“Miriam told me the baby came quickly. There was no time.”
I finish the last of the coffee. “Did Mary Yoder have any other children?”
“She has a daughter in Indiana, I think.”
“What about sisters? Brothers? Extended family?”
“I do recall her mentioning a sister.” The Mennonite woman assumes a thoughtful countenance. “Younger, I think. They were close once, but had some sort of falling-out.”
I flip the page on my notebook, go to a fresh page. “Do you remember her name?”
“Mary hardly ever mentioned her.” She’s trying to remember. “Started with an M. Marsha. Marie. Marlene, I think.”
“Last name?”
Martha shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Did she live around here?”
“Down south somewhere. I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. Mary didn’t talk about her much and I’m not one to pry.”
I nod, disappointed because I’d been hoping for more. For something. Most Amish have large, extended families. Evidently, that wasn’t the case with Mary Yoder.
I pluck my card from my pocket and slide it across the table to her. “If you think of anything else, will you get in touch with me?”
“Of course I will.”
I rise and she takes me through the living room. I open the door, look down to see one of the cats slip inside. I’m turning up the collar of my jacket when I think of one more question. “Mrs. Hershberger, do you know who delivered Elsie?”
“I’m not rightly sure.” The woman bends to pick up the cat, runs her hand over its head. “Miriam never said. They had so many children. I never thought to ask.”
CHAPTER 8
Fourteen hours missing
It’s seven A.M. by the time I make it home, the sun not yet above the treetops to the east. There’s nothing I’d like more than to fall into bed for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. But with Elsie Helmuth missing and a murderer on the loose, I’m going to have to settle for a shower and food. I park next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and head inside.
The house smells of coffee and toast when I walk into my big farmhouse kitchen. The air is warm, and for the first time the full weight of exhaustion presses down on me. A mug of coffee sits untouched next to a plate scattered with crumbs. Tomasetti’s laptop is open and humming. I hear the TV in the living room, tuned to cable news.
He appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, in sweatpants and an ancient Cleveland Division of Police T-shirt. He’s carrying a towel; his hair is wet.
“I guess that explains why you didn’t answer my call,” I say by way of greeting.
“They haven’t invented showerproof phones yet.”
I nod, trying to settle into a more domestic frame of mind, not succeeding. “Did your forensic guys come up with anything?”
“First things first.” He crosses to me, eyes on mine. I smell soap and aftershave as he puts his arms around me, presses a kiss to my mouth.
“You get any sleep?” he asks.
“I just need a shower.”
“Uh-huh.” He shifts me to arm’s length and tilts his head. “Got time for breakfast?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
Later, over scrambled eggs and toast, he updates me on everything he’s learned since we last spoke. “Sheriff Rasmussen picked up Eddie Graber around one A.M., talked to him for a few hours, and drove him home.” He shakes his head. “We’re running a comp on the boot tread, but Rasmussen doesn’t think he’s our guy.”
I nod. “Was the lab able to type the blood found in the yard of the Schattenbaum house?”
He grimaces and I know even before he speaks that the news isn’t good. “Same as the girls.”
I wince inwardly, knowing what that means: that the girl could have been stabbed or cut—or worse.
“We don’t have DNA back yet, but the lab matched the type. The kid had a tonsillectomy a couple years ago. She’s O-negative—”
“But it’s possible the blood belongs to the killer.”
“Maybe.” He says it for my benefit; he doesn’t believe it. “That’s not a common blood type. Look, we’re running DNA now, but the lab is backed up. It’s going to take a few days. I got some things shuffled around, put some other cases on the back burner, so we’ve got priority.”
“What about the footwear impressions?” I ask. “The size-thirteen work boots? Any unique marks on the sole? Leads on manufacturer or retailer?”
“We got tread, but not enough detail to pick up unique marks.”
I nod, disappointed, trying not to think about the girl, possibly injured and bleeding, and I feel overwhelmed by all the things I don’t know and the sheer volume of things I need to do.
We eat in silence. When I walked into the house twenty minutes ago I wasn’t hungry. Now I’m starving and I eat with relish. After the shower and a clean uniform, I feel human again, my mind fresh. As I down my second cup of coffee, my thoughts take me through the conversations I had overnight. The family dynamics. The one exchange that keeps coming back to me is the odd commentary between the Helmuth children, Becky and Bonnie, about their missing sister.
Mamm says Elsie was a gift.
I’ve known that since the day Bishop Troyer brought her—
When I asked them to clarify, they clammed up. Why? Later, when I asked the bishop’s wife if he was there the day Elsie was born, she told me he was not. It’s a small discrepancy, but it bothers me enough so that I’m thinking about it. And what about Elsie being the only baby in the family that Martha Hershberger didn’t deliver?
“You’re thinking about something awfully hard,” Tomasetti says as he gathers dishes and takes them to the sink.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m probably not very good company this morning.”
“Anything you want to share?”
I set down my mug, give him my full attention, the words looping in my head, a record skip I can’t seem to stop. “I think there’s something going on with the Helmuth family.”
