“Anyone go out there with dogs?” I ask.
“County did,” he tells me. “No hit in the back of the property, but the dogs did hit on a scent in the front, near where you found the tread marks and blood. BCI jumped on it. Took those plasters. Sent blood samples to the lab. County also went over the area with a drone but got nothing.”
“I found out this morning that the blood is the same type as the little girl’s,” I tell them. “We’re still waiting for DNA.”
A stir goes around the room. Blood from a victim is never good news.
“Glock,” I say, “where did the dogs lose the scent?”
“At the road, a few feet from where you spotted those tire tracks.”
Which means our subject may have put the girl in his vehicle and fled the scene. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
I look at Skid. “Get with the IT guy who does the website for our department. Tell him to create another page, something prominent, and put out a call for the public’s assistance. Any motorist or pedestrian who was in the area of the Schattenbaum farm yesterday between noon and five P.M., ask them to call. Tell them they can remain anonymous. Use our main switchboard nonemergency number. Or they can use the website to give us any information. There’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for information that leads to an arrest and conviction.”
Skid nods, thumbing notes into his cell. “You got it.”
I look out at my small team of officers. “Glock and I talked to RSOs,” I tell them, referring to registered sex offenders, and I turn my attention back to Glock. “I want you and Skid to hit it again today. Talk to the same guys, and then expand the area.” I turn to the map and indicate a larger circle. “Talk to all RSOs within a twenty-mile radius.”
Glock gives me a two-finger salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
I look at T.J., then shift my attention back to Mona. “At some point this morning, you two need to go home and get a few hours’ sleep.”
“No problem,” T.J. mutters.
I consider filling them in on the mystery surrounding Elsie Helmuth’s birth certificate, but since I don’t have a viable theory yet and nothing has been substantiated, I opt not to muddy the waters. “I’ll be speaking with the Helmuths again this morning. My cell is on day and night. Mandatory OT until we find that girl or catch this son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER 9
Seventeen hours missing
On the drive to the Helmuth farm, I pass several men on horseback, Amish men and boys who’ve saddled their buggy horses to search the ditches and culverts and wooded areas near the Schattenbaum place. Men clad in camouflage jackets ride ATVs through open fields and the floodplain that parallels Painters Creek, searching rugged terrain not easily accessed by vehicle or on foot. All of these volunteers have likely been at it since first light. Despite the cold block of dread that’s taken up residence in my gut, it warms me to see that the community—Amish and English alike—has come out in force to find a missing little girl.
I’ve just pulled into the Helmuth lane when my cell erupts. I glance at the display: HOLMES CNTY CORONER.
I take a breath and brace. “Hi, Doc.”
“I’m about to start the autopsy on Mary Yoder.”
“Anything preliminary you can tell me?”
“The forensic pathologist took nail scrapings. Collected hair. Took swabs. We sent everything to the BCI lab. With regard to her injuries and resulting death, the only thing I can tell you at this time is that she was stabbed twenty-two times. Probably with a large knife. She sustained many defensive wounds.”
“She fought back.”
“As much as she could.”
“Cause and manner of death?”
“I suspect she died from blood loss. That’s not official yet.” He sighs. “There’s no doubt it’s a homicide. I’ll be able to answer those questions definitively once I get her on the table.”
“I’d like to be there.” I look toward the back door of the house, where three Amish women carrying grocery bags stare in my direction. “Can you give me half an hour?”
“She’s not going anywhere.”
* * *
The Amish women on the back porch don’t speak to me as I ascend the steps; they move silently aside as I enter the house. I find Miriam Helmuth sitting at the kitchen table, head bowed, hands clasped. Silently praying.
Another Amish woman stands at the sink with her back to us, washing dishes. I stand just inside the doorway for a full minute, waiting for Miriam to finish her prayer, getting my words in order. When she finally raises her head, her eyes jump with anticipation.
“You bring news of Elsie?” she asks in a voice that’s gone hoarse.
I’m loath to crush her hope, but as is usually the case, I don’t have a choice. “No news,” I say.
She presses a tattered tissue to her nose and looks down at the tabletop. “What are you doing here, then?”
“Miriam.” I go to the table, lower myself to the chair next to her. “I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”
She stares at me for the span of several seconds. Then her face screws up. “I just want her back,” she whispers. “Safe and sound. That’s all.”
I give her a moment, and then I ask, “Do you have a birth certificate for Elsie?”
She stiffens, raises her gaze to mine. “Why would you ask such a thing when a child is missing? Some silly piece of paper isn’t going to help you find her, is it?”
“It’s part of the process.” The words aren’t exactly true. But I don’t want her to become suspicious of me or my questions at this juncture.
Too late, a little voice whispers.
“I don’t have a birth certificate for Elsie,” she tells me. “We were going to file the paperwork. You know, the home birth document for the government. But … we just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Where she was born?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine, misery boiling in their depths. But there’s something else there, too. A tangle of uncertainty, fear, and resentment. “Here. At the house.”
“You used a midwife?”
