against the woman's bare breast, causing a small dimple to appear in the woman's flesh. "You stole my lover from me," the killer shouted in the woman's ear. The woman shrieked as the killer plunged the knife into the woman's breast, the handle pressing deep into the woman's flesh. The woman screamed in agony as the knife sliced into the her. Mesmerized at the sight of her blood pouring out of her wound, the woman, looked down at her blood dripped from her body. The woman looked up at the killer in time to see the knife being driven into her body again, and again and again. The woman no longer screamed. Dead people don't scream. Blood lust overcame the crazed killer. The killer kept stabbing and screaming and cursing the dead woman. Exhausted by the energy of the frenzy, the killer grabbed a handful of the woman's hair and pulled her head back exposing her tender throat. The killer cruelly and deeply drew the sharp blade across the woman's throat. The woman's blood drained from her head. The killer pushed the woman's still kneeling body to the ground just as a loud and rolling clap of thunder that sounded like a thousand cannons firing all at once broke the silence of the cornfield. A brilliant lightening show filled the black sky. Dark again, the air grew bone chilling cold and the skies opened up and a torrential rain fell. The killer turned and walked calmly from the cornfield as the heavy rain washed the woman's blood and any traces of evidence into the earth of the cornfield; all except the naked and brutally murdered woman.
Who was the woman? Who killed her? And more importantly why was she murdered?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Flye
• Release date: Jun 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463737668

Tony Flye

Tony Flye's third book in the Jake Curtis / Vanessa Malone Mystery series, DEATH IN DIVORCE is in the final stages of editing and should be available by Christmas Tony is also working on a collection of short stories tentatively titled STORIES OF HORROR AND MURDER

Book preview

Cover photo and cover art by Rocky M.

DEDICATION

For Susan, my inspiration

ANOTHER DEATH IN AMISH COUNTRY, A JAKE CURTIS / VANESSA MALONE MYSTERY

CHAPTER 1

THE CLOTHING PILED in the cornfield belonged to the scared, sniveling, naked woman crying a few feet away from the pile. Her lacy bra and panties lay on top of the cut off blue jeans and lighter blue tank top. Her shoes under everything. It was as if her attacker made her take her clothes off starting with her white strappy sandals and working upwards.

Get on your knees, bitch, the attacker shouted at the naked woman.

The temperatures dropped steadily during the afternoon reaching into the low forties. Ominous clouds obliterated the stars and moon. The smell of the much needed rain permeated the air. A bone chilling gust of wind blew through the rows of cornstalks making Margaret Whitfield shiver and wrap her arms around her naked chest.

Still standing, the attacker pressed her shoulders down forcing Margaret Whitfield to her knees. Margaret looked up at her attacker, fear opening her eyes wide. Margaret Whitfield screamed at the top of her lungs as the finely honed point of the razor sharp blade of the butcher's boning knife, depressed a tiny dimple on the soft white skin of her bare left breast instilling fear but nonetheless not yet drawing blood. The attacker pushed the knife down slightly so the point barely pierced through Margaret Whitfield's delicate skin. She let out another earth-shattering scream just as a rumble of thunder from the coming storm drowned out her sound. A droplet of bright red blood appeared where the point pierced Margaret's skin.

The tall corn stalks heavy laden with the ripe, and waiting to be harvested ears of corn and another larger rumble of thunder muffled Margaret's screams and the attacker's shouts. Encouraged by Margaret's screams the attacker plunged the sharp blade through Margaret's breast and deep into her chest. The wooden handle of the butcher's knife depressed into the flesh of Margaret's breast. She screamed yet another long horrifying, blood curdling scream like someone is being attacked by a voracious wild animal.

The attacker pulled the blade from Margaret's breast. Shock and horror opened Margaret's eyes. She looked down and touched her bleeding breast with her fingertips then raised them close to her face and stared at her own blood as if she couldn't comprehend where the blood dripping down her fingers came from. Margaret looked down at the blood pouring from her own body and watched it drip into the parched earth of the cornfield. In a panic she put her hands over her breast trying in vain to stop her blood from pouring out and of her and on to the ground.

You bitch, you fucking whore, the attacker shouted in anger. I loved her and you stole her from me, you bitch, the attacker hissed between clenched teeth. The attacker smiled down at Margaret's once pretty face now twisted in agony.

