“Guder mariye, Katie,” he says, offering his hand. Good morning. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
“Hi, Lester.” We shake hands and I follow him into the shop.
“We still have those boots you tried on.” He’s moving back toward the footstool. It’s a busy morning and he’s got things to do in the minutes before they open. “Sale starts tomorrow if you’re interested. Twenty percent off and a free stretch if you need it.”
The words hang, unanswered. I look past him at his wife, who’s standing behind the counter, looking at me as if she’s realized this isn’t a social call.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” I hear myself say.
Lester stops just as he reaches the stool, then turns to me, his eyes probing mine.
“There was an incident this morning,” I tell them. “Aden is dead. I’m sorry.”
Lester chokes out a sound that’s part gasp, part laugh. Not sure if I’m kidding, but he cuts it short, and then blinks at me. “What? Aden? But … how can that be?”
I’m aware of Angela coming around the counter, rushing to her husband, her face a mosaic of horror and disbelief. “What are you talking about? My goodness, how could you say such a crazy thing? We just saw him a couple days ago. He was fine.”
Before I even realize I’m going to do it, I reach for the woman’s hands, take hers in mine, and I squeeze gently. “It happened earlier this morning. On Hansbarger Road. I think he was on his way to work.”
“He takes that way,” Lester interjects. “He works over to Buckeye Construction. Rides his bike to the ice shack out there by the Lutheran church and they pick him up.”
I see desperation on their faces, denial, burgeoning grief, the hope that I’m wrong. Lester actually looks toward the door, hoping someone will burst in and tell them that all of this is a mistake.
“What kind of incident?” Angela asks.
“We’re still investigating.” Since I’m short on facts, I keep it simple. “It looks like he was riding his bicycle. There may have been some kind of altercation or accident and Aden was killed. We’re trying to figure out what happened. I just…” I run out of breath. I stare at them, unable to finish, my breaths coming a little too fast, and for a second I’m afraid I’m going to fail them because I can’t speak.
I turn away, fight for composure. Blow out a slow breath. Take another. Angry with myself because this isn’t about me. It’s about them. And their son.
I turn back to them, take in the ravaged faces. The faltering hope. That first, brutal punch of grief.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. An understatement.
“Someone hit him?” Lester asks, his voice high and tight. “With a car? An Englischer? Ran him over?”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Angela’s face crumples.
“We’re still trying to figure out what happened,” I tell them.
The Amish woman slides her hands from mine, covers her mouth as if to smother the cry that’s trying to escape. “I can’t believe it.”
“Where is he?” Lester asks.
“Doc Coblentz is at the scene,” I say. “They’re going to take him to Pomerene Hospital.” Not for treatment, of course, but because the morgue is located in the basement.
“Can we see him?” The Amish woman looks at her husband. “I want to see him.”
Lester sets his hand on his wife’s shoulder and shakes his head. “Deahra is naett di zeit.” This is not the time.
I make eye contact with Lester. “Is there someone I can get for you?” I ask. “A family member? Bishop Troyer?”
The Amish man shakes his head, looks down at the floor. I see him blinking, fighting tears.
The Amish are generally stoic in the face of grief. Death is part of life’s cycle and heaven is the reward for a life well lived. They believe the departed are in a better place—in heaven with God. Even so, they are human beings first and there is no comfort that comes with the loss of a child.
“Mr. and Mrs. Karn,” I begin. “I know this is an awful time. I know you’re in shock. In pain. But I need to ask you a few questions.”
They stare at me as if I’m speaking a language they don’t understand. Still trying to absorb what they’ve been told. Cling to the last vestiges of denial. Their minds seeking a way to reject the reality of the tragedy I’ve dropped at their feet.
After a moment, Angela turns away, lowers her face into her hands. She doesn’t make a sound, but I see her shoulders begin to shake.
I turn my attention to Lester, ease my spiral-bound notebook from my pocket. “When’s the last time you saw Aden?” I ask quietly.
He looks down at the floor, his mouth working. “Like we said. Two days ago. He came over for supper.”
“Was everything all right with him?” I ask. “Did he mention any problems? Any difficulties in his life?”
He gives an adamant shake of his head. “No.”
“Did Aden have any enemies? Was he having any problems with anyone?”
He raises his gaze to mine and for the first time, I see questions. The burgeoning realization that his son’s death may not have been an accident. “Are you saying someone did this thing on purpose?” he asks. “Ran over him?”
“We’re not exactly sure what happened.” It’s the only honest answer I have. “I know that’s not enough information, but all I can tell you at this point is I promise you I’m going to do everything in my power to find out what happened.”
Shaking his head, the Amish man looks down at the floor.
I give him a moment before continuing. “Lester, was Aden having any disputes or arguments with anyone? With his neighbors? Or a girlfriend? Any issues at work? Anything like that?”
“No,” he says gruffly.
“Did he live alone?”
“He lives with Wayne Graber.”
“They’re friends?” I ask.
“More like brothers. They’ve known each other since they were boys.”
“Do they have a good relationship?”
“Practically grew up together,” he replies. “I’ve known Wayne since he was a wee thing. I know the whole family.” He raises his head, his eyes going wide. “Is Wayne okay? Is he—”
“As far as I know, he’s fine,” I say quickly. “I’ll be speaking to him as soon as I can.” I glance down at my notebook. “Do you know where Wayne works?”
The couple exchange looks. Lester answers. “Last I heard he was working out at Mast Tiny Homes.”
I write it down. “Did Aden have a girlfriend?” I ask. “Was he seeing anyone?”
Lester looks at me as if I’ve asked an inappropriate question. Angela turns slowly toward us. Her face is blotchy and red, her cheeks wet. “He’s courting Emily Byler,” she says.
I recognize the last name. “Andy and Clara’s girl?”
“Ja.”
I jot the names in my notebook. “Are Emily and Aden close?” I ask. “Is it a serious relationship?”
“Serious enough,” the Amish woman murmurs. “I reckon they were going to get married in a year or so. Em’s a sweet thing. We like her a lot.”