Free Seeds of Deception: A Kate Burkholder Short Story by Linda Castillo

shine my beam into the buggy. A thirtyish Amish woman, also clad in black, and six children ranging in age from infant to preteen are huddled in the rear, their legs covered with two knitted afghans. The woman is holding a baby. Dismay swirls in my gut when I’m reminded how this could have turned out.
    “ And Wie bischt du heit? ” I ask the woman. How are you today?
    She averts her gaze.
    “ Miah bin zimmlich gut, ” comes the man’s voice from the front. We are good.
    When dealing with the Amish in an official capacity, particularly the Old Order or Swartzentruber, I always make an effort to put them at ease before getting down to police business. Smiling at the woman, I lean back and address the man. “ Sis kald heit. ” It’s cold today.
    “Ja.”
    “What’s your name, sir?”
    “Elam Shetler.”
    “Do you have an ID card, Mr. Shetler?”
    He shakes his head. “We are Swartzentruber,” he tells me, as if that explains everything.
    To me, it does. The Amish don’t drive; if they need to travel a long distance, they hire a driver. Most do not have driver’s licenses, but apply for DMV-issued ID cards. Not so with the Swartzentruber, whose belief system prevents them from having their photographs taken.
    “Mr. Shetler, I came over that hill and didn’t see your buggy.” I motion toward the vehicle in question. “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a lantern or reflective signage.”
    “Ornamentation,” he mutters in Pennsylvania Dutch.
    “I nearly struck your buggy.” I nod toward his wife and children. “Someone could have been seriously injured.”
    “I trust in God, not some Englischer symbol.”
    “ Ich fashtay. ” I understand. “But it’s the law, Mr. Shetler.”
    “God will take care of us.”
    “Or maybe He’d prefer you put a slow-moving vehicle sign on your buggy so you and your family live long, happy lives.”
    For an instant he’s not sure how to respond. Then he barks out a laugh. “ Sell is nix as baeffzes. ” That is nothing but trifling talk.
    “The Revised Ohio Code requires reflective signage on all slow-moving vehicles.” I lower my voice. “I was there the night Paul Borntrager and his children were killed, Mr. Shetler. It was a terrible thing to behold. I don’t want that to happen to you or your family.”
    I can tell by the Amish man’s expression that my words are falling on deaf ears. His mind is made up, and he won’t change it for me or anyone else. I’m trying to decide whether to cite him when my phone vibrates against my hip. I glance down to see Tomasetti’s number on the display.
    Opting to call him back, I return my attention to Shetler. “Next time I see you on the road without the proper signage,” I tell him, “I will cite you. You will pay a fine. Do you understand?”
    “I believe we are finished here.” Turning away, he climbs back into the buggy.
    I stand on the shoulder, listening to the jingle of the horse’s harness and the clip-clop of shod hooves as he guides the buggy back onto the asphalt and drives away.
    Snow falls softly on my shoulders. The cut cornstalks whisper at me to let it go. “Jackass,” I mutter.
    I’m sliding behind the wheel when my radio cracks. “Chief?” comes the voice of my second-shift dispatcher.
    I pick up my mike. “What’s up, Jodie?”
    “You’ve got visitors here at the station.”
    “Visitors?” For an instant I envision my sister or brother sitting in the reception area, feeling out of place while they wait for me to show. “Who is it?”
    “Agent Tomasetti, some suit from BCI, and an agent from New York.”
    My memory pings. Tomasetti had mentioned a few days ago that the deputy superintendent wanted to talk to me about an investigation. But the meeting hadn’t yet been scheduled and he didn’t have any details. Odd that they would drop by after hours on a snowy afternoon without giving me a heads-up. Even more unusual that one of the men is from New York.
    “Any idea