With both hands wrapped around the knife handle, the attacker shouted: Die bitch and forcefully plunged the blade into Margaret's chest again and again and again. Margaret fell backwards on the dirt. She no longer moved. The attacker's calm, methodical attack turned into a mad blood frenzy as if in the throes of a massive uncontrollable orgasm of lust. Blood whipped from the blade splattering the nearby corn stalks each time the attacker forcefully yanked the knife from Margaret's body.

Gripping the knife in both fists the attacker bellowed: You fucking bitch whore, and viciously plunged the blade into Margaret's chest again and again like a sewing machine needle stitching a buttonhole in a well crafted custom made suit. Margaret long ago stopped screaming as her life ebbed away minutes ago and with it her blood drained into the fertile earth of the cornfield.

Still enraged, and exhausted from repeatedly plunging the knife into Margaret's flesh again and again, the killer grabbed a handful of Margaret's long, but now blood soaked, blond hair and pulled her head back as far as it would go, exposing Margaret's pale, delicate throat and daintily drew the sharp blade gently across Margaret Whitfield's tender throat. A thin, fine red line appeared across her throat. With more forceful downward pressure, the killer slowly, sensuously started slicing the knife blade deeper into the soft flesh of Margaret's neck as if the murderer was slicing a juicy steak. The killer tired of the slow pace of the cutting started hacking at Margaret throat until the blade rasped against the bones of her spinal column. Her throat opened and gave Margaret a second, broader, and more macabre smile below her mouth.

The murderer let Margaret's head drop to the earth as the last of Margaret's blood drained from the arteries and veins in her head and neck and pooled on the ground. The murderer walked away leaving Margaret Whitfield dead on the ground, her blood soaking deep into the moisture starved field.

A chill wind, a rumble of thunder and an amazing lightning display momentarily filled the black sky with a noontime brightness. The brightness faded with another and louder clap of thunder sounding like an extensive artillery barrage and the clouds opened and a torrential rain fell washing Margaret Whitfield's blood into the dry earth of the cornfield. The murderer stood and walked out of the cornfield let the rain wash away Margaret's blood.

*****

THE RINGING TELEPHONE brought me out of my mental fog as I stared in a zoned out daze at the Washington Post sports page box score for last night's Nationals-Dodgers baseball game. The Dodgers gave up three in the first and were never in the game after that.

Hello, I said answering the phone hoping the caller was a paying client. Business had been slow the last few months with nothing but the normal background and pre-employment checks I performed for various select clients. It did manage to pay the rent and an occasional dinner out for my wife Vanessa and myself.

"Jake, Gordon Meade, how have you been?

I've been well, how about yourself?

We're all good here, Gordon Meade said. Gordon Meade was the private first class in my Marine Corps platoon who later became enchanted with a beautiful young Amish widow, converted to the Amish religion and married her. They now have two children and a thriving Amish farm. I knew something was amiss in Lancaster because Gordon called me on the phone and the Amish don't have telephones.

How's Vanessa? Gordon asked.

She's great. How's Rebecca?

She's fine. Little Amos and Martha are growing like weeds. Little Amos and Martha are Rebecca and Gordon's two and one year old children respectively.

I'm glad they look like their mother instead of you, I said.

So am I.

"How's life in Lancaster County?

It's the reason I called. Do you remember Margaret Whitfield? Gordon asked.

I had to think for a moment. Isn't she the woman who murdered your father-in-law? (Death in Amish Country)

That's her. She was released from the state mental hospital six, or so, months ago after spending three years confined there.

Margaret was found dead in one of the Stoltzfus' fields, murdered, stabbed multiple times and her throat slit. Detective Lieutenant Miller arrested David Stoltzfus, Gordon said.

Margaret Whitfield was the emotionally obsessed woman who had a romantic relationship with David Stoltzfus, Rebecca's oldest brother. The problem with the relationship was that while David was Amish, Margaret was Englisch, English, the Amish name for a non-Amish person. David's father threatened to beat and lock his son in the barn to keep him in the Amish church and away from Margaret. David became an obsession to Margaret. The more he tried to back away from her, the harder Margaret pressed him.

One fall night she finally snapped, and stabbed Amos Stoltzfus in the back in the midst of the raging fire engulfing the Stoltzfus' barn. Rebecca's youngest brother, Caleb, accidentally caused the fire by knocking over a white gasoline fueled Coleman lantern. Fed by bales of dried hay for feeding the livestock in the winter, and the decades old beams and boards of the structure itself, turned the small fire into a blazing inferno almost instantly.