“I would have.” She looks down at her hands again. “Elsie came fast. There was no time. Mamm was here. She helped me through.”
“Which midwife were you going to use?”
“The one I used with the other children. Martha Hershberger.”
“Did you get prenatal care with Elsie?”
“These questions are not going to help you find my girl.” Impatience flares in her voice.
“Mrs. Helmuth.” I say her name firmly, but gently. “I’m not the enemy here. Please. I want to bring her home, too. If there’s something you haven’t told me—”
“I’ve told you everything.”
I give her a moment to calm down before moving on to my next question. “How well do you know your aunt? Mary’s sister, Marlene?”
The woman stares at me as if I’ve asked her about the weather or some recipe that has nothing whatsoever to do with the crisis at hand. “Aunt Marlene passed away years ago. I don’t see what she has to do with any of this.”
“Why don’t you let me decide what’s relevant and what’s not?” I say firmly.
She seems to sink more deeply into the chair, looks down at her hands in her lap. “I met Marlene once or twice when I was a girl. She was … a delicate thing. Didn’t come around much.”
“Delicate?” I ask. “You mean physically?”
“That was my general impression.”
“Did Marlene have kids?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What was your aunt’s last name?”
“Her maiden name was Byler, of course, same as Mamm’s. If she ever got married…” She shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Do you have any idea where she used to live?”
“I don’t know. I told you. I don’t know!” She struggles to her feet, staggers, grabs hold of the table.
I reach out t
o steady her, wondering if she’s eaten or slept, but she draws her arm away. “If you really want to find my little girl, Kate Burkholder, I suggest you stop asking all these foolish questions and get out there and look for her.”
* * *
I call Lois on the way to Pomerene Hospital. “I need you to dig up everything you can find on every member of the Helmuth family. There may not be much out there, since they’re Amish. But … I need for you to dig around a little, see if anything pops.”
“Can you give a hint what I’m looking for?”
“Anything to do with children. Deaths in the family. Marriages. Divorces.” I think about that a moment. “I’ve got Mona looking at Miriam’s sister, Marlene. She’s deceased, but I have a last name: Byler. Tell Mona to take look, see if there’s anything out there. Lois, I want you to take a look at the midwife, Martha Hershberger, too. Check to see if Hershberger has any problems with her certifications.”
“I’ll get right on it.” She pauses. “Oh, before I forget, that courier package from Holmes County General Health District came for you.”
Copies of the birth certificates. “Put it on my desk, will you?”
“You got it.”
I end the call as I slide into a parking space near the Emergency entrance. I’m distracted, thinking about Miriam Helmuth as I go through the double glass doors and take the elevator to the basement. What the hell aren’t you telling me? I simply can’t fathom why a mother would withhold information from the police when her little girl is missing and in danger. What secret is worth jeopardizing the life of your child?
The question pounds at my brain as I enter the reception area of the morgue.
“Hi, Chief.”
I look up to see Doc Coblentz’s administrative assistant rise to greet me. “Hey, Carmen.”
“I saw the Amber alert on my phone.” She extends her hand and we shake. “Any luck?”
“We’re pulling out all the stops.” I let my eyes slide toward the doors that will take me to the medical side of the morgue. “He in there?”
“He’s waiting for you.”
I barely notice the smell of formalin that rides the air as I pass through the doors. The autopsy room is ahead. The niche where the biohazard protective gear is stored is to my right. Left is Doc Coblentz’s glassed-in office. The mini blinds facing the hall are open. Inside, Doc and a second man clad in royal-blue scrubs are staring at the laptop on his desk.
“Kate.”
Doc Coblentz is a corpulent man, about my height, with a balding pate and bushy salt-and-pepper brows. This morning, he’s wearing his usual hunter-green scrubs with high-end sneakers and a blue apron that ties in the back.
He looks at me a little too closely as he offers his hand for a shake. “Looking a little worse for wear this morning,” he tells me.
I frown, hoping it looks more good-natured than it feels. “Long night,” I murmur. “Sorry I’m late.”
The other man in his office rises. He’s African American, with a tall frame, thinning hair the color of steel wool, and keen, intelligent eyes.
“This is Dr. Larry Blake,” the coroner says. “He’s the deputy medical examiner for Cuyahoga County and specializes in forensic pathology.”
Blake and I shake. His grip is firm, but not crushing. He smiles easily and I wonder how it is that these men can spend so much time with the dead yet remain upbeat and optimistic.
“I’m here at the behest of BCI,” Dr. Blake tells me. “I understand you’ve got a missing child on your hands.”
I give him a condensed version of the case. “I’m hoping we’ll learn something today that will help us find her.”
Doc Coblentz motions toward the alcove where the biohazard supplies are stored. “In that case, let’s get started.”
The three of us leave his office and walk to the alcove where Carmen has laid out individually wrapped protective gear. A paper apron for me. Face mask. Shoe covers. Hair cap. Disposable gloves. Quickly, I tear open the packages and gear up. The men don’t wait for me. I watch them saunter down the narrow hall and go through the double doors that lead to the autopsy room. Once I’m dressed, I draw a couple of deep breaths and follow.
