Gone Missing

by Linda Castillo

  Tomasetti looks at Goddard. “You get a perimeter set up?”

  Goddard nods. “I got two deputies out there. State Highway Patrol’s on the way. We’re covered, but barely.”

  “We’d like to take a look at the scene, if it’s all right with you,” Tomasetti says.

  The flash of relief that crosses the chief’s face is palpable. Most cops are, to a degree, adrenaline junkies. When something big goes down, most want to be in the thick of it. Some, I would venture to say, have an overstated sense of morbid curiosity. Goddard seems to break the mold on all counts. “Probably best if a bunch of us don’t trample the scene,” he says. “You two go on, and I’ll wait for the coroner.”

  With Tomasetti in the lead, we descend the steep shoulder, cross through the bar ditch, and enter the path cut into the woods. The canopy closes over us like a clammy, smothering hand. Around us, the woods are dark and damp and alive with insects and nocturnal creatures. Mist swirls along the ground and rises like smoke from the thick undergrowth. Neither of us is dressed for wet conditions—no boots or slickers—and within minutes the front of our clothes is soaked.

  The redolence of foliage and damp earth and the dank smell of the creek curl around my olfactory nerves as we move deeper into the forest. Dew drips from the leaves of the brush growing along the path and the treetops overhead. Mud sucks at our shoes. The low rumble of thunder tells me conditions are probably going to get worse before they get any better.

  Tomasetti’s Maglite penetrates the darkness like a blade. But the path is overgrown in areas and difficult to follow. Twice he veers off the trail and we have to backtrack.

  “There’s the creek.”

  I follow the beam of his flashlight and catch a glimpse of the green-blue surface of slow-moving water. We continue for a few more yards, and I spot the tree Foster mentioned. An ancient bois d’arc grows out of the steep bank, its trunk leaning at a forty-five-degree angle. “There’s the tree.”

  My heart taps out a rapid tattoo as we approach the water’s edge. Vaguely, I’m aware of the flicker of lightning overhead and the patter of rain against the canopy above. Tomasetti stops where the ground breaks off and shines the beam downward. The dead are never pretty, but water does particularly gruesome things to a corpse. I come up beside Tomasetti and my eyes follow the cone of light.

  I see the glossy surface of the muddy bank, the spongy moss covering the rocks, and the spindly black veins of roots. My gaze stops on the gauzy fabric flowing in the current like the gossamer fin of some exotic fish. I see the white flesh of a woman’s calf, a slightly bent knee, a waxy thigh. Lower, the foot is swallowed by the murky depths below. She’s clothed, perhaps in a dress, but the current has pushed the skirt up to her hips, exposing plain cotton panties—the kind a young Amish woman might wear.

  She’s faceup; her left arm is twisted at an awkward angle and tangled in the roots. My eyes are drawn to the pallid face. Her mouth is open, as if in a scream, and full of water and leaves. A cut gapes on her lower lip. Her eyes are partially open, but the irises are colorless and cloudy.

  “Fuck me,” Tomasetti mutters.

  Looking at the body, watching her long hair ebb and flow with the current is surreal. Neither of us moves or speaks. The tempo of the rain increases, but I barely notice. I don’t feel the wet or the cold. I can’t stop looking at the dead girl, and I wonder how her life came to this terrible end so long before her time.

  I pull myself back to reality. When I speak, my voice is level and calm. “How long do you think she’s been there?”

  “She’s intact. No deterioration that I can see.”

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “No visible wounds,” I say, thinking about the blood we found on the road that afternoon.

  “Still wearing her underclothes.”

  But we both know it’s no guarantee that a sexual assault wasn’t committed. Perpetrators have been known to re-dress their victims. “No makeup or jewelry. Nails are unpainted. Tomasetti, that dress is an Amish print.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  I look upstream, toward the bridge, but it’s too dark to see anything. “You think someone dumped her here? Or at the bridge?”