Gordon happened to be at the Stoltzfus farm that night, to discuss with Amos his marrying Amos' daughter, Rebecca. As hard as Amos wanted to keep David in the church, he wanted to keep Gordon out of the church and away from his daughter.

A single, never married young Amish woman comes under the protection of her father until she marries. When a young woman marries, she comes under the protection of her husband. If she should become a widow, she is under her own protection. Rebecca didn't need her father's permission to marry Gordon, but Rebecca gave her father the respect she felt due him.

Amos forgot his Amish prohibition against fighting lost his temper. In the midst of the confrontation, Amos slapped Rebecca across her face. Gordon, infuriated at seeing the woman he loved slapped, even if it was by her own father. Gordon allowed his instinctive Marine Corps training to overcame his newly learned Amish non-fighting teachings. With no choice but to defend Rebecca, Gordon took a swing at her father. Fisticuffs between the two men ensued. While Amos Stoltzfus was older, he had years of hard work doing manual farm labor to build up his muscles and Gordon, while younger, had extensive Marine Corps training in hand to hand combat. The two fought like their lives depended on it as the thick, black, smoke of the inferno enveloped them making their breathing more difficult.

In the course of the fight, Margaret Whitfield sneaked into the barn and fatally stabbed Amos Stoltzfus three times in the back and getting away without being noticed. Amos went limp. Gordon, his lungs filling with the arid smoke, grabbed Amos as he collapsed and half carried, half dragged him out into the yard where the both fell to the ground. Amos was dead when Gordon set him on the ground. The only thing left of the structure when the fire company put the fire out was the darkened cinder block foundation walls.

You killed my daed, my father, Rebecca's youngest brother, Caleb, shouted. The police were called, Gordon was arrested, and he called his Marine Corps platoon sergeant, now a private investigator, for help. Caleb later recanted his accusation. (Death in Amish Country)

I know Rebecca must be beside herself having someone else she loves being falsely accused of murder, again, I said.

The door to my office opened and Vanessa walked in. I waived her over. Vanessa is a stunning redhead with deep green eyes and a bright smile. She's a full figure woman men can only dream of having. I do dream about having her when I'm not with her. Sometimes I fantasize about having her even when I am with her.

Gordon Meade is on the phone. Rebecca's brother, David, was accused of murdering Margaret Whitfield, I told Vanessa.

Margaret Whitfield? Vanessa asked.

"She killed Amos Stoltzfus. She was found mentally unfit to stand trial and spent three years in a state mental hospital. She was released six months ago.

Gordon, I'm going to put you on the speaker. Vanessa wants to talk with you, I said and pushed the button.

Gordon, let me make some calls. Are you anywhere I can call you back? Vanessa said leaning into the phone.

No, you know we Amish don't have telephones. I'm using the phone set up on the street for us to use in case of emergencies.

Did they cure Margaret Whitfield? I asked.

No one knows if she was cured. She was found dead two days ago in one of the Stoltzfus family fields. The police arrested Daniel Stoltzfus for her murder, Gordon said.

Did he do it? I asked.

He said he didn't.

Do you believe him?

Yes, David's not a liar.

Vanessa thought for a moment. She turned towards me Do you have any pressing reason to stay in town for the next few days?

I laughed at my overwhelming lack of business. No.

Gordon, Jake and I'll be up there tomorrow in time for one of your wife's fantastic Amish dinners, Vanessa said.

Good, I'll tell Rebecca. Thanks.

Vanessa filled her coffee mug from the pot living in a corner of my office adding a splash of half and half, and a teaspoon of sugar. She stirred the coffee as she walked to her office across the hall.

Vanessa and I met in a place called Timothy's Grill, a pub and steakhouse within walking distance of where we now live. She graduated from Georgetown University and Georgetown University Law School and joined one of the bigger law firm in the city, then opened her own firm.

The office space across the hall from my office became available when two thugs burst into my office intent on shooting me. They shot and missed. I shot and didn't miss. They bled out all over my new rug. I had to go out and buy another new rug.

The lady tenants of the space Vanessa moved into, operated an interior design studio and moved out before the gun smoke cleared the air. Vanessa set up her law practice in their abandoned office. Soon after, she earned her own PI license.