No matter how many times I make this pilgrimage, no matter how many times I assure myself I’m prepared, the dead are quick to prove me wrong. The air thickens and cools, melding with a darker odor that brings the familiar quiver to my stomach. I think about Elsie and I pray to God I don’t have to walk this hall again because her little body is laid out on a gurney.
I’ve seen many a tough guy cut down to size because he can’t bear to look at the body of a child and not think of his own. It’s the people who can keep all that outrage and disgust under lock and key that I don’t quite trust.
The room is so cold, I half expect to see a coating of frost on the gray subway-tiled walls. I take in the rest of the details while trying not to look too closely. Stark fluorescent lights. Stainless-steel counters cluttered with white plastic containers, gleaming instruments lined up on trays, dual sinks with tall, arcing faucets, and a scale that hangs down, ready to weigh things I don’t want to contemplate.
Ignoring all of it, trying hard to keep a handle on my quivering stomach, I follow the men to the gurney where I see a body draped with a pale blue sheet. Doc Coblentz pulls on a headset with a small mike and recites the date and time, nine-digit case number, the names of everyone present, including his own, and the name of the deceased.
He pulls the cover down to her pubis. “Sixty-year-old female Caucasian. One hundred and fifty-three pounds. Five feet, four inches in height.”
Mary Yoder’s body is mature, etched with years and the scars of life. I see a round, slack face. A nose covered with freckles. Eyes at half mast. Long brown hair streaked with silver. I see flesh that rarely saw the sun. But her hands, face, and neck are tanned. I didn’t know Mary Yoder, but I’ve no doubt she was a modest woman. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this, and I find myself silently assuring her that it will be over soon. That I will do everything in my power to find the person responsible. That I will bring her granddaughter home.
I’ve attended more autopsies than I want to think about. I’m invariably astounded at the violence people are capable of. I never stay for the full course of the procedure; I couldn’t stomach it. However difficult, seeing a victim beneath the stark lights of the morgue is part of a ritual that will hopefully set me on the path to finding a killer.
“Dr. Blake has taken and preserved all possible evidence present on the body. It has been photographed extensively. Once those things were done, the body was washed and X-rayed.” Doc Coblentz looks at me, the goggles making his eyes look huge. “One of the more interesting things we found was that the victim had gravel in her mouth.”
I stare at him, surprised. “Any idea how it got there?” I look from man to man. “Could she have fallen in the driveway, struck her mouth on the ground?” Even as I ask the question, I recall that the attack likely happened inside the house.
“No way of knowing for certain,” Doc tells me. “It wasn’t just a small amount, Kate.”
“About four ounces,” Dr. Blake says.
“If I were to guess,” Doc Coblentz says, “I’d say someone put it there.”
“Postmortem?”
“Probably,” he tells me. “None of the gravel had been swallowed or ingested.”
“Any idea where the gravel came from?” I ask. “The driveway? Did the killer bring it with him?”
Dr. Blake chimes in. “We sent a sample to the BCI lab. They’ll run a comparison to the material in the driveway.”
I find myself thinking about the note found on Mary Yoder the day she was killed.
Food gained by fraud tastes sweet, but one ends up with a mouth full of gravel.
I make a mental note to see if Tomasetti has the resources to match the gravel to a specific area or to a company that deals in aggregate.
“Moving forward.” Doc Coblent
z reaches up and repositions the light. “As you can see, the decedent suffered multiple sharp-force trauma.”
He indicates the victim’s hands. “Defensive wounds present on both hands and arms. Nonfatal superficial incised wounds on the left forearm. Left biceps. Right shoulder.” He grips the arm and opens the wound, so that it looks like a gaping red mouth carved into skin the color of ash. “Incised wound cut through the tissue, penetrating to the bone.”
“The killer is physically strong.” I hear my own voice as if it comes from far away and belongs to someone else.
“I concur,” Dr. Blake puts in.
“Do you have any idea what kind of weapon was used?” I ask.
“A knife with a serrated blade. As you can see, the edges of the incised wounds are not smooth. I would estimate the length at six to eight inches. I’m guessing now, but there was probably a guard. Likely some type of hunting knife.”
“How are you able to discern the length of the knife and that it had a guard?” I ask.
He looks at me, his eyes large behind the protective glasses. “I examined some of these incised wounds under magnification earlier. My findings were interesting.” He indicates a two-inch gash above the navel, below her lowest rib on the right side. “When the knife penetrated, without the impediment of bone, it went all the way to the guard. You can’t see it with the naked eye, Kate, but under magnification there was bruising present as well as tissue damage where the guard impacted the flesh.”
Looking at the wounds, the sheer number of injuries, and the damage done to this woman’s body, I get that tremor in my gut again. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. Spit pools in my mouth.
“Judging by the force of these wounds, Kate, I would say this was a frenzied attack. The individual who did this was either out of control or simply determined to maim and kill.” He indicates several wounds to the shoulders and upper chest. “I believe it happened quickly. He didn’t aim. Several of these wounds struck bone, which impeded penetration.”
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