He sips coffee, looking at me over the rim. “The parents?”
I tell him about the girls’ comments. “Bonnie, who’s ten, cut off midsentence. It was as if she knew she’d broached a subject she wasn’t supposed to discuss.”
“You think the parents are withholding information?”
“I think they’re not telling us something that may or may not be relevant to the case. I don’t know what it is or why they’d keep secrets when their child is missing. But those kids aren’t very good liars and it was quite an odd exchange.”
It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud. As dubious as they sound, it strengthens my belief that there’s something amiss.
I tell Tomasetti about my conversations with Miriam Helmuth and, later, with the midwife, Martha Hershberger.
“She delivered all of Miriam’s babies, except for Elsie.”
“So what aren’t they telling you?” Tomasetti asks.
Between the caffeine, the food, and the shower, my brain has clicked back into place. I look at him, thinking aloud now. “The Helmuths have eight children.”
“That’s not unusual for an Amish family, though, right?”
“Two of the girls are seven years old.”
“Twins?”
I shake my head. “Miriam says no.”
“Could be Irish twins. It’s technically possible.”
My mind is already racing ahead. “Tomasetti, I took the physical description of Elsie. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t think much about it at the time. But when I walked in to the Helmuth house and got a good look at the other children … Tomasetti, they’re strawberry blond and green-eyed. I mean, not all kids look like their parents or their siblings, right? But in light of some of the other things that have been said…” I shrug. “There’s something there.”
I pick up my cell, hit the button for
the station, aware that he’s watching me with an expression that’s part skeptical and part perplexed.
Mona picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”
“Get me vital statistics on the Helmuth children,” I say. “Birth dates. Place of birth.”
“All of them?”
“All eight.” I rattle off the names from memory. “I need it yesterday.”
“Warp factor one.”
“Who’s on duty this morning?” I ask, pulling out my notebook.
“Everyone. I mean, in light of the missing kid…”
“I’m heading that way. Briefing in my office in an hour.”
“I’ll let everyone know.”
I glance down at my notebook, flip the page. “Mona, one more thing. See if you can find anything on Mary Yoder’s sister. First name is Marlene. I think she lives south of here. No city.”
“You got it.”
I end the call to find Tomasetti’s eyes still on me. A look I’m all too familiar with. “You think I’m barking up the wrong tree,” I say.
“I think if those two seven-year-old siblings were born any closer than nine months apart, the parents have some explaining to do.”
We fall silent. I see the wheels of his mind working out the timeline, putting all those messy details into some order that makes sense in terms of the crime.
“When we talked to the witness child, Annie, do you remember what she told us the man who took Elsie said?” I ask.
He nods. “‘She’s mine.’”
“I didn’t think of the statement in terms of a literal meaning,” I tell him. “Deranged individuals say all sorts of crazy things that don’t make sense.” I shrug. “Maybe I should have. Maybe it means something.”
“Like what?”
“What if, for whatever reason, this male subject thinks that girl is … his.”
“I think there’s a higher probability that the son of a bitch is a nutcase.”
“I know that. I do. Still, I’m going to do some poking around.” I can tell by his expression he doesn’t concur. It’s not the first time we’ve disagreed on a case. Fortunately, both of us are confident enough in our respective positions, with our experience and perspectives, to admit it when we get it wrong.
“In the interim,” he says, rising, “I’m going to round up that composite artist. She’s in Parma, so give me a couple hours.”
I get to my feet, pick up my duty belt from the table, buckle it around my hips. “Call me and I’ll meet you at the Helmuths’.”
“You got it.” Leaning close, he kisses me. “Don’t spend too much time looking for ghosts.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him, and start toward the door.
* * *
One of the pitfalls of being a cop—or one of the advantages, if you’re a glass-half-full sort—is that you look at the things people say with a healthy dose of skepticism. You look at the things they don’t say with suspicion. It’s not that you think everyone is a liar; you just happen to know from experience individuals lie with more frequency than most people realize, especially in times of crisis. My general rule of thumb is that if it doesn’t make sense or if conflicting information begins to pile up, there’s a problem. At the very least it’s worth a second look.
I’m thinking about Miriam Helmuth and potential motives for lying when I enter the station. Mona Kurtz, who still spends most of her time working dispatch, stands at her station, speaking into the headset, waving a stack of pink message slips at me. She’s still wearing her uniform. Like me, she stayed up all night. Unlike me, she looks fresh and ready to tackle her day. Tugging the slips from her hand, I make tracks toward my office and unlock the door.
I’ve just booted up my laptop when Mona taps on the jamb. “Chief?”
“Morning,” I say as I log in. “Any luck with the stats on the Helmuth children?”
She takes the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “I talked to the clerk at the Holmes County General Health District. She’s going to courier birth certificates and related info for the Helmuth children by day’s end.” She glances down at the sheet of paper in her hand. “Seven of the Helmuth children were delivered by a local midwife, Martha Hershberger. The midwife followed protocol and filed for birth certificates shortly after birth.”
My hand freezes on the keyboard and I give her my full attention. “Is the remaining child Elsie Helmuth?”