A year or so ago, while solving the murder of a driver at a movie shoot in D.C. which took us across the country to Hollywood, Vanessa ended up being given a part in a movie playing a lawyer in a courtroom scene. The script for the court scenes were so unbelievably, unrealistic the producers asked Vanessa if she would rewrite the scene. As a result of her writing the new scenes she won an Academy Award for co-writing along with Walter Moody and another Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in a drama playing the lawyer.

Vanessa received an invitation from the movie studio head, who had an obvious crush on my wife, to the premier at Grauman's Chinese Theater. The invitation read plus one. Guess who was the plus one.

At the intermission, she whispered to me she wasn't acting, but did the scene as she would've done it in a real courtroom in front of a judge and jury. Her two Oscars are gathering dust on our mantle at home. Her mother, being a lifelong movie fan, was ecstatic at her daughter winning two Oscars. Vanessa considered working on the movie as just another day at the office and another item on her resume.

She sat behind her desk, took a gulp of coffee and opened her phone directory. She tapped in a ten digit number. In D.C. even local call requires dialing ten digits.

Detective Lieutenant Jonathan Miller please, Vanessa said into the phone.

Miller, he said briskly when he answered his phone.

Detective Lieutenant Miller this is Vanessa Malone in Washington, D.C. I have been contacted by the family of David Stoltzfus in the matter of the death of Margaret Whitfield.

Ms Malone, it's good to hear from you again. I hope you have recovered from the shootings you suffered. The story of the shootout in front of the D.C. Police Headquarters in which you were hurt even made it in the Lancaster paper. (Death in the Gilded Cage) Are you planning to come up to Lancaster in the near future? Miller asked.

My husband and I plan on coming up to Lancaster tomorrow afternoon. I'd like to meet with my client and have a chat with you, Vanessa said.

Your client is being held in the county jail and I should be in my office then barring any crime scenes I have to go to. I look forward to seeing you and your husband again.

CHAPTER 2

VANESSA AND I arrived at the Meade farm after a leisurely two hour ride. The sun shone brightly in the brilliant blue sky filled with fluffy cumulus clouds. It was a beautiful late fall day ideal for a ride through the bucolic rolling hills of South Central Pennsylvania.

Gordon was in the barn tending to the hoof of one of his draught horses when Vanessa and I pulled into his and family's farm. Rebecca stood in the side yard hanging cotton diapers and her husband's work clothes on the clothes line as the sound of our car driving up to her house. She looked up and watched our car stop at her kitchen door. Amish people seldom get visitors driving automobiles up to their door. Letter carriers leave the mail in the box out on the county road.

The Amish don't use electricity from the power lines, or piped in natural gas because they would bind them to the earth so there are no meter readers coming up the drive. They also don't own cars and trucks as they would make it possible to travel further away from home. The Amish have steel tires on their buggies and wagons as rubber tires promote sloth, luxury or vanity. Their children don't have bicycles for the same reason but can play with foot powered scooters. The Amish may ride in someone else's car when necessary.

When Rebecca noticed Vanessa and I get out of our car, she ran to Vanessa and hugged her like lost sisters coming back together after a long separation.

"I am so happy to see you both, willkimm, welcome. Are you going to help David?"

Yes, Jake and I are going to look into this for you. We plan to talk with both David and Detective Lieutenant Miller this afternoon and find out everything we can, Vanessa said.

Gordon walked from the barn towards Jake. The two men shook hands. I'm glad you're here Sarge. Rebecca's been a wreck since Detective Miller arrested David yesterday.

Tell us what you can about her murder, I said to Gordon as we walked into the house and sat around his kitchen table. Vanessa took her notebook and pen from her purse ready to take notes.

The horizontal pine board walls of the kitchen recently received a fresh coat of white paint. The same wide floor planks had recently been painted a dark brown as the room still had the faint aroma of fresh paint. A black cast iron wood burning stove stood in the center of the wall next to the sink with it gray cast iron hand pump. In the heart of the kitchen was a long rectangular oak table large enough to seat ten comfortably, twelve in a pinch, surrounded by ten matching straight back chairs. A bright yellow oil cloth covered the table. Centered over the table is a white gasoline fired Coleman lantern rigged on a pulley system to raise and lower the light.

Detective Lieutenant Miller came here with three more radio cars each with two cops, lights flashing, sirens wailing, as if they came to arrest public enemy number one. Detective Miller talked with David for a few minutes then abruptly spun him around with his back facing Detective Miller. He handcuffed David. One of the uniformed cops pushed David into the back of a police car and the sped off lights flashing and siren screaming, Rebecca said.

