Caution enters the child’s eyes, but she nods.
“Did you and Elsie find lots of walnuts today?” Mackie asks the question in a nonchalant, casual way, as if it’s an afterthought and she doesn’t care whether she gets an answer.
“Two bags,” Annie says in a small voice.
Good girl, I think. Talk to us, honey. Talk.
“What happened while you were picking up walnuts?” Mackie asks.
The girl turns away, sets her face against her mamm’s dress, and seems to fold in on herself. Pulling away. From us. From questions she’s already been asked too many times and doesn’t want to face again. From the memory of her dead grandmother and the knowledge that her sister is gone.
“Was there someone else there?” Mackie asks gently.
The little girl puts her thumb in her mouth and begins to suck.
“I wonder if the stranger was picking up walnuts, too?” Mackie asks of no one in particular.
The thumb comes out. “He was in the house,” Annie tells us.
“A man?”
“Ja.”
“Hmmm. What happened next?”
“Grossmammi was in the house, too,” the girl says.
Mackie casts a look toward me. “‘Grossmammi’ is ‘Grandmother’?”
“Yes.” I wink at Annie and whisper, “She doesn’t know Deitsch.”
Mackie continues. “I wonder why your grossmammi went into the house.” A pause and then, “Did she hear something? See something?”
“She just likes it because she used to play there when she was little.”
“I see.” Mackie gives an exaggerated nod. “Did she go in through the front door or back?”
“Back.”
“What were you and Elsie doing?”
“Putting walnuts in our bags. We wanted to fill them up so we could play.”
“Did you see anyone else outside?” Mackie asks.
“No.”
“So you and Elsie were playing and picking up walnuts.” Mackie slants her a smile. “Having fun?”
“Ja.”
“And Grossmammi was in the house, looking around. What happened next?”
The girl snuggles against her mamm. “We heard Grossmammi yelling.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t remember.”
The agent nods thoughtfully. “What did you do?”
Again, the girl brings her hand to her mouth and begins to suck her thumb. She pulls it out long enough to say, “We thought she fell down or saw a mouse, so we went in to find her.”
“What did you see when you went inside?”
A storm cloud of emotion darkens her face. Her breaths quicken. I see her mind dragging her back to what must have been a horrifying moment. “Grossmammi.” She buries her face against her mother.
“Where was she?” Mackie asks.
“On the floor. In the kitchen. She was bleeding and…” The girl stops speaking as if she doesn’t have enough breath to finish.
“Was there anyone else in the kitchen?”
“Not at first, but then the Plain man came out.”
“What did he look like?”
The girl takes us through much the same description as the one she gave me. White male. Old—at least in the eyes of a five-year-old child. Brown hair. When she’s finished, she turns away, presses her face against her mamm, and whispers, “Ich bin fashrokka.” I’m scared.
Miriam pats her daughter’s back. “God is with you. He will guide you.”
Mackie is soft and sympathetic, but maintains a gentle level of pressure. “Everything you tell me might help us find Elsie.”
The girl turns to look at her, wipes her face with her sleeve. “Elsie was scared,” she whispers.
“I know, sweetie. You’re doing a good job.” Mackie reaches out and squeezes the girl’s hand. “What happened after the man came into the kitchen?”
“We ran out the back door.”
“Did the man follow?”
“Ja.”
“What happened next?”
“I don’t know. I just ran.”
“Did he say anything?”
Her brows furrow and she takes a moment to think about it. “He said, ‘Sie is meiner.’”
It’s the first time I’ve heard the words. I stare at the girl, wondering if she got it right, but there was no hesitation in her voice.
Mackie looks at me for translation, raises her brows.
“It means ‘She’s mine,’” I tell her.
“You’re a very brave little girl.” Mackie reaches out and pats the girl’s hand. “Just a few more questions and we’re all done, okay?”
Over the next twenty minutes, Mackie covers every conceivable question with the child. Some the girl answers readily; others she veers away from or curls inward. But Mackie is a highly skilled juvenile interrogator. She has sharp instincts, knowing when to push, when to back off, and she has patience. There’s no doubt Mackenzie Upshaw is very good at what she does. Is it enough?