  He shines the beam on the ground, illuminating several footprints, ours and a waffle stamp that may or may not be Foster’s. But there are no broken branches. No crushed grass. No blood. “No obvious sign of a struggle,” he growls. “We’re going to need to get tread imprints from Foster’s shoes.”

  He trains the beam on the steep bank directly below us, then shines it across the surface of the water. The creek is about twenty-five feet wide. It looks deep, but I can hear the gurgle of a shallow bottleneck a few yards downstream. “He could have dumped her upstream. Current carried her down.”

  “Or stopped on the bridge and threw her over,” I say.

  “Shit.” Pulling out his phone, Tomasetti calls Goddard and asks him to cordon off the bridge. “Tire-tread impressions are a long shot,” he says as he snaps his phone closed.

  “We might get lucky.”

  Neither of us believes that. It’s extremely difficult to extract meaningful evidence from an outdoor scene that’s spread over a large area, especially if it’s been left unprotected or trampled. Or rained on.

  For several minutes, we stand there, using our flashlights, getting a sense of the scene. I wish for a camera, but we’re going to have to hoof it back to the Tahoe to get it. I make a mental note of the time and memorize as much as I can—the location and position of the body, the slant of the tree, the erosion of the bank, the profusion of roots at the water’s edge, the victim’s clothes. But I know it’s her face that will stay with me.

  “We need to go back, get the camera, and a generator and lights,” Tomasetti says after a moment.

  “I hate leaving her like that.” I know it’s a stupid comment; we can’t move the victim until the scene has been documented. But I hate the idea of leaving her in the water, where it’s murky and cold and her flesh is at the mercy of the aquatic creatures whose domain has been invaded.

  Abruptly, Tomasetti jerks the beam from the body, clicks off the flashlight, and stalks away. Surprised, I glance over at him. In the gray light seeping down from the canopy, I see him set his hand against a tree and lean against it, close his eyes. And I realize that even though he is a veteran witness to this kind of violence, he is as outraged and repulsed as I am.

  After a moment, he scrapes a hand over his jaw and pushes away from the tree. “I’m going to get a CSU down here before the rain destroys what little evidence is left.” Turning on the flashlight, he runs the beam along the steep, tangled bank of the creek. “They might be able to pick up some footwear imprints.”

  But he doesn’t pull out his phone. He stands motionless between the path and the creek bank, the beam focused on the ground. His back is to me and his shoulders are rigid. I can’t see his face, but I sense he doesn’t want questions.

  I give him a minute before asking, “Do you want me to make the call?”

  Slowly, he turns. I can just make out his features in the peripheral light from the beam. The shadows reveal lines in his face I never noticed before, something in his eyes I understand because I know he’s seen the same thing in mine.

  “I’ll do it.” He looks away. “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look fine.”

  His eyes meet mine. “Five years ago, a scene like this would have pissed me off, and that would have been the extent of my emotional response. I would have felt nothing for that dead girl or her family. All I cared about was catching the fucker responsible. It was an added bonus if I got to take his head off in the process.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up for being human,” I tell him.

  “That’s the problem, Kate. I wasn’t human. I didn’t feel shock or sadness or remorse because a girl was dead. Sometimes I didn’t even feel outrage. It was a game. All I felt was this driving need to catch th
e son of a bitch who’d done it. Not because of some noble desire for justice, but because I knew I was better than him and I wanted to prove it.”

  “That’s a protective mechanism built into all of us.”

  “Now I know what’s it’s like to hear someone tell you everyone you’ve ever loved is dead.”

  I cross to him. Before I realize I’m going to touch him, I set my palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  Setting his hand over mine, he brushes his mouth across my palm, then pulls it away from his face. “Let’s go catch this motherfucker,” he says, and we start down the path.

  An hour later, the township road swarms with sheriff’s deputies, state Highway Patrol officers, and paramedics. The red and blue lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles flicker off the treetops. The area has been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The state Highway Patrol has set up roadblocks, barring all through traffic from the bridge. Two ambulances from Trumbull Memorial Hospital are parked outside the secure area, their diesel engines rumbling in the predawn light.