Did you happen to hear any part of what they talked about? I asked.

No. Detective Miller took David away from us before they talked, Gordon said.

I've made up the spare bedroom upstairs if you both care to stay with us. If you'd rather stay in a motel, we'll understand, Rebecca said.

I glanced at Vanessa. She nodded. We'd be happy to enjoy your hospitality. Thank you, Vanessa said.

The unexpected invitation to stay with Gordon and Rebecca would come in handy as I didn't want to run up a motel bill on a case we would be working pro bono out of friendship. Gordon and I carried our suitcases to our bedroom.

We want to visit David and then Detective Lieutenant Miller as soon as possible, Vanessa said.

Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, I thought I heard your voices, Ephraim Glick said as he came in from the barn. He extended his old, knurly work worn hand towards me. We shook.

For as long as anyone in the Lancaster Amish community could remember Ephraim Glick was always called by both names. His wife died in childbirth fifty years ago and his newborn son passed the following day. He married the widow Mary Speicher the day before Rebecca married Gordon two months after her father's funeral. Vanessa and I were invited to both weddings.

Amish traditions dictated the newlywed couple spent the first portion of their married life with the bride's family to adjust to the changes in their lives and so the bride's mother may teach her the wifely duties. Rebecca's mother, Emma, insisted Gordon and Rebecca follow tradition and live at the Stoltzfus farm after the wedding. The next morning Emma told them they fulfilled the obligation, go home.

We're happy to see you again Mr. Glick, Vanessa said.

Call me Ephraim, he said.

Ephraim Glick owned the farm now belonging to Gordon. He sold Gordon a portion of the land near the roadway to build his house with the proviso any earth removed for construction must be kept on the farm. Over the next few years Gordon and Ephraim Glick developed a strong father-son relationship. Ephraim Glick finally had his son.

I drove us to the Lancaster County jail. It and the police headquarters are a few blocks apart in downtown City of Lancaster. David Stoltzfus, dressed in DOC coveralls, was brought into the room set aside for client attorney conferences.

David it's good to see you again, but not here. Do you need anything? Vanessa asked.

I need to go home.

If you remember, my husband and Gordon Meade are old friends. When your brother Caleb falsely accused Gordon of murdering your father, Jake and I came up to Lancaster and caught the real killer. We came up for Ephraim Glick and Mary's wedding and stayed over for Gordon and Rebecca's the next day, Vanessa said.

I remember.

If you want us, we will be your defense team, Vanessa said.

I can't afford a lawyer, David said.

We'll defend you pro bono, Vanessa said.

That means no charge to you, I said.

David looked at Jake then nodded. Thank you.

I'm going to ask you this once and only once. Did you kill Margaret Whitfield?

Nee, no, I did not.

What can you tell me about Margaret Whitfield? I asked

David took in deep breath and let it out slowly. Back before she killed my daed, my father, I thought I loved her and I thought she loved me. I would've left my family for her, I would've left the church for her, but now with my Martha, I now realize what real love is.

What can you tell us about Margaret's death? I asked.

I didn't know she was dead until the police came yesterday and told me they found her body in our north field and arrested me, David said.

So you can't tell us anything about Margaret's death? Vanessa asked.

No, I cannot, David said emphatically.

We'll be back later. We want to talk with Detective Lieutenant Miller and find out what he can tell us, Vanessa said.

We drove the few blocks to police headquarters. Detective Lieutenant Miller happened to be at his desk when Vanessa and I knocked on the door jamb of his open office door.

He stood as Vanessa led the way into his office. Come in take a seat, Miller said pointing to the two wooden ladder back visitor's chairs in front of his desk.

Ms Malone, Mr. Curtis, welcome back to Lancaster County, Detective Lieutenant Miller said.

It is always a pleasure to come up here, Vanessa said. It's so beautiful up here; so tranquil.

Yes, we like it, Miller said.

Detective Lieutenant Miller's office was a small twelve foot by twelve foot cubicle big enough for his institutional steel desk and swivel chair, two battered steel four drawer file cabinets and the two visitor's chairs. The bottom half of the walls were painted a government issued pea soup green; the upper half were clear glass overlooking the bullpen where his detectives working under him had their desks.

I hate to see this kind of stuff in and around the Amish community, Miller said.

What kind of stuff are you referring to? Vanessa asked.