Her eyes flash interest. “Get this: There’s no birth certificate on file for Elsie. No social security number. No paperwork or documentation was ever filed.”
“Well that’s interesting as hell.”
The majority of Amish women use midwives to deliver their babies at home. In the state of Ohio, most midwives are certified and, as a matter of course, file the appropriate paperwork with the local registrar for birth certificates and social security numbers. Some of the Old Order and Swartzentruber Amish don’t bother with registering their newborns for a birth certificate, and sometimes not even a social security number. Those are the babies that sometimes fall through the cracks when it comes time for a first job or even a driver’s license during Rumspringa—the period in a teen’s life before they’re baptized, when they have the freedom to break all those Amish rules without too much in terms of repercussions. Those are the ones who have to go through the process of obtaining proper identification as young adults.
The Helmuths are neither Swartzentruber nor Old Order. So why doesn’t Elsie Helmuth have a birth certificate?
“Anything on Marlene, the sister?”
“Still looking.”
“Chief?”
I glance up to see my first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, standing in the doorway. “Everyone’s in the war room,” she tells me.
“Be right there.”
Lois rushes back to reception, and I turn my attention to Mona. “Have you had any sleep?”
“With everything that’s going on…”
I’ve been seeking a third-shift dispatcher for several weeks now. Unfortunately, none of the candidates have been right. “If it’s any consolation, you’re proving to be a hard woman to replace.”
Rising, she grins and heads out the door.
A few minutes later, I’m in the “war room,” which is basically a storage room turned meeting room. I’m standing at the half podium Lois has set up on a folding table. She’s taped a map of Holmes County to the dry-erase board behind me, with Painters Mill circled in red. A red X demarks the Helmuth farm. A second X marks the Schattenbaum place.
I look out at my team and I feel the part of me that’s stressed out and exhausted settle. A missing endangered juvenile is a worst-case scenario for any police department. But I know my officers, and I’ve no doubt they’ll put in the hours and do whatever it takes to find her.
“I appreciate everyone working double shifts.” I glance down at my notes, but I don’t need them. I outline the basic facts of both cases and where we are in terms of the investigation.
I look at Lois, who’s standing in the doorway so she can attend the meeting and still hear the phones. “You get the stats and description of Elsie Helmuth typed up?”
“Right here, Chief.”
Mona jumps up from her chair, takes the short stack from her, and passes a single sheet to everyone in the room.
“Since the girl is Amish, we do not have a photo.” I glance at my notebook. “We believe the suspect is a white male. Likely Amish. Typical Amish garb. Thirty-five to fifty years old. Brown hair. Size-thirteen shoe, which would likely put him at six two or six three, give or take. Footwear impression indicates he likely wore a work boot with a waffle-type sole. We suspect he may be using a vehicle for transportation.”
“Covers a lot of ground,” Glock says beneath his breath.
I nod. “None of that is set in stone.” I point at the nearest officer sitting to my right. “Reports. Pickles.”
Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is seventy-five years old, but you’d never know his a
ge by looking at him—or talking to him. His hair—right down to his neat little goatee—is colored a rich hue of mahogany with no gray in sight. His uniform is creased, his trademark Lucchese boots buffed to a burnished patina. He went part-time a few years ago and spends most mornings and afternoons working the crosswalk at the elementary school.
Pickles is a cop through and through; he’s paid his dues and has earned the respect of every person in the room. During the late 1980s he worked undercover narcotics and was instrumental in procuring one of the biggest drug busts in the history of Holmes County.
This morning, he’s looking at me with the attitude of a man half his age and the cockiness of a twenty-year-old rookie. “T.J. and I hit every house, every farm, within a five-mile radius of the Schattenbaum place, Chief. That’s nine homes. Four Amish. Five non-Amish. We talked to multiple individuals inside each home. Aside from Dick Howard, no one saw shit.”
I address T.J. and Pickles. “Before you guys call it a day, I want you to talk to them again. Expand your canvass to ten miles. Hit a few more farms out that way.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I look at my female officer. “Mona.”
She straightens, all business. “Chief.”
“There’s a service station two miles down the road from the intersection of Goat Head Road and CR 14. Stop in on your way home and see if they have security cameras. If they do, check the angle, see if it captures the street. If it does, get a copy of the last seventy-two hours.”
“I’m on it,” she says.
I go to the next man. “Glock.”
Rupert “Glock” Maddox is the first African American to grace the ranks of the Painters Mill PD, and he’s my most solid officer. With two tours in Afghanistan on his résumé, a calm demeanor, and a boatload of common sense, he’s my go-to guy when I need a job done right. Last I heard, his wife, LaShonda, is due any day now with their third child.
“Skid and I cleared the outbuildings at the Schattenbaum place. Didn’t look like anyone had been in those old barns for years. No footprints. No disturbed dust. Nothing. CSI with BCI looked around as well and concurred.” He glances at his notes. “We set up a grid of the back pasture, drafted a couple of deputies from County, walked it twice, but there was nothing there.”
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