  Rain slashes down from a low sky as three technicians from the Trumbull County coroner’s office struggle to carry the body up the incline of the bar ditch. Tomasetti snagged us a couple of county-issue slickers from one of the Goddard’s deputies, but we were already wet, and though the temperature hovers in the sixties, I feel the cold all the way to my bones.

  I’m standing at the rear of the ambulance when the gurney is brought up. I can see the outline of the body within the black zippered bag.

  “Any idea who she is?” Tomasetti asks.

  “No ID,” replies one of the technicians. He’s about thirty years old, with a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. “We preserved as much of the scene as possible, but the bank got pretty trampled.”

  “Cause of death?” Tomasetti asks.

  “No visible injuries.” The technician grimaces. “Tough to tell with the water, though. We won’t know until the autopsy.”

  “How long will that be?” Tomasetti asks.

  “Well, we’re not backlogged. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

  Tomasetti passes him his card. “Keep us in the loop, will you?”

  “You got it,” he says, and they load the body into the rear of the ambulance.

  A fist of outrage unfurls in my gut as I watch the vehicle pull away. “I was hoping this would have a better end.”

  Tomasetti sighs. “The case isn’t exactly coming together, is it?”

  “Chief Burkholder. Agent Tomasetti.”

  We turn as Sheriff Goddard approaches. He’s wearing a yellow slicker and holding two McDonald’s to-go cups of coffee. I’m unduly thankful when he shoves one at me.

  “Is it Annie King?” I ask.

  “No one recognized her.” The sheriff shakes his head. “And we don’t have a photo.”

  I tell him about the Amish-print dress, the lack of nail polish and jewelry. “I think she might be Amish.”

  Goddard’s expression darkens. “It’s probably her. Timing’s right. Damn it.” He heaves a grievous sigh. “We’re going to have to bring in the parents to identify her.”

  “Who’s the Amish bishop for this church district?” I ask.

  Both men look at me.

  “Even though we’re only bringing in the parents to identify the body, if it’s her, the bishop should be there,” I say.

  Goddard nods. “That’d be Old Abe Hertzler. He and his wife live out on River Road.” He lowers his voice, gives a single grim nod. “I’ll go get him. Can you two oversee things here? We can meet up at the hospital in Warren in a couple of hours. That’s where our morgue facilities are.”

  Notifying next of kin is a responsibility no cop relishes. I would venture to say it’s one of the most difficult aspects of being a chief of police. Regardless of the manner of death, whether it’s a traffic accident, a drowning, or the result of foul play, breaking the news to a loved one can affect a cop profoundly.

  Goddard starts to turn away, but I stop him. “I’ll do it.”

  He casts me a slightly incredulous look. “Aw, Chief Burkholder, I can’t put that on you.”

  “It might help that I used to be Amish,” I tell him.

  I’m aware that Tomasetti’s watching me, but I don’t look at him. I’m not sure I’m succeeding with the “I’m not affected” persona I’m striving to project. “That’s why I’m here,” I add.

  I don’t mention the fact that most Amish are not only suspicious of the English but also of Amish who are from a different area. Not to mention those who have been excommunicated, like me.

  The relief on his face is palpable. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little out of my element when it comes to the Amish,” he says sheepishly.

  “She knows the territory,” Tomasetti puts in.

  “Where can we find the bishop?” I ask.

  The sheriff gives us directions to the bishop’s house, which is only a few miles to the south. “I’ll see you at the morgue in a couple of hours.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Tomasetti doesn’t ask the question until we’re turning into the gravel lane of the farm where Bishop Abraham Hertzler, aka “Old Abe,” and his wife, Ruth, reside.

  “I’m sure.” I don’t look at him as I reply, because I know he’s far too astute to miss the trepidation that’s plastered all over my face. “I’ll do a better job than Goddard.”

  “I could have just run over you with the Tahoe.”