When we’re finished, I thank the parents and then Mackie and I walk to the Tahoe where Tomasetti is waiting.
“I feel confident that child told us everything she can recall at this time,” Mackie says with a sigh. “It’s possible she’ll remember new details over the next few days. But I think we got most of it.”
“Anything new?” Tomasetti asks.
I nod. “When Mackie asked Annie if the man said anything, she responded with, ‘Sie is meiner,’ which basically means ‘She’s mine.’ It’s an odd thing for an attacker to say.”
Tomasetti grimaces. “As if he feels somehow … entitled to her.”
Mackie shrugs. “Or he’s mentally unhinged. Confused.”
“Do you think she’s reliable?” he asks.
“I do,” Mackie replies. “I believe she was truthful. I think her answers were unembellished. When she didn’t know the answer to something, she said so.”
“Do you think she’s credible enough for us to get a facial composite?” Tomasetti asks.
“I think it’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll get permission from the parents.” I look at Tomasetti. “It would be helpful if the composite artist can come here to the house.”
“I’ll get it done,” he says.
I’m still pondering the order of the events that led up to the attack. “Was the killer waiting for them? Was he familiar with Mary’s routine?” I say, thinking aloud. “Or was this a crime of opportunity? Did they surprise him? And he panicked?”
Tomasetti watches me closely, nods. “And who was his target? Was this about Mary Yoder? Or was it about Elsie?”
Mackie chimes in. “Most child predators are opportunists. They wait or they stalk; they see a kid alone or one that’s in a vulnerable situation, and they move in, either through deceit—the do-you-want-to-see-my-puppy approach—or force.”
“The violence of the attack on Yoder is significant,” Tomasetti says.
“That degree of savagery indicates a profound level of passion,” I say. “Hatred or rage or both.”
“He knew her,” Mackie says.
“Unless he was focused on the girl and Yoder got in the way,” Tomasetti says. “Maybe she tried to stop him, and things went south.”
We take a moment, digesting everything that’s been said.
I glance at my watch. “I’m going to talk to the Helmuths, find out who Mary Yoder was close to.”
“I’ll work on getting a composite artist down here.” Tomasetti glances at his watch. “Probably first thing in the morning.”
Mackie extends her hand to me. “I’ll email you a transcript of our interview with Annie as soon as I get it transcribed.”
We part ways and I head back into the house. I find Ivan and Miriam and five of their children in the kitchen. Ivan has put on his coat and boots. He’s going to do the only thing he can: search for his child, though by now he’s realized the effort will be fruitless. I can tell by his expression he
can’t bear to sit inside and do nothing. Miriam is sitting at the table, her face in her hands, an untouched mug of coffee on the table in front of her. Two of the children have fixed bowls of cereal. They’re silent and subdued, knowing that tragedy has invaded their safe and protected home. Both parents look frazzled and exhausted and utterly miserable.
I pull a prepaid cell phone from my pocket and hand it to Ivan. The Amish man doesn’t take it. “We do not need a phone,” he says. “All we need is our daughter.”
“Take it,” I say firmly. “If there’s an emergency and you need to talk to me quickly.”
When he doesn’t accept the phone, I go to the counter and set it down next to the sink. “Keep it handy,” I tell them.
The Amish woman looks away, but not before I see the assent in her eyes.
“I’m going to look for her.” Ivan Helmuth’s gaze is defensive, defiant, as if he thinks I’m going to try to stop him. “She’s out there somewhere.”
I was only gone for a few minutes, but in that short span of time I’ve reclaimed my position as an outsider. I address both of them. “I know it’s been a difficult day. I want you to know … I’m on your side. I’m—”
“Why hasn’t anyone found her?” Miriam snaps.
“We’re looking,” I assure her.
“It’s going to be cold tonight.” She puts a hand over her mouth, tears streaming. “Elsie doesn’t have a coat. She’ll be cold. I can’t bear to think of it.”