Any killings among the Amish bothers me. I used to be Amish. I left for rumspringa and came back to the academy; I left the church and in return the church shunned me. The Amish won't talk to me except on police business, Miller said.

Why is that? Vanessa asked.

They are Christians and believe in the Bible and the Bible requires Christians to place themselves under people in authority over them, governors, presidents and so forth, including policemen because God placed us in those positions. Because I'm a policeman they will talk with me on a police matters, Miller said.

The conversation stalled for a few uncomfortable moments. What can I do for you? Miller asked.

We are David Stoltzfus' defense team. What can you tell us about Margaret Whitfield's death? Vanessa said as she took her notebook and pen from her briefcase.

Her body was found in the Stoltzfus' north field. She'd been stabbed viciously many times and her throat had been cut into her spinal cord severing the arteries and veins in her neck. The County Coroner said she bled out within minutes.

What was her time of death? I asked.

The ME placed the time of her death at around ten PM to midnight the night before someone discovered the body, Miller said.

I don't suppose you have anyone who witnessed somebody dump Margaret Whitfield's body in the Stoltzfus cornfield? I asked.

We haven't found anyone who saw the body being dumped. We can't tell if she was murdered in that field where she was found, or whether she was killed somewhere else and dumped there. It hadn't rained in three weeks and the ground was bone dry. If she died in the field where she was found, her blood would've been absorbed quickly into the parched ground. To top it off, around midnight on the night of the murder, the sky opened up and two inches of rain fell in two hours flushing away any DNA, traces of blood and any other forensic evidence from her body and the ground around her and turning the ground into a muddy bog, Miller said.

Who found the body? Vanessa asked.

A couple of English kids cutting across the field tripped over it. They ran home screaming and one of their mothers called us, Miller said.

How did you come to arrest David Stoltzfus? Vanessa asked.

Detective Lieutenant Miller interlocked his fingers in front of him. We had a witness who claimed to have seen an Amish man in the field the morning the kids came across Whitfield's body.

Who is your witness? Vanessa asked.

An English woman who was just passing through the area.

Where is she now? Vanessa asked.

"She told us her story then vanished.

Did you get her name? Vanessa asked.

One of my cops interviewed her and momentarily turned away to answer another cop's question. When, he turned back the woman had vanished.

It would seem to me the first question the officer should ask is the interviewee's name; the second is her contact information, Vanessa said.

The officer in question has already gotten the message in the strongest of terms," Miller said.

Did she name Daniel Stoltzfus? Vanessa asked.

She didn't give us a name, Miller said.

How did this non-existent woman know the man she saw walking through his own land had anything to do with Margaret Whitfield's death? Vanessa asked.

If we find this woman, and we are looking for her, then you can ask her, Miller said.

So unless you find her, she can't testify to anything in court against my client? Vanessa said. Miller shrugged.

So you arbitrarily busted the first Amish man you laid eyes on? Vanessa said.

Whitfield and Stoltzfus had a past.

Did David Stoltzfus confess to murdering Margaret Whitfield?

No.

Do you have anyone who witnessed David Stoltzfus kill Margaret Whitfield?

No.

Other than their former romance and the fact her dead body was found in his family land, why did you take David Stoltzfus into custody?

We had an onlooker who said she spotted an Amish man walking through the field. We picked up the first Amish man we came across for questioning, Miller said.

The key phrase in your sentence is had an onlooker who said she saw an Amishman. Your eyewitness disappeared into thin air like the skimpily clad model in a magician's disappearing act; a puff of smoke, and she's gone. Vanessa said. Detective Miller nodded.

So you took David Stoltzfus into custody because he walked across his own land on the say so of a bystander who disappeared, and under questioning, David Stoltzfus gave you nothing to aid your case.

Less than nothing, Miller admitted.

A legal aid lawyer who was admitted to the bar two days ago and trying his first case could get him off without breaking a sweat, Vanessa said. I fought to hold back a grin. Miller looked down.

"Are you going to release him, or are you forcing me to file a motion before a judge to vacate his arrest for lack of evidence' Vanessa asked.

Miller said nothing. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. Jeff MacKay, please, he said into the phone.

Jeff, I have Ms Vanessa Malone in my office. She's an attorney up from D.C. defending David Stoltzfus. She's threatening to go to court to have his bust vacated. Miller paused and suddenly cringed.

Yeah, I know you did, Miller said into the phone. Another pause. Okay. I wondered what the