  I can’t help it; I laugh and glance over at him. “You’re not trying to subtly tell me I’m a glutton for punishment, are you?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  But I know he won’t try to talk me out of it; he knows I’m right.

  The eastern horizon is awash with Easter-egg pastels as he parks adjacent a ramshackle barn, next to an old horse-drawn manure spreader. We exit the Tahoe without speaking. I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the window, telling me the Hertzlers are awake. We’re midway to the porch when the door swings open.

  An old Amish woman with a braided rug draped over her arm looks at us through bottle cap–lensed glasses. She’s wearing a plain black dress with a white apron. Her silver hair is pulled severely away from her face and covered with the requisite prayer kapp. “Who goes there?” she asks in a gravelly voice.

  “Mrs. Hertzler?” I call out.

  “I can’t see you. Who are you?”

  “I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder and this is Agent Tomasetti with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation.” We reach the porch and show her our identification. “We’re assisting the police department in their search for Annie King.”

  The woman squints at our IDs. Her eyes are rheumy and huge behind the lenses of her glasses. But I see within their depths a sharp mind and a foreboding that wasn’t there before. The police don’t show up at your back door at 6:00 A.M. for idle chitchat.

  “Is the bishop home, Mrs. Hertzler?”

  “Was der schinner is letz?” What in the world is wrong? She asks the question as she opens the door wider and ushers us inside.

  Tomasetti and I step into a small kitchen. I see a homemade wooden table for two, rustic shelves mounted on the wall, an old-fashioned potbellied stove. The smell of coffee and scrapple laces the air. A bent old man, as thin as his wife is plump, sits hunched over a cup of steaming coffee. He’s clad wholly in black, the shock of white beard and hair contrasting severely against his jacket. Their dress tells me they are conservative Amish, and I wonder if they’ll agree to ride in the Tahoe, or if we’ll have to follow their buggy to the King farm, which will add hours to the identification process.

  “Guder mariye,” I say, bowing my head in respect as I bid them good morning.

  Both people look at me as if I just beamed down from another planet. The last thing they expected was for an Englischer to walk into their kitchen and greet them in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “
Kannscht du Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch schwetzer?” the bishop asks after a moment, surprised I speak Pennsylvania Dutch.

  I explain to them that I’m from Holmes County—leaving out the part about my excommunication—and am assisting with the Annie King case. “The body of a young woman was found this morning.”

  Mrs. Hertzler gasps, but I don’t stop speaking. “We need Mr. and Mrs. King to tell us if it’s Annie.” I look at the bishop. “I thought you might be a comfort to them.”

  The room falls silent. The only sounds are the hiss of the lantern and the rain dripping from the eaves. The air is hot and stuffy, but neither the bishop nor his wife seems to notice.

  “Mein Gott,” Mrs. Hertzler whispers. “God be with that poor child. God be with her family.”

  “We need to speak with the family as soon as possible, Bishop Hertzler,” I tell him. “I don’t want them to hear the news from someone else. Will you come with us?”

  The old man reaches for the cane leaning against the back of his chair, grips it with a gnarled hand, and pushes unsteadily to his feet. “Bring me my Bible.”

  The drive to the King farm is silent and tense. By the time we pull into the gravel lane, it’s nearly 7:00 A.M. The sun sits on the eastern horizon like a steaming orange ball, burning away the final vestiges of the night’s storm.

  Despite the early hour, the King farm is abuzz with activity. Two children—little girls clad in matching blue dresses—are on their way to the barn when we park next to a flatbed wagon loaded with a single milk can. They stare at us as Tomasetti and I help the bishop from the Tahoe, but they don’t stop to chat. More than likely, they’ve got cows or goats to milk before school.

  A big black dog with white paws bounds over to us, tongue lolling. Tomasetti bends, stepping between the animal and the bishop to keep the dog from knocking the old man off balance.

  We’re midway up the sidewalk when the screen door squeaks open and Levi King steps onto the porch. He looks gaunt and exhausted. His eyes settle on Bishop Hertzler, and I see a recoil go through his body.