The image of a shivering, frightened child, all alone—or with someone intent on harming her—tears me up inside. Makes me feel ineffective and powerless because I’m unable to prevent it. Time is like sand running between my fingers.
Rising abruptly, Miriam rushes from the room.
I look at Ivan. “I need to ask you about Mary Yoder.”
“I’m finished with your questions. All this talking … it’s not helping.” He buttons his coat and strides to the door, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there with his hand on the knob, breathing heavily, looking down at the floor. After a moment, he storms through without speaking.
I become aware of the children sitting at the table. Their spoons have fallen silent. Cereal going soggy. Five pairs of eyes pin me where I stand, expressions apprehensive and confused.
“Mamm says God will take care of Elsie,” says a girl of about eight or nine.
“Grossmammi isn’t coming back.” The youngest girl closes her eyes and begins to cry.
A girl of ten or eleven puts her arm around her. “Shush now. Grossmammi’s in heaven with God and all of us are going to be there with her one day.”
“No one knows where Elsie is.” The little boy speaks up for the first time. “Mr. Miller said someone stole her.”
Realizing the conversation is about to go in a more speculative and dark direction, I move to refocus them. “What are your names?” I ask.
The question seems to startle them, but they come around quickly. The oldest girl straightens, sets her hands on the table in front of her. “I’m Irma.”
I turn my attention to the child sitting next to her and raise my brows. “How about you?”
A girl with strawberry-blond hair and eyes the color of spring grass squirms beneath my stare. “I’m Becky and I’m seven.”
I look from child to child; each mutters their name and age, polite but reluctant. Red-haired and freckled, Elam is eight. Gracie is nine and very pretty. At ten, Bonnie is thin and gangly, already taller than her older sister, and nearly as tall as her mamm.
“Luke and Annie are sleeping,” Becky finishes as she shovels cereal into her mouth. She’s the only one who has resumed eating.
“I’m Katie Burkholder, the chief of police,” I tell them. “I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find your sister.”
A shower of measured responses sound, but they’re uttered with such softness I can barely make out the words. They don’t believe me—the Englischer—I realize, and the reality of that bothers me more than I want to acknowledge.
Becky begins to cry. “I want Elsie to come home. She always comes to my room and kisses me good night. Sometimes she tickles my belly.”
“I’ll kiss you good night,” Bonnie says. “But I’m not tickling your belly.”
“Shush now.” Irma sets her hand over Becky’s. “We all miss her. It’s like Mamm says. God will take care of her. And He will send her back to us.”
Elam picks up his spoon, but he doesn’t eat. Instead, his moss-green eyes slide from his sister to me. “What if you can’t find her, Chief Katie?”
“I’ll find her,” I tell him.
“Mamm says Elsie was a gift,” Becky says.
Bonnie’s expression softens. “I’ve known that since the day Bishop Troyer brought her—” She cuts off the words. Her eyes skate away from mine and back to her cereal bowl. Quickly, she raises a spoonful of cereal to her mouth and begins to chew, staring straight ahead. I look around and notice Irma won’t look at me.
It’s an odd moment. I almost chalk it up to what has surely been a wearisome day. But in light of today’s events, I’m curious what Bonnie had been about to say.
“What about the bishop?” I ask.
Bonnie swallows. “Nothing,” she mumbles.
I wait, but she keeps her eyes on her bowl and won’t meet my gaze.
Next to me, Irma and Becky exchange a look I can’t quite decipher and I sense a strange rise of tension. What the hell?
After a moment, Irma pats her lap. “Kumma do.” Come here.
Clenching her spoon, Becky climbs onto Irma’s lap, and with two spoons the girls begin to share the bowl of cereal. All the while something I can’t quite articulate niggles at the back of my brain.
Miriam enters the kitchen, a girl’s coat in her hands, and the moment is gone. She glances toward the door, realizes her husband has left, and lowers it to her side. She looks bereft for a moment, then turns her attention to the children, slips back into her mamm persona.
“What are all of you still doing up? Staying up past bedtime isn’t going to help us find Elsie now, is it? You’ll just be sleepy in the morning.”
The Amish woman brings her hands together. “Come on now. Up to bed. All of you.” She shakes her head with exaggerated admonition. “Eating breakfast at ten o’clock at night. My word.”
Chairs scrape against the floor. Irma takes a final bite of cereal and then gathers their bowls, takes them to the sink. The others clamber to the door. The little boy goes to his mamm and throws his arms around her hips, lets his cheek sink into her skirts. “Night.”
She sets her hand on his head. “You say a prayer for Grossmammi and Elsie,” she says to all of them.
When the children are gone, Miriam goes to the nearest chair and collapses into it as if her legs are no longer strong enough to support her. She raises the coat to her face and breathes in deeply. “Smells like her,” she whispers, then adds beneath her breath, “I know God always has a plan. For the life of me I can’t figure out what it might be this time.”
I pull out the chair across from her and sit. “We’ll be searching through the night.”
She raises her gaze to mine. Her eyes are tired, the energy behind them depleted. “I don’t know what to do, Chief Burkholder. I keep … searching the house, going room to room like a crazy person. I go to her room and look in, thinking she’ll be there.”
I’m still pondering the odd moment with the children a few minutes ago. Something Bonnie said. I look at the Amish woman sitting across from me. “Are Elsie and Becky twins?” I ask. “They’re both seven years old?”
“They’re not twins.” Miriam offers a wan smile. “The children came … quickly.”
I wait a beat, my thoughts circling back to Mary Yoder. “Was your mother close to anyone in particular? Did she have a best friend? A confidante?”
“Mamm spent most of her time with us, here at home. She was always cooking or baking. But she was a social bird, too, and liked
to visit with the widow down the road, Martha Hershberger.” Miriam’s brows furrow. “She was friendly with the bishop’s wife, too. Sometimes the three of them would sew together after worship.” She makes a sound that might’ve been intended as a laugh, but comes out like a sob. “I suspect they did more gossiping than sewing.” The words are not unkind and followed by a wistful smile. “Those ladies could talk a blue moon.”
I pull out my notebook and scribble the names. “Your mamm was a widow?”
Miriam nods. “Going on eight years now.” She cocks her head, narrows her eyes on mine. “I don’t see how Mamm’s friends could have anything to do with what happened, Chief Burkholder.”
“It’s helpful to know the backgrounds of everyone involved. You never know when something from someone’s past can come back to haunt them.”
“We’re Amisch, Chief Burkholder. We’ve no ghosts to speak of.”
Over the course of my career in law enforcement I’ve heard a thousand variations of those words. Experience has taught me, they’re rarely true, even among the Amish.
CHAPTER 6
Six hours missing
There were too many people around—police and Amish alike—for him to risk taking the road, so he cut through the field on foot and ran until he could go on no more. Ivan Helmuth couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When he was fourteen and broke his leg after jumping from the hayloft and landing on the plow. When his datt died. Now, alone and under cover of darkness, he fell to his knees and wept like the child he hadn’t been for a long time. The tears were a loud, ugly ordeal but, dear God, he’d never felt such agony. He’d never been so frightened in his life.
Sweet Elsie.
Please deliver her back to us.
He knew God always listened, but His ways were sometimes mysterious. Still, Ivan had always had his faith. It was his strength. The thing he could hold on to during times of trial. This was different. He prayed, of course, but the words didn’t come easily. The old lie rang hollow in his voice and he couldn’t help but wonder: Was he finally being punished for what he’d done?
Rising, Ivan trudged to the edge of the plowed field, which put him on the township road that would take him to the Troyer place. The bishop had come to them the moment he’d gotten word. He’d been at their farm most of the day. He’d prayed with them. Comforted them. But they hadn’t had the chance to talk. Not privately. There’d been too many people around asking too many questions. Ivan needed to be alone with the bishop. He needed to show him